Blood, Bones and Bullets

by Tim Curran

  Romero gave him the look. “Shut your pisshole, Cherry. You don’t, I’ll shove something in there, shut it for you. You know what I’m saying to you?”

  The kid did.

  2

  The second day.

  The kid was still a virgin and still hadn’t been extorted, but it wouldn’t last. Out in the yard, all the cons were watching him, smelling that new meat, wondering whose punk he was going to be.

  Wasn’t going to be long, Romero knew.

  First, they’d take his food in the mess hall, then they’d throw him a beating out in the yard, maybe try to rape him in the laundry or showers. That’s how it would begin. Pressure would build. Cons would get randy like starving dogs circling a fresh, juicy bone. Decide who was going to get the first bite. Then some ballbuster would come along, tell Palmquist that he’d protect him for money. Didn’t matter where he got it—mother, father, sister, brother, priest—long as he got it. And if he couldn’t get it? Then he’d be a punk for some hardtimer, sucking the guy’s dick and bending over for him. Because that’s how it worked inside: You weren’t part of a gang or tough enough to do your own fighting, somebody had to do it for you.

  And it never came free.

  Not at Shaddock Valley.

  It was a real hard-time sort of hole. You locked up thousands of guys like animals for months and years, pretty soon even the good ones lost their humanity and showed their teeth. It was a grim, gray concrete world where you buried hope with the biggest shovel you could find and yourself with it. Violent guards, bad food, cramped conditions, loneliness, frustration. Hot in the summer, like an icebox in the winter. Bugs. Rats. Throw into the mix dehumanizing treatment and the constant invasion of privacy, the degradation of strip searches and cavity searches…it took away what was left. Then all you had were predators and prey. Guys with tattoos and dead eyes wandering the yard, sniffing around the block, looking for the stragglers, the weak ones, anything they could bring down, sink their teeth into that wouldn’t bite back.

  The inmates at Shaddock robbed each other, fought each other, pushed drugs and booze, smuggled porno and contraband, sometimes even women. They killed for money and sometimes for free. They made weapons and stabbed each other, beat each other, raped each other, murdered each other, snitched on each other. Most of them had absolutely nothing to lose. Shaddock was a bubbling, seething cauldron flavored by the very worst society had to offer—bullies and rapists, serial killers and racists, Jesus freaks and gangsters, psychopaths and fanatics—only in there it was compressed, localized, compacted behind barbwire and high stone walls. Refined, if you will, into a toxic brew that stank like shit and body odor, vomit and pain and blackness and you could smell it the moment they processed you through.

  End of the line.

  And in such a place, a guy like Danny Palmquist didn’t stand a chance.

  3

  “You don’t say much, do you?”

  Romero was laying on his bunk before lights out, trying to read a book about some guy surviving in Antarctica. He liked books like that because he understood survival real well. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Cherry?”

  The kid sighed, sitting at the little desk against the cement block wall, staring at those bars. “Just saying, shit, we’re locked up together, might as well pass the time.”

  “Listen, Cherry. I ain’t trying to get in your asshole or slit your throat…why don’t you be happy with that?”

  “I’m just saying we could talk.”

  Romero didn’t want that, didn’t want nothing to do with the little bastard. You talked to a guy, then you started feeling like he was your friend. And when that happened, you felt like you had to take care of him.

  And I don’t need that, he thought, I really don’t.

  Thing was, Romero wasn’t sure that this is what was bothering him about the kid. That he’d have to fight his battles for him. There was something else, something about the kid he just didn’t like only he wasn’t sure what it was.

  “Okay, Cherry, give it to me then. Tell me your sad fucking story. What did you do? Rape somebody’s poodle? Go after a couple kids? Tell me the kind of pathetic shit that landed you here.”

  “Manslaughter.”

  Romero almost laughed. Man-slaughter? “You? What’d you do? Run down some old lady in your mommy’s car?”

  Palmquist wasn’t biting. “No…there was a girl. We were sort of going out, you know? Nothing major. Just some dates and things. She got killed, murdered, and they blamed me for it because I was the last one with her.” The kid studied his hands, maybe wondering if they were capable of doing what the courts charged him with. “So…I don’t know, I copped a plea. Took five years for manslaughter, otherwise the DA wanted to prosecute me for capital murder.”

  Romero did laugh now. “Why the fuck you do that, Cherry? DA was just dancing, you stupid shit, bobbing and weaving. They try you for murder one, they got to prove it.”

  “My lawyer said that, too, but I went for it.”

  “You should’ve listened to him, Cherry. You’d be out there now.”

  But Palmquist just shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t kill that girl, my brother did. And, well, I didn’t want any of that coming out.”

  Romero chuckled, lit a cigarette. “That’s some kind of brother you got there, letting you do time for him.”

  “My brother…Damon…he’s not like us, he’s different. I didn’t want it coming out about the way he was, the things he does.”

  Romero just watched Danny Palmquist, Cherry sonofabitch. Way he talked, you would have thought this brother of his swung from trees, had two heads, and a stainless steel dick. It was all pretty funny in a seriously fucked up sort of way. When the kid talked about his brother, he got a real skittish look in his eyes like maybe he was afraid of him. Maybe that’s what this was all about.

  Romero said, “You better screw your head on straight, Cherry. And you better do it soon. Get hold of your lawyer, tell him the truth. It’s what you gotta do.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then you’re gonna suffer, Cherry. You’re gonna suffer real bad.”

  The kid looked at him now, a dusting of menace in his eyes. “I ain’t a cherry, Romero. This is the second joint I’ve been in. I know how things work.”

  “Yeah? Where were you before?”

  “Brickhaven, upstate.”

  “Brickhaven?”

  “Sure. You been there?”

  Romero told him he had, years before.

  Brickhaven. Is that what the kid said? Brickhaven was definitely no kiddie joint. He couldn’t imagine this fish surviving in a place like that. Maybe he got lucky, but he wouldn’t get lucky at Shaddock Valley. Shaddock got all the troublemakers who couldn’t make it in the other state joints. But it all gave Romero pause…something had happened at Brickhaven a few months before, something real ugly, and he was starting to wonder now how the kid might have factored into that business.

  “Brickhaven ain’t Shaddock, Cherry. Guys in here’ll do bad things to you.”

  “Worse than they did to me at Brickhaven?”

  “Yes.”

  But Palmquist just shook his head. “They better not. Not if they know what’s good for ‘em…my brother finds out, it’ll be trouble.”

  “In here? You stupid little shit! Listen to yourself. Your brother can’t help you in here. Don’t you see that? Maybe he’s some kind of crazy-assed freak out in the world, but in here you’re on your own.”

  Palmquist’s eyes went about three shades darker, looked like bubbling sap. “You better watch it, Romero. You don’t want to piss him off.”

  Romero tossed his cigarette and got to his feet. “Fuck you say, asshole? Fuck you think you’re talking to, motherfucker?” Romero was standing over him now, ready to bust him, slap that cherry face right off the bone beneath. “Let’s tell it the way it is, Cherry. How about we do that? Maybe you survived Brickhaven, maybe you got lucky, but you won
’t get lucky in here. You’re nothing but meat and everyone wants a bite, tasty thing like you. These animals will stab you, beat you, burn you, rape you. And who’s gonna stop ‘em? This fuck-up dog-humping brother of yours? Don’t make me fucking laugh. This is the end of the world, you dumb cocksucker.”

  Palmquist looked like he was ready to cry.

  And Romero wanted him to. It was the best thing that could happen to him, drain all that human weakness right out of him, squeeze the little prick dry and the sooner the better. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, Cherry. You don’t stand a chance. You might as well pick your daddy now before he picks you.”

  “Hell, I will.”

  Romero wanted to put his hands on him, give him some pain to think about…but it was there again, that feeling in his guts, that sense that this kid was trouble, three kinds of hell. It stayed Romero’s hands…the idea of touching the kid somehow loathsome, like handling a big spider or a rat full of worms. A deep-set almost physical revulsion.

  And feeling that the kid had that kind of power over him when he had no damn right to, it just pissed Romero off. “You goddamn punk! Right now, I decide to beat you or rape your ass, you can’t stop me. I’ll take what I want and ain’t nothing you can do about it, is there? I’ll beat you and fuck you and tomorrow or next week, I’ll be selling your sweet ass for cigarettes and soap. You like that? You like that idea? Why don’t you gimme a fucking reason, Cherry, gimme a reason to pull my razor and cut you to shreds and fuck what’s left. Go ahead, you fucking little snot, gimme a reason…”

  But Palmquist didn’t.

  He just stared at those bars like he was wondering what was beyond them.

  4

  The next morning, out in the yard.

  Romero was there with a Hispanic strong-arm thief named JoJo Aquintez and a big, tattooed biker named Riggs who looked like something that sharpened its teeth on bones in a Neolithic cave. All three of them, sitting on a picnic table near the wall, looking outrageous in their orange prison-issue jumpsuits.

  Riggs was saying how he was walking in four months, his term would be up. He had waved his right to parole, did the extra time so he wouldn’t have no parole officer sniffing around his ass out in the world.

  “I walk through them fucking gates, boys, I walk high and free,” he told them. “Start turning some green day one.”

  Romero knew what that was about.

  Riggs was a member of the Mongols motorcycle club, a major player in their meth distribution network. When he got out, he was just going to pick up where he left off. Most cons were like that. Riggs had pulled a nickel for putting a black cocaine dealer in a wheelchair with his bare hands. That’s the sort of guy he was.

  Aquintez was saying how he’d be staring at those walls for some time to come, had five more years to pull on his bit. But when he got out, no more armed robbery. That’s what got him here. He was thinking something less violent, maybe insurance fraud. Guy could make a killing at that, if he knew the angles.

  Romero wasn’t listening, though.

  He was watching Danny Palmquist hanging around by the baseball diamond with all the other losers—the child molesters and rapists, serial killers and weaklings. The other cons didn’t like those types, guys that hurt kids and women. It didn’t take any balls for that. And in stir, real balls carried respect, carried dignity, assured your place in the food chain as a real man. Even in prison there were undesirables, guys you could look down on. Sometimes, when the real cons were having a hard day, they’d go over there to the diamond and kick the shit out of some faggot serial killer or short-eye. Made them feel better about themselves.

  Yeah, that’s where Palmquist was.

  Keeping to himself, trying to avoid the attentions of the baby-rapers over there.

  But some of the cons in the yard were watching him, wondering about the new bitch, thinking about running his track.

  “What you think of your new cellie, Romero?” Aquintez asked, pulling off a home-rolled cigarette, half-tobacco and half-Mary Jane.

  Good question, that one. Thing was, Romero just wasn’t sure. Kid was a punk, he was meat, harmless as a kitty in a box…yet, yet there was something creepy about the little bastard. Something Romero didn’t care for, but couldn’t honestly put a name to.

  “Look where he’s hanging at,” Romero said. “What’s that tell you?”

  Riggs shook his head, had half a mind to waltz over there and kick some rapo ass.

  “Just a punk,” Romero said. “Ain’t nothing more than that.”

  “I hear he was over at Brickhaven, heard he got into some trouble there,” Aquintez mentioned. “Can’t seem to find out what he did, though.”

  “Look at him,” Riggs said in his gravelly voice. “He was probably somebody’s old lady over there. Maybe he fell in love with some punk and his daddy took it personal, went after his new love.”

  Romero said, “He’s loony, that one. Thinks if anyone throws down on him, his brother’s gonna come save his white meat ass.”

  Aquintez thought that was funny. “Gonna break in or what? Never heard of a guy breaking into Shaddock. Out once or twice, but never in.”

  “Brickhaven,” Riggs said, scratching his shaggy beard. “That was some funny shit happened there. I knew one of them guys that got done. His name was Fritz, Donnie Fritz. A real nasty piece of work. Him and his cellie, some nigger named Boles…shit, they got done after lock-down, done real bad.”

  And that was the word coming down the prison grapevine. Fritz and Boles got murdered in their cells, looked like somebody had taken a chainsaw after them. Nothing but a lot of meat and blood to mark their passing. And after lock-down, yet. That was hard to explain.

  “Maybe you want a new cellie,” Aquintez told Romero. “I’ll talk to Benny, he can square it for you.”

  But Romero shook his head. “Not yet. This kid is funny, something odd about him. I wanna see how it plays out.”

  At the baseball diamond, a big black guy by the name of Reggie Weems was getting tired of waiting. He went over there and all the other rapos got out of his way. He went right up to Palmquist, took hold of him and brought the little shit up real close like he was going to kiss him. There was a scuffle and Weems started knocking the kid around.

  “Looks like your boy got a bite with that bait he’s been trolling,” Aquintez said, unconcerned.

  Riggs laughed, thought it was funny Weems knocking the shit out of that little weasel.

  Romero tossed his cigarette, started over there, not really sure why.

  Aquintez said, “Fuck you going? He your punk or what? I don’t know, home, that Weems is a rough one, you better take a blade. Do it proper.”

  But Romero didn’t want a blade and he didn’t want Riggs’s help either. The biker said he’d come, that he could handle Weems just fine. But Romero told them he just wanted to watch Palmquist get a dose of reality.

  By the time he got there, it was over with.

  The hacks hadn’t seen a thing. Partly because the other cons ringed Weems and Palmquist in so they could dance in private and partly because the hacks never saw anything. You could gang rape their mothers three feet away and they wouldn’t put down their magazines to stop it. Lazy, stupid, and indifferent were a way of life for hacks, Romero knew.

  Weems was already moving off to join the brothers over by the basketball courts, he didn’t pay no mind to Romero and Romero paid no mind to him. Palmquist was sitting on his ass, spitting out blood and teeth. His left eye was beginning to swell shut and his lower lip was almost ripped from his mouth.

  “You like that?” Romero put to him, not bothering to offer him a hand or even a squirt of sympathy. “Well, you better get used to it, Cherry. Because you’re gonna be living on a steady diet of ass-beatings twenty-four/seven. Every day from now on. First they’re going to beat you, then…you know what comes next, don’t you?”

  Palmquist nodded. “I know. I been here before, in this situation.”


  Romero figured some con had busted his ass at Brickhaven. Wouldn’t have surprised him. “Well, then you know what you’re in for.”

  But Palmquist just shook his head. “That fucking nigger is dead, only he don’t know it yet and there ain’t shit I can do about it.” He was grinning now, blood all over his teeth. “See, Romero, I got me an ace in the hole.”

  “You’re gonna have more than an ace in there, mark my word,” Romero said.

  But Palmquist said nothing.

  5

  Later that afternoon, Riggs passed the word to Romero that Black Dog wanted to see him. It wasn’t good. Anytime Black Dog was involved it just couldn’t be a good thing.

  Black Dog was a patched blood member of the Hell’s Angels and one of the Filthy Few, which was the enforcement wing of the Angels who beat, mauled, and murdered any that violated club policies or encroached on their lucrative drug turf. He was absolutely fearless, tough, and merciless. He had a psychotic volatile temper and a reputation for bloodshed and violence that few could match behind those walls. He was sitting on a seventy-five year stretch for murder conspiracy.

  “Hell’s he want?’ Romero asked.

  But Riggs just shrugged. “Can’t say, my brother. He reached out through us because he wants a sit-down with you.”

  By “us” Riggs meant the Mongols. There had been blood wars between the Angels and Mongols on the outside, but behind the walls at Shaddock, they kept an uneasy truce.

  Romero found Black Dog over at the iron pile, bench-pressing the sort of weight that would have driven most men into the ground. He finished, mopping sweat from his face with his T-shirt. “Romero,” he said. “Glad you came. We need to talk.”

  Romero sighed, lit a cigarette. “I’m listening.”

  “It’s about your cellie,” Blackdog said. “That fish Palmquist. I need to know what your intentions are.”

  “Intentions?”