Born to Lose by James G. Hollock Page B

of my shop, too. Hoss intimidated the coloreds, even from across the room. Hoss didn’t want them near him, and he made this pretty clear. Hoss was not a mixer, being content to sit over on a crate by himself, but his attitude did draw the white inmates to him. Before Hoss came to the shop, all the workers got along good enough. After Hoss showed up, you could just see the divide taking place. It was hard to specifically blame Hoss ’cause he spent much of his time alone or talking with a few white inmates. He didn’t assault anyone, but after a time we went from general harmony to a shop filled with tension—and Hoss was the only new variable. I talked this matter over with the big boss, Ted Botula. I was just a shop foreman, so I hardly ever talked to the man, but he listened carefully and decided right then that Hoss was to be transferred out of my shop.
    It was not in Hoss’s nature to be on friendly terms with too many inmates, yet one day in the workhouse yard Hoss watched a giant of a man lifting weights, one-handed reps with a hundred-pound dumbbell. Hoss, a lifting enthusiast himself, was impressed by the size and strength of theman. Thinking of his own bold plans for the near future, Hoss struck up a conversation. The man’s name was Thomas Lubresky. At 6 feet, 5 inches, and 225 pounds, with muscles honed and cut, he was an awesome figure, likely the most physically imposing man at the workhouse. Lubresky’s rap sheet was equally imposing; his transgressions, for which he had served very little time at all, made up a decade of harm and havoc.
    Lt. Bill McLafferty of the Penn Hills Police Department knew Lubresky well: “In his prime, he had the Natrona area terrorized. He’d go into a bar and just … you know how you leave your keys and money there by your drink? … Well, Lubresky would walk by and pick up your money and even sip your drink—just challenge you to say or do anything about it. He was a real bad-ass.” In February 1969, Lubresky committed indecent assault against a young woman, which got him two to four years, and delivered him to the workhouse, where he met his new friend, Stanley Hoss.
    Hoss was not such a loner that he shunned friendships but his relationships were at his convenience, on his terms, and assuredly for his benefit. It was not long before Hoss concluded that he could influence Lubresky, for the towering muscleman, Hoss learned, was amused by uncomplicated tasks and simple stories. In the days to follow, most every afternoon and often evenings, Hoss and Lubresky met in the workhouse yard to lift weights. A week after Hoss had been shown the door at the textile shop, he still was not reassigned. Lubresky was working in the maintenance department and, at Hoss’s urging, talked to one of the foremen about bringing Hoss onto the maintenance crew. “You’ve seen these niggers in here,” Lubresky urged, “struttin’ around, always singin’ nigger songs, drivin’ us whites nuts. Hoss stood up to ’em, is all. They wouldn’t do nothin’ to him so they started tellin’ lies about him to bossman Petika. There’s so many of ’em, I think Petika caved in and got rid of Hoss to keep the peace.” The foreman checked it out only so far as to see if Hoss was barred from any job. He was not, so Hoss was hired onto maintenance because, the foreman thought, while all these damn convicts are alike, it wouldn’t hurt to have another white one on his crew. Hoss started work the next day. It was perfect for him; with tools everywhere, his secret plan took another leap forward. He would rather break out on his own, but, from what he had learned so far, he would need help. He needed a partner, a big, strong partner.
    Now Lubresky and Hoss not only lifted weights together but worked on the same crew. Further, they were on the same range of their cell block. They had plenty of time to