Blood Cell Page 3

  Another hour later, he was pulled out again for dinner. He was led to the cafeteria, where he was surprised to see Santos and half of his old crew sitting together at a nearby table. That was impossible. There was no way that they’d send a convicted gang leader to the same cell block as his own crew. He knew that Santos was in Pittman, but he had figured on never having to deal with his old rival face to face. But there he was.

  Santos smiled at him, and drew his forefinger across his throat. Leo had never heard of anyone surviving after Santos delivered that message.

  Surprisingly, Leo felt hands on him pushing him toward the table. Shit, he thought, they’re going to do me before I even get a last meal. Then he realized that the men guiding him were guards. Just how much influence to Santos have over this place? Then one of the guards spoke, and it all became clear.

  “Gentlemen. I think you’re all familiar with Jimenez here. I would just like to inform you that Señor Vega has already confessed to the warden that you’re all planning to murder poor Leo. So this is your only warning: if Jimenez dies, each and every one of you gets charged with conspiracy. And the warden has promised to make every one of you serve the next year in ad seg.” Leo couldn’t believe his ears. He’d just killed a cop and now the prison guards were protecting him? He was practically invincible. The guard continued, “Warden Quinn would like to thank our buddy Santos for tipping us off. Nobody touches Jimenez, got it?” Santos’ boys nodded. The guards walked away, leaving Leo standing with his old crew. The crew that wanted him dead.

  And Santos couldn’t even touch him. God bless this warden.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Hole didn’t really live up to its name. In some prisons, solitary confinement is very much a hole. It’s musty, pitch black, and you can’t hear a sound except when they shove your food tray through the bean slot. Josh had to spend time in a hole like that once, and it was enough to make him attempt his first escape. At Pittman, however, Josh was pretty happy with his accommodations. It was nice. He had a great view of a forest out a surprisingly decent sized window, and he could even see a creek. He wished, as he always did, that he had a ball and a glove like Steve McQueen. Even with just his mind to occupy him, Josh passed the days without much trouble. He had been breathing free air, less than a week ago. That memory could last a little while longer.

  The administrative segregation section of C Pod was a single hallway with thick steel doors along either side. There were twenty cells in total, and usually half of them were occupied. The ten cells on the inside were lit by a pair of fluorescents that were on from exactly seven til ten. In between those hours, the cells were completely blacked out. Josh was on the outside, where the sun and moon provided extra light and prevented you from being subjected to total darkness. The dark cells were the real punishment, and were not used unless the warden said so. If they had more than ten inmates and had to put someone in the dark, the warden would decide who got the short straw. Despite Josh’s provocation, the warden hadn’t ordered him to be placed in one of the windowless cells. Most likely, he was saving that fresh hell for next time.

  Josh Farewell was a con man. His favourite game was selling insurance to old couples, except he didn’t actually represent an insurance company. He was a dual citizen of the USA and Canada, which allowed him to set up some dummy corporations on either side of the border. Suckers were more likely to believe you if you had international credentials. He had been arrested twice for insurance fraud, and a few times for smaller crimes. The majority of his prison time, though, was on charges of escape and attempted escape.

  Once upon a time, Josh was an electrical engineering student, and he could usually figure his way around the guts of an electric lock. Little tricks like picking locks and faking ID’s were picked up over the years in his line of work, and those skills had broken him out of three prisons so far. Of course, the most important skill was the ability to talk. Every one of Josh’s escapes had hinged on bribery and deception, which were by far his most effective skills.

  Josh did have one complaint about being stuck in ad seg. Daily life in a prison means a lot of scheduled, supervised activities, which means getting ordered around by guards. Josh needed those little daily interactions to sort out the guards. There were guards that would talk and joke, guards that would beat him and scream, guards that were OK until you crossed them. And every prison, no matter what, had at least one guard who’d agree to bust Josh Farewell out. He just had to find that guard, and then find the right way to ask.

  *****

  A day after he arrived, Leo Jimenez was still alive.

  Santos didn’t want to go to the hole. It was hell. He couldn’t take it. Santos was a social animal, he needed camaraderie, someone to talk to. The problem was that the warden knew it. More than a week in administrative segregation and Santos ended up breaking his fingernails off on the walls. A full year? He’d probably kill himself. Santos was a tough, hard man; a murderer and a thug, but the hole was too much for him.

  The warden was dangling justice in front of him. He had exactly what he wanted, and then Quinn tells him that the price is a year in the hole. It’s a price they both knew Santos wouldn’t pay. Not even for the heart of that snake, Leo.

  It was a day since he first saw Leo, and Santos and his crew were hanging out in the yard. There was Charlie, a shaved-headed wiry little guy who was good with a knife; Carlos, who was the biggest and probably smartest of the crew; Delman, a black guy who had been assigned as Santos’s cellmate and eventually crossed racial lines to join the group; Eli, one of Santos’s oldest advisors and friends, and a small number of other men that Santos could trust. They were all well aware of the threat that they’d all be punished if Leo was killed.

  “Fuck it, do him anyway,” said Charlie.

  “We can’t just get him anyway,” Carlos was usually the cool headed one. Despite his bulging muscles, he had neither ‘roids nor rage.

  “We can’t kill him.” Santos said, “But nobody said we can’t kick the shit out of him, did they Eli?”

  “We could leave him something to remember us by,” added Delman, “something permanent.” Eli put his hand in his chin and thought about it.

  “Man who walks with a cane remembers how he got it,” said Carlos, stubbing out a cigarette against a fencepost.

  “But Leo’s crazy enough he’d just come back at us first chance he got. Even if he has to wait fifteen years.” Santos knew his former apprentice well. “Am I right or what, Eli?”

  Eli was still thinking it over. “You know he’ll carry the grudge. Anything we do, he’ll escalate. We throw punches, he’ll come back with a blade. If we do hit him, it would have to kill him. Otherwise, he’d take someone out. But we can’t do that. Warden’s got us cold.” Santos nodded.

  “What if he has an accident? Not murder if he slips and falls,” offered Delman.

  “In the same week that I swore he’d end up dead?” Santos said, accepting what Eli had said. The warden had found his weakness and exploited it. Fucker. “There’s nothing we can do. If anyone touches that prick, we’re the ones who pay for it. That’s unacceptable. For now, nobody touches him. Spread the word, Leo Jimenez is behind the velvet rope.”

  Charlie looked away, a sour look on his face. Santos grabbed him by the chin and made the man meet his eyes.

  “Nobody touches him,” Charlie, who had come up with Leo through the years and had always seen the man as a rival, swallowed that sentence and repeated it. He added an addendum:

  “For now.”

  Carlos leaned in to whisper to Santos. “I need a word in private,” he said.

  With a nod, Santos ended the huddle and the Eighteenth went their separate ways. Santos and Carlos walked to the back right corner of the fence, the deepest part of their corner of the yard. Carlos lit up a fresh cigarette. Despite being locked up, Carlos still smoked at least a pack a day.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing I can quite confirm, but some eave
sdroppers overheard the motorcycle club working on something,” said Carlos gravely.

  “Dirtbags are always working something,” said Santos.

  “What I heard was they’re after a way to get something past the metal detectors in the metal shop. I don’t know what that would be, but I think they’re looking to stockpile blades.”

  Santos nodded, doing his best to look nonchalant for the sake of the guards watching from above. “You can make a shank without metal. The only reason they’d be stupid enough to go around the metal detectors is-“

  “-if they wanted to give a lot of shanks to a lot men all at the same time.”

  Santos and Carlos tapped fists four times—when they had been young the four meant “for life,” but now it was an automatic habit—and walked in opposite directions.

  *****

  As the largest inmate in the pod, Terminal Thomas Turner was used to being treated a certain way. Terminal was a shade over seven feet tall and four hundred pounds. His arms were as wide as basketballs and his legs were literally larger than tree trunks. He was blacker than coffee, and shaved his head along with his face every morning.

  The problem was, ever since the latest batch of new prisoners arrived, Terminal Thomas wasn’t being treated the way he liked. He preferred it when the Eighteenth sucked up to him. Used to be, someone from the Mexicans would come and keep Terminal company over his chow, and give him their dessert. Thomas definitely had a sweet tooth. But for the last three days, nobody left the Eighteenths’ table to come and talk to him. Not even to say hello and how are you. They just sat close and huddled together, talking quiet all the time. Sometimes they would look at the new Mexican, Leo.

  Thomas did not like being neglected. Over the years, he had been treated as the biggest dog in the yard—and every gang was supposed to treat him accordingly. The truth was, he liked it when people kept him company, and he liked it when people gave him things. He knew his power, both physically and symbolically, and he expected that power to be respected. Other people were afraid of Terminal Thomas. He knew that’s what they called him, even though he said he didn’t like that name. He only killed one person one time, which was way better than a lot of the guys in here, but they only talked like that about Thomas. It was because he was so big. His voice was very deep, and some people needed him to repeat things. He was okay with that, but usually people tried to pretend they heard him, and then they just got frustrated and confused. His conversations usually ended with the other person leaving. That was if he could even start a conversation. Most times, he’d bellow something out and the other people would get uncomfortable and turn away.

  Thomas was not an idiot. He wasn’t educated very well, but he had a shrewdness and a sense of honour that had served him well over the years. He was well-suited to the routine of prison life, but often wished that he could connect with people more than he did. The eighteenth treated him like weapon, like he must be treated delicately, which didn’t bother him most of the time. It was when people talked to him like he was retarded that got under his skin. He knew that even on the outside, people would treat him this way, but still held to the hope that somewhere outside there was a woman who would see the honourable man underneath the hulking convict.

  He knew that the Eighteenth only talked to him because sometimes he would do them favours, like scare someone or hold someone back while the gang beat someone up. But now, they were ignoring him. It had something to do with that new guy, Leo. Thomas did not like being cut out, and he especially did not like being alone.

  Sitting alone at lunch for the third day, the ninth straight meal, Thomas decided that something had to be done about this Leo situation.

  *****

  On a passenger train passing through a place that was either Belgium or France, a pale passenger with black hair appeared at the sleeping car. He hadn’t a ticket, and he wasn’t on the manifest, but there he was. It was the dead of night, and every compartment was occupied by a sleeping traveller or two. Everyone was asleep, despite the noise that was still coming from the couple in the third car. They had been at it for hours and were still going.

  The stowaway could smell them.

  He dragged his fingertips along the smooth plastic walls as he walked, or more accurately floated, down the corridor. It was such a disappointment. Bland white plastic. At least the old trains, slow as they were, had some style. They had mouldings and gold leaf, brass fixtures and cast-iron grates. It used to be that you could make new friends on a train, and get to know them over several days. This had always been the stowaway’s preferred method. He liked to know people, to weed out the bad apples. But now trains moved so quickly, and people were so isolated, he’d never really know any of the passengers.

  But that was OK. If he couldn’t find the bad apples, he’d settle for the noisy ones. They’d had their fun, and now the stowaway would have his.

  A week later, on the other side of the Atlantic, the stowaway sat down at a table. He wore black. The walls were covered in century-old hardwood, and the room smelled of cigars smoked decades earlier. The man at the table could even smell the familiar aftershave of an old friend who had died nearly fifty years earlier.

  A second man sat across from him. This man wore a blue suit and a silk tie. He was a very notable politician by the name of Mr. Banks. Mr. Banks wasn’t running this country, not yet, but he had paid his dues and his time would come. But for now, he was a servant come to hear from the master.

  Mr. Banks waited patiently for the man in black to speak.

  “You seem to have done a fine job with the old club. She’s as beautiful as any other time I visited.”

  Banks nodded, and spoke deferentially. “Thank you, sir. I trust that your flight was—“

  “Oh yes. Your precautions were exceeded only by your hospitality.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Banks, we haven’t spoken for a while, and I would like to tell you a story. After I have told it, you will understand why I came here.”

  The man in black told his tale. When it ended, Mr. Banks was licking his lips. He nodded to his master, and left the room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  John Norris forgot his lunch. He was already halfway backed out of his driveway when he realized it. He told himself that remembering now was better than remembering on the highway, but he still felt like he was going senile. Norris wasn’t a man to be forgetful. Everything was always in order for John Norris, and a string of little memory slips was worrisome. Norris shifted into drive and pulled back into his driveway. He had to turn the engine off and take his keys because he knew his wife, Olivia, locked the door as soon as he was out in the morning. He was right, of course, and needed his key to get back in the house. He could already hear some trashy talk show as he headed toward the kitchen.

  “What you forget?” She called out, staying on the couch.

  “My lunch.”

  “Well don’t walk in the house in your work boots, you’ll scuff the floor.” She had a thing about his boots.

  “It’ll give you something to do today.” He said in a joking tone, even though he was serious. His wife never did anything around house except watch vapid television and microwave frozen dinners.

  “Fuck you.” She didn’t bother with the friendly tone. Norris shrugged it off and found his lunch. He always made it the night before, after dinner, in the belief that if he made his lunch while he was full he wouldn’t pack too much. But this meant that sometimes his lunch bag would get shoved to the back of the fridge by the time he needed to take it the next morning. No matter how many times he asked Olivia to keep his lunch kit at the front, she usually didn’t remember. Or care. This morning, his lunch had been pushed as far back as it could go in the fridge. It was behind a pickle jar, the milk, the cream, and a jug of concentrated orange juice that hadn’t been there when he ate his breakfast. Olivia had obviously made the juice and shoved his food to the back. And she didn't even remind him when he left without it.
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  Biting his tongue, Norris went back down the hall without saying anything to his wife. She didn’t say anything either; she was too concerned with hearing about who the baby-daddy was on her show. Norris dragged his feet on the way out, leaving two big fat black scuffs on the linoleum. Neither said goodbye.

  As he drove to work, Norris thought about his life and his marriage. Olivia had been a great wife when she’d been working. She used to be a clerk at city hall, with a nice government paycheck to match her husband’s. When she’d been working, she would spend her weekends with John, doing housework and gardening and playing with their two kids, John Jr. and Monica. But a few years back she was hit by a car and wrecked her back. She was on disability now and even though she was home all the time she never did a damned thing. John was the one who cooked, any time they had real cooking, and cleaned and looked after the kids. The children, for their part, did their own laundry and some cleaning for an allowance, but not Olivia. She just watched her shows and fed the kids Hot Pockets for dinner. Norris hated his wife. If she didn’t have John pulling his salary, she’d be one of those welfare queens that John hated even more. He’d have divorced her if he wasn’t so sure she’d screw up the kids when he wasn’t around. So he stuck it out, and every day he built up a rage that could be quietly exorcized at work.