"Howard Waldrop - The Wolf-man of Alcatraz" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

and put his hands behind his head.

Sergeant Sawyer picked the books up from the floor, stepping around the water bucket and the slop jar.
"Thanks, Doc, Sergeant," said Howlin. Then his eyes closed and his chest rose and fell slowly.

Sawyer and the doctor went out into the corridor. The guard closed the vault door like it was the end of
a business day at a bank.

The sergeant went back up into the guardroom in the gallery overlooking the hallway and put the books
in a small shelf there. The doc followed, and a guard let him out into the stairwell that led back to the
elevator.

A little past five, two guards reported to the night sergeant. He went to an armory cabinet, took out two
Thompson submachine guns, handed one to each guard. Then he unlocked another cabinet, took out two
thirty-round circular magazines marked LYC in silver paint on each drum and handed them to the guards.
They slid the bolts back, slipped the drums in the receivers, and let the bolts go forward: one, two.

One of the guards was let out into the hallway and stood near a chair they put there, ten feet from the
vault door.

The other one opened the gun port directly across from the door in the gallery, and put the barrel of the
Thompson through it.

They were attentive till the night-sergeant left, then relaxed. The one in the hallway sat down.

"Pretty much like watching paint dry, isn't it?" asked the one in the gallery, a newer guard.

"In many ways," said the one in the chair.

"Does anything ever happen?" asked the new man.

"Plenty happens, I understand," said the guy in the hall. "Nothing so far that affects anybody out here."

A couple of hours later the two guards thought they began hearing noises through the twelve inches of
steel door. The hair on the new guard in the gallery stood straight up under his cap. He knew he would
have to listen to eight more hours of this.

No wonder there was a 30 percent turnover in the guard staff on The Rock, he thought.

"Poor bastard," said the guy down in the corridor. Then he lit a cigarette.




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March 4, 1937 Box 1476
Alcatraz, California