Part 21 (2/2)

”You asked Fenton for help with Hadley. Maybe he put something into motion.”

”Jesus,” I whispered. I wanted to lower my face to my shaky hands and stay hidden there, never look up again.

”I don't think I can do this anymore,” I said.

His hand came up to my shoulder, a little human warmth to the grip, not just an awkward squeeze of consolation, but something else. Did men ever realize how bad their timing could be?

”Are you working tomorrow night?” he asked.

I nodded. ”In the bubble.”

”I said you didn't need to do any more heavy lifting. I'll take the drugs to Fenton. He won't care where they come from, as long as he gets them. Then the pressure will be off you. No more rough stuff.”

”He'll want me to do it again,” I said. And again, I thought.

Ruddik laughed. ”I'm not sure about that. Don't you think he'd rather work with someone who can deliver them right the first time?”

I snorted, betraying the fact that my nose was running and my eyes were teary from the stress.

”I'm going to turn Fenton,” Ruddik said, ignoring my emotion. ”This will be my introduction to him. And over the next few weeks I'm going to let him know everything I know already, enough to keep him in prison for another lifetime unless he works with me, and then he's going to help me go after the keepers and COs. We'll learn who's real and who's wrong. And it will be thanks to you, Kali, that we got there.”

Thanks to me. Maybe I'd get a gold watch.

”Where are the drugs?” he asked.

”I was scared of leaving them in my truck, so I hid them in my house.” In my underwear drawer.

”So bring them tomorrow. Bring them in one last time and pa.s.s them over to me once you're inside.”

I shook my head like a stubborn five-year-old.

”I want to get rid of them now. Not tomorrow. Right now.”

”Okay,” he said. ”We'll do it now.”

In separate vehicles we drove back to my place. He followed me into my room when I went to retrieve the pills. I pa.s.sed them over, and we stood there facing each other, not knowing what to do next. I felt sordid and small, and I think he understood that. His arms came around me. My need for him was helpless and juvenile. But when we f.u.c.ked, it was much rougher and harder than that, and the urgency of it, the violence in it, came from me.

41.

During rec, Fenton made Josh join him in chess. The board was missing five pieces, replaced by squares of paper. Josh understood the rules and the basic strategy, but he knew Fenton was going to wax his a.s.s. A few men stood by and watched, adding to his bad nerves. Josh picked out his early moves, and Fenton got his own pieces rolling forward. Fenton talked to his pieces as he moved them, told his p.a.w.ns to do their work. Told his horse to fly like the wind. Told his bishop to f.u.c.k Josh up. Five minutes into the game, Josh realized with a cold sweat that Fenton was an awful chess player. Moves that appeared to be puzzling sacrifices were actually blunders that made Fenton swear and slam his hand down when Josh took advantage, and caused the other men to shake their heads in amazement. ”Dawg, that's some unlucky s.h.i.+t.” ”Oh, you really going to f.u.c.k him up now.” Yet with each move Fenton got himself deeper into trouble. He told everyone to get the f.u.c.k away from him, stop breaking his concentration, and in the s.p.a.ce that got made, Josh started losing as quickly as he could, making his own stupid sacrifices, trying not to be surprised when Fenton missed the obvious takes or, worse, mocked Josh for a bad move when he finally spotted one. They played three heart-pounding games, and Fenton won all three in dramatic comebacks, Josh worming around in a hunt for defeat. Fenton pushed back his chair after the third game and told Josh he was good, but it would be a while before he took the master.

Then Fenton suggested a drink, and Josh rose, wondering what bar they were going to hit.

Fenton walked to his cell, and Josh followed. Fenton nodded at or knocked fists with some of the men he pa.s.sed. He spotted Jacko from a ten-foot distance at the laundry cell and gave him a hand signal, a fluid gesture that impressed Josh as both gangster cool and over the top. There was loose mail on the ground at the entrance to his cell. Fenton bent over and scooped it up as he went in. Josh hesitated. You weren't supposed to gather in drums. But Fenton was already down on his knees beneath the sink on the far wall, working the scoop end of a broken-off spoon at the screws to the vent. When the last screw fell to the floor, Fenton pulled the metal grate from the wall and said, ”Give me a hand.” Josh stepped in and crouched down. Fenton slid the grate out, wider and deeper than Josh would have expected, and hefted it over. Josh strained to keep his hands in a good grip on the sharp edges, and Fenton told Josh to put it down next to the bed. Then Fenton reached deep into the duct and pulled out a large plastic bag filled with an orange liquid. There was a long tube extending from the top. Fenton snapped off the cap, and a sickly sweet smell of orange juice and yeast filled the room.

”How's it looking?” Roy asked, standing in the doorway with a tin cup in his hand.

”I'd say it's well cooked,” Fenton said.

”Twenty-odd days got to be some kind of record,” Roy noted.

Fenton agreed, as if they were best buddies. ”I been hanging sheets of Bounce here the last few days, s.h.i.+t so pungent I was getting drunk in my sleep.”

”They didn't find this when they tossed your drum?” Josh put in.

”I guess they forgot to look or something,” Fenton said. ”I better go tell them they missed a spot.”

Roy laughed. ”Go rouse some men of quality,” he told Jacko, who'd appeared behind him.

Fenton sat on the bed and squirted out a mug for himself and another mugful for Roy. Josh settled on the floor and held a paper cup out. Fenton filled it. Screen Door appeared in the door.

”You boys invite me to a party?”

Roy sneered. ”Smell of brew brings them out like flies.”

Fenton was busy with the kit, but he said, ”No offense, Screen Door, you can drink, but careful you don't HIV anything.”

Screen Door got down on her knees, held her hands out to the side, and said, ”Bless me father for I have sucked,” then opened her mouth and received a jet of brew from an inch away.

Roy laughed and lowered himself onto the one chair.

”Secret to running a good range,” Roy said to Josh, ”keep the queens happy. You'd be surprised.”

Jacko returned. ”Lewis is bringing his strings.” Lewis, Josh thought. Jacko wedged himself in front of Josh and Screen Door and planted his ample rear on the chrome toilet bowl. He held out a tobacco can for Fenton. The brew gurgled out of the tube like siphoned gasoline.

”It smells like open a.s.s around here,” Jacko said.

”No s.h.i.+t,” Roy said.

Lewis entered, a wooden guitar, beat up like an old suitcase, tucked under his wing. Josh didn't see Lewis as the musical kind, and imagined he played guitar as well as Fenton played chess. Behind Lewis stood an inmate Josh had seen recently on the range but never connected with the crew.

”This here's Jim Lucky Bones,” Jacko told Josh as the two men settled. ”Sailed with Lewis back in the world. Where's Tyson?”

”Got a visit,” Lucky Bones said. ”Old lady wanting his money.”

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