My chest tightens. “Yeah?”
He stares at me. After a few charged seconds, he finally says, “Yeah.”
My knuckles itch, ready to defend myself as best I can. I'm beginning to sweat and I hope he can't see. But I’d lay odds he can. “Well, this guy must be a fuckin’ moron, then.”
At this, Antonio’s eyes dance with amusement, but that could mean anything from he thinks I’m funny to he thinks I’m dead. He nods a couple times–just short, slow jerks of his head.
“He is.” It seems like hours go by before he adds, “You know Morales?”
I blink again, which pisses me off. “Lenny Morales? Yeah.”
“You know how you missed with that gun of yours?”
I don’t bother to tell him I didn’t miss, I just didn’t kill Brendan when I shot him. “Yeah.”
“Don’t miss again.” He holds my eyes with meaning, and turns to walk out, casual as can be.
“I don’t have a…” I start to say gun but he stops me.
His hand goes up and he looks at me around the over-developed mound of his shoulder. “Get creative.”
“Hey Tony, guards are comin’ this way,” one of his ghouls whispers.
“We were just leavin’,” Antonio says. “And don’t fuckin’ call me that.” He walks past the guy and the ghouls all share a look. I watch my doorway empty again, wondering how I’m going to kill a guy with my bare hands. I don’t want to do that. I’m not a murderer. I’m a thief. Yeah, I shot my ex-friend, but we’re all capable of everything given the right circumstances. It’s not like I walk around thinking of ways to take people’s lives. Their belongings, yeah. Their lives? No.
Before I have a chance to soak in exactly how screwed I really am, my doorway fills with a guard’s surly glare.
“You’ve got a visitor, Pretty Boy.” The second he says that nickname, I realize he's working with Antonio, and the sense of foreboding deepens. A frown involuntarily appears and I try to hide it before he sees he’s gotten a rise out of me, but I fail. Ignoring his slimy, victorious smile, I walk out and he follows me, headed toward Visiting. As we pass Dinon’s cage, I glance over and lock eyes with him. We’re on okay terms, which means only that we don’t want to rip each other’s throats out. He just stares back at me, not showing any sign of his thoughts.
The guard barks, “What are you staring at, Washington?”
Dinon looks away, and witnessing it, a part of me dies inside. We’re all just trained dogs.
In Visiting, I pick up the phone and watch my cousin pick up his on the other end of a bulletproof, fingerprint splotched, thick plastic window. He’s the only one who visits me ever since I spilled the beans to reduce my sentence for the shooting as my little fuck you to my father, the sonofabitch. With what the detectives found during the search of their home, it forced both of my parents to go deep into hiding. Over two hundred robberies have now been linked to us, and even more stolen property recovered that was thieved by my ancestors, dating all the way back to 1582.
The place was gutted.
I wasn’t a complete traitor with my testimony. I didn’t rat out Bruce or Uncle Paul, for Bruce’s sake. The way I see it, my cousin and I were born into this life and we couldn’t help that. They taught us young. But I gave my folks a chance to run, warning Bruce I was going to rat them out, so he could warn them. He’s our go-between. Otherwise they never would have escaped. Now they’re on the run, and that I’m fine with. Serves them right for doing this to me. It’s their fault I am the way I am. Why should they live a normal life when I’m stuck in here? Yeah, not gonna happen.
“How’s it going, Brucie?”
His brown eyes harden, but then he sees my smile. “Don’t be like him. It’s not funny,” he grumbles.
“Well, you should know better than to come in here wearing that pink scarf.”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “It’s magenta.”
“Right,” I chuckle.
He waits for me to get serious. “How are you?”
I hit him with a stone-cold sober stare. “Seriously?” He shrugs, which irritates me to no end, forcing me to launch into him. “It’s two days to Christmas and they don’t exactly decorate in here. And this morning I got a visit from a guy who is offering friendship if I do something I don’t wanna do.” Off his look, I correct him, “No, not that. Worse.”
Bruce’s eyebrows knit together. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. So do me a favor and never ask me how I’m doing again? If you don’t have something good to tell me, then let’s just keep to the chitchat we normally have. I need the distraction. Alright?”
Bruce nods, but his attention leaves the subject as he shiftily glances to the crying lady next to him who’s flanked by two little kids, plus a baby on her lap. Then he glances to the guard standing by the entrance. The familiar gleam in his eyes when he looks back to me sparks my blood. But I don’t betray my curiosity. Neither of us wants the guards paying attention. “I’ve got really good news.”
Without inflection, I ask, “Yeah, what?”
Bruce casually mutters, “Do you know a Rita Sanchez?”
I make a noise. Everyone knows Rita in here. It’s hard to miss a five-feet tall Mexican transsexual with a crew of six fake-blonde fairy-dust blowers always at his/her side. “Yeah. I know him. Or her…or whatever. Why?”
“Ever see a little movie about hope?” Bruce asks, one of his eyebrows starting to twitch nervously.
Shawshank Redemption–that’s what he means, the prison movie we’ve both seen a million times. Scenes from it flash before my eyes: The hole Andy dug in the wall with a rock hammer over twenty, long years. Him coming out the other end a free man, holding his arms up to a thunder-filled sky, pellets of rain hitting the joy on his face. Morgan Freeman’s last words as he took a chance and escaped his parole, searching for a life free from the branding of having been a criminal: I hope.
The power of my cousin’s question ricochets through my veins as I stare at him, understanding what he means to do, and that somehow Rita Sanchez is involved. This I’ve gotta see. My eyes tell him I know exactly which movie he means, and this ain’t it: “Serendipity?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s the one.” He looks down at his hand and glances casually to the guard to make sure the guy hasn’t moved. He hasn’t. Bruce turns to me. “Well, I’ve found my guy just like how Kate Beckinsale did in that movie. Isn’t that great? Rita knows the guy, that’s why I bring her up. You never thought I’d find love,” he says, knowing full well I’ve said no such thing, ever. “See, there is hope. So you just keep praying and as soon as the appeal date comes, you know I’ll be there, sending you luck.”
I feel like I’m an arrow stretched tight on a bow. “Oh yeah? You found someone? Well, I’ll have to catch up with Rita and hear all about him…” I stop as the phone goes dead. Our time is up. Bruce’s eyes slide up to the guard who’s walked up to take me back to my cell. Bruce gives him a tight-lipped polite smile and we both get up, exchanging one last glance with each other.
Before he turns to go, Bruce mouths, “Merry Christmas.”
Merry Christmas, indeed. Walking back to my cell, it’s a lot easier to ignore the guard’s ribbing me about my cousin being gay. “You and your boyfriend have a nice chat?” I don’t even blink, my mind on the seed Bruce just planted.
If I get out of here alive, I know exactly what my present is going to be to myself. I’m going to pay a visit to an old friend.
Our family plans how to escape from places for a living. After we rob them, anyway. Can it be done? From a place as locked down as San Quentin is?
I can’t wait to find out.
Chapter Seventeen
Annie
I cannot get enough of this pan-seared sea bass. Or these mashed potatoes. Or this Chicken Yakitori. Or these oysters. Or this…
Margaret smiles to Joe, briefly interrupting him. “Can you pass me the last lobster tempura?”
Damn. There goes that.
He doesn’t miss a beat as he hands the appetizer plate to his powerhouse wife, C.F.O. of the ad agency Location Times Three, where Brendan works. His focus is locked on Brendan, the Ebola virus controversy heavy on his mind. “Look, they should have never let them get on that plane.”
Brendan leans forward, a juicy chunk of filet mignon on his fork shining in the candlelight. “And then the one woman went on a cruise! They said they’re monitoring them. How? Don’t monitor them, make them stay inside!” He slides the steak into his mouth, his mind on the subject.
“How is it?” I ask, eyeing some for myself.
Distracted, Brendan mumbles, “Good.” To Joe, he says, “They’re saying that’s amoral,” disgusted with the logic.
Sliding another oyster into my mouth, I glance around 5A5 Steakhouse. It’s interesting to me how far I’ve come, that I’m one of these people now, sitting next to corporate types in a white table-clothed booth in a five star restaurant, not having to worry about the bill. It almost feels normal. Margaret is wearing a beige sheath dress, for Pete’s sake! I never would have hung out with a woman like her before. Which still shows in our lack of conversation. The men are the focal point…and so is this food.
So mouth-watering good, this food.
Joe shouts, his hand articulating the point, “Exactly! It’s amoral to quarantine them??! How is that amoral? Isn’t it amoral to all the people they’re possibly infecting, to let them get onto a damn plane in the first place? Or a cruise ship with thousands of other people?”
Margaret adds, dryly, looking around to all of us. “Not to mention all the places the ship stops for sight-seeing.”
“Brendan, can I have a bite of that?” I’ve got my fork ready and waiting but he doesn’t hear me.
“I’ve heard it’s because Africa is going to be the perfect place to start a future world. But that’s a little crazy isn’t?”
Joe shakes his head, picking up his glass of ninety-dollar Scotch. “Is it?” His eyebrows rise. “Is it crazy?”
With my eye still on the filet mignon, I offer, “Well, if you’re suggesting population control…”
Joe puts his glass back down and meets my eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“First of all, that’s horrifying.”
Margaret nods, holding her half-empty wine glass to her lips. “It’s terrible.”
Brendan slices off a nice little chunk of steak as he talks. “Here’s the thing about population control theories. If you’re going to let an outbreak happen, aren’t you worried about the people you love getting affected, too?” He slides it over onto my plate. He did hear me! I grin, popping it happily into my mouth.
“Thank you, baby,” I mumble over a yummy mouthful.
Joe argues, “I don’t think they’re thinking that far ahead.”
Margaret shakes her head as if she knows all. “No one ever plays the tape all the way through.” At my look, she explains, “To see what happens at the end. Everyone just jumps off with an idea never thinking what will happen.”
“Ah. Well, this is a wonderful dinner conversation. Disease and murder. Yay,” I say with a smile, not offended, but looking to lighten it up a bit.
Neither Joe nor Brendan wants to let go, but Brendan makes a noise and shuts the conversation down anyway. “It just makes no sense is all.”
Joe agrees. “It’s a fucking disease.” His hand slices the air. “I’m sorry they got it. But they got it. Now that they have it, let’s make sure it stays put. How hard is that to understand?”
“Call the president,” Margaret smiles.
He leans back. “Yeah. Would that I could. So what about you kids? I figured for sure we’d have to cancel tonight because of the baby.”
“Thank you for meeting us early. I really appreciate it.”
Brendan explains with a tight smile. “Annie won’t stop working. It’s driving me crazy.”
I pick up my water, and keep my eyes on Joe. He’s safer.
“He’s taking his sweet time coming out, isn’t he? You’re big as a house,” Margaret laughs.
I choke on the water, wishing I hadn’t eaten so much in front of the woman. Wiping my mouth, I mutter, annoyed, “Um…Thank you?”
Brendan reaches over and touches my hair. Margaret commented on it when we sat down, her own much shorter and less healthy looking. Her jealousy was something he apparently caught. “Look at this. See how beautiful her hair is? It’s grown like five inches in a few months.”
“You’re glowing,” Joe says with a genuine smile.
Margaret sucks on her teeth, her attention now arrested by something on the tablecloth. “Where do you think they get these made? Not China, I hope?” she mutters, picking it up to eye it.
Brendan glances to me and I smile a thank you to him. He winks. Maybe in another year, I’ll be able to handle women like Margaret in a smoother way, deflecting the odd jab that always seems to come when I least expect it. I’ve only been in this little circle for about, oh, nine months? She used to be friends with Rebecca, the woman Brendan ‘dated’ for several years before I came back into the picture. Margaret and Rebecca are a lot alike, so not only do I have to deal with replacing her friend, I have to deal with replacing her mirror image…ish. That a girl like me could replace a woman like her is terrifying to her.
A waiter comes to remove our plates. “Can I interest you in some Tira Misu? Some coffee?”
I groan, “I’d love some coffee! But I can’t.”
“I’ll have some,” Margaret smiles.
Brendan smiles to himself and balls up his cloth napkin. “We’d love to stay, but Annie’s got to go in to her bar. She let her employees have the holiday off.” He threw in that to remind Margaret I own the place, and I could just kiss him for it. “…and so we have to get going. Can I have the check, please?” he asks the waiter with easy authority. The guy nods and exits quickly.
Joe empties his glass. “Brendan, you’re not getting dinner.”
Leaning back in the booth and casually resting his arm around me with his thumb caressing my shoulder, Brendan smirks. “I am, Joe. I already gave him my card before we sat down.”
Joe laughs. “You jerk!”
Margaret’s impressed, too of course. My husband is a classy man, something I’m very proud of.
Brendan looks at me, meeting my eyes. “It was Annie’s idea.”
I smile, amused by his lie. “It was the least we could do for making you eat at 5:30 p.m. I mean, who does that?”
Joe chuckles. “I know, right? What are we, senior citizens?”
Margaret loses the stick up her ass and joins in. “Early bird special anyone?” We all appreciate her making the mood light and friendly again. “You know what? No more news until after the holiday. We can watch It’s a Wonderful Life, or Rudolph Came to Town, or whatever those animation movies are called,” she smiles. “But no more news.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I exclaim, impressed. “I’m in!”
Joe grumbles and Brendan says zip. But at Margaret’s look, Joe shrugs. “Oh alright. It’s only a couple of days.”
“You can solve the world’s problems later. What you put into your system, affects you. It’s a fact.”
I think about this, never having considered it before. Does that apply to all things?
“Alright, I’m in,” Brendan says just as the bill arrives. He signs away, leaving a hefty tip. “Merry Christmas,” he tells the guy, handing it back to him.
“Merry Christmas! Thank you, sir!”
Chapter Eighteen
Tommy
The real torture about being in jail? Dinnertime.
With my tray filled with sub-par dog food, I face the cacophony of the mess hall. It’s 5:30 p.m. This is when they tell us to eat. What are we, senior citizens?
Normally I’d walk to the row of metal slabs where the Caucasian loners sit, past The Chain Gang, with my eyes dead, my walk deliberately self-assured. But the gang is e
yeing me like they’re wondering if I’m going to join them now or later...after I’ve done the job on Lenny Morales. Shiftily I glance to where Morales is laughing with the Latinos to my left, his light blue eyes eerily reminiscent of a Siberian Husky’s, tats all over his arms and neck. Before he notices me looking, I focus on the place I really want to go, forcing my feet to move at a normal pace despite the fact that I’m fucking terrified and excited all at the same time.
As I pass the gang, they get quiet and watch me. Antonio’s the only one who keeps chewing, but he’s doing it slowly, his unnerving gaze on me. I give him a jerk of my chin, a quick acknowledgment to show respect. Antonio nods back slowly and just once. I know from the look in his eyes he’s now certain I’m in, that I’ll join them when I feel I deserve to, after I’ve completed my mission. Controlling my mind so my hands don’t shake, I look to the prize, hoping to God my cousin’s plan works.
Halfway across the room, auburn-haired Rita Sanchez looks my way. One penciled eyebrow cocks upward and her red painted lips stop moving as she clocks my approach. Two of her blonde comrades scoot to the right on the bench, bringing their trays sliding with them like they’re expecting me. The other three stay put.
If this promise of escape doesn’t go well, I can kiss my virginity goodbye. Not to these guys. These guys are just homosexual people who committed some crime other than rape; like robbery, murder, or hacking into the federal government’s computer system. It’s The Gimp Patrol I’m worried about and I’m doing everything I can not to look over at their table by the east wall. Those monsters will without a speck of a doubt look at me as open season from here on out. Willing, ready and begging for it, that’s what they’ll think. The only reason they’ve not come after me yet with this face of mine is because they have a couple victims they haven’t tired of. Yet.
My lipsticked ticket out of here nods to the empty space. I put down my tray and climb onto the bench, sitting down with a thud, greeting the blondes one by one by meeting their eyes. They’re all Latin save for one guy from Thailand. And why they all dye their hair blonde is a mystery I don’t care to solve. “Hey,” I say. They don’t answer back. They just keep chewing the slop. I hate this place. I miss manners.
Capturing Hearts: Hearts Series Book 4 Page 5