“Write to her,” Ragen said, “to bring oranges. But first to use hypodermic and inject vodka. Is very good.”

“Lee” took the spot for the first time in Lebanon. Comedian, wit, practical joker, he exemplified Arthur’s theory that laughter was a safety valve appreciated by most inmates. The teasing by other inmates that had a first frightened Danny and angered Ragen was now practiced by Lee. Ragen had heard of Billy’s father, the stand-up comic and M.C. who had billed himself as “half music and half wit.” Ragen had decided that Lee had a role to play in prison.

But Lee went beyond funny stories. He loaded Allens cigarettes by scraping the sulfur off a couple of matches, soaking a matchstick in sugar water, rolling it in sulfur and burying it in the tobacco. He’d carry a couple of these in Allen’s pack, and when an inmate would ask for a cigarette, Lee would hand over a loaded one. By the time he was down the corridor or leaving the cafeteria, he could hear the shout of rage from the victim as the cigarette flared. Several of them exploded in Allen’s face.

One morning when the blood work was done, Arthur, thinking about the incidence of sickle-cell anemia among black inmates, left the spot. Lee, finding himself with nothing to do, decided on some mischief. He opened a jar of onion-oil extract, dipped a swab into it and lined the eyepiece rims of the microscope.

“Hey, Stormy,” he said, handing the medic a slide, “Dr. Steinberg wants this white-blood-cell count quick. You’d better check this under the microscope.”

Stormy placed the slide on the microscope stage and focused. Suddenly his head snapped up, eyes filling with tears.

“What’s the matter?” Lee asked innocently. “Is it that sad?”

Unable to control himself Stormy roared, laughing through his tears. “Goddamn sonofabitch. You’re a real funny motherfucker, ain’t you?” He went to the sink and washed his eyes.

A short while later, Lee watched a prisoner' come in and give Stormy five bucks. Stormy took Flask 11-C off a crowded shelf pulled the cork and handed it to the man, who took a deep swig.

“What’s that?” Lee asked when the prisoner had left.

“White lightning. Make it myself. I get five bucks a hit. If I’m ever not around when a customer comes in, you can handle the business for me and I’ll cut you in for a buck.” Lee said he’d be happy to oblige.

“Look,” Stormy went on, “Dr. Steinberg wants that first-aid cabinet straightened out. Would you do it? I got some things to take care of.”

While Lee rearranged the first-aid supplies, Stormy took Flask 11-C off the shelf emptied the alcohol into a beaker and filled the flask with water. Then he lined the rim with bittersweet concentrate.

“I gotta see Dr. Steinberg about something,” he said to Lee. “Mind the store, will ya?”

Ten minutes later, a huge black prisoner came into the lab and said, “Gimme 11-C, man. I paid Stormy ten bucks for two hits. He said you’d know where it is. ”