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"Ernie, what's a laundry truck doing here? The prison has its own laundry."
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But Tracy knew there would be no cool time. Not with Big Bertha after her. The thought of what the giant bull-dyke had in mind for her made her physically ill.
"What I was sayin' was if me and Al can do anythin' for you--- you know--- send you things or---"
Tracy turned. A laundryman was pushing a huge cart piled to the top with soiled uniforms and linens. Tracy watched,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], puzzled,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], as he headed for the exit.
"Oh,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], that's for the guards," Ernestine laughed. "They used to send their uniforms to the prison laundry,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but all the buttons managed to get ripped off,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], sleeves were torn,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], obscene notes were sewn inside,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], shirts were shrunk, and the material got mysteriously slashed. Ain't that a fuckin' shame, Miss Scarlett? Now the guards gotta send their stuff to an outside laundry." Ernestine laughed her Butterfly McQueen imitation.
Tracy was no longer listening. She knew how she was going to escape.
"I seen that little girl. She seems real sweet."
"All right."
It was Saturday morning, seven days before Ernestine's release. Sue Ellen Brannigan had taken Amy into New Orleans for the weekend, and Tracy was at work in the prison kitchen.
"I'll sure be glad to get outta here. I'll tell you one thing,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I ain't never comin' back to this joint. If there's anythin' Al or me kin do for you on the outside---"
"Coming through,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]," a male voice called out.
"How's the nursemaid job goin'?" Ernestine asked.
"She's okay." Her tone was indifferent.