Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  The con shook his head and looked away.

  Ron leaned in close.

  “Because I can throw Diggs in solitary with you. I can put him in a nice little concrete hole that he won’t see the outside of for a good fucking while. Is that what you want, Deon? You want your pal Diggs to rot in solitary with you? Say the word, and I can do it. Don’t say shit. I don’t care. I can do it either way.”

  “Diggs didn’t have shit to do with what went down last night.”

  Timms smiled. “So, you did hear something.”

  Hall’s eyes widened for an instant, an awful moment when he realized he’d shown his cards, then his poker face returned.

  “Like I said, fuck you.”

  Timms decided to take a different route.

  “Is it retribution you’re afraid of? Maybe you actually saw who did it. Maybe they wanted you to see it, wanted you to get a message of some kind. If that’s the case, Hall, we can keep you safe. We’ll put you in protective custody; you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

  He waited for Hall’s answer, sitting there on the edge of his desk with his arms crossed. A long, silent moment passed, and he kept his eyes locked on the convict.

  Slowly, Hall’s shoulders began to bounce up and down. A chuckle escaped his throat, and soon he was laughing outright, his hands on his belly and his mouth open wide.

  “What’s so funny?” Ronald asked.

  “You, man!”

  “Me?”

  “Hell yeah, Timms. Who you think?”

  Hall’s laughter quieted, and he continued to speak.

  “Think about it a second, man. You bring me in here, sit me down, and tell me how three people were killed in solitary last night--fuckin’ solitary, man--and then you tell me you can keep me safe? C’mon, Timms. How much bullshit you expect a brutha to swallow before he chokes?”

  Timms felt his cheeks flush. Anger rose hot and fast within him. He waved Hall away. “Get him out of here.”

  Kling grabbed the convict under one arm and ushered him toward the door. The man’s coffee went flying across the carpet.

  “You a funny guy, Timms!” Hall called out as he was dragged through the door. “You funny as hell, homeboy! Ought to get yo ass up on stage!”

  Ron slammed the door shut on Hall and Kling, then stomped back to his desk. He downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, swallowing the bitter liquid, and then crumpled the cup in one hand and tossed it away.

  This was turning out to be one shitty fucking day.

  Four

  Jefferson Diggs sits in the backseat of the convertible, surrounded by his boys and mellow as all hell. The sticky clings to his lungs, flavors his mouth and throat, numbs his lips. The beer in his hand isn’t as cold as it used to be, but he doesn’t give a fuck. It’ll get him drunk just the same. But right now isn’t the time for getting drunk. Right now, Diggs is a business motherfucker, and his business is retribution.

  He reaches between his legs, and his fingers slide over the .45’s grip. Most of his boys like nines, but Diggs likes his piece to make a good boom! --to put a man on his ass with the first shot. You don’t need no second bullet when Diggs is cappin’ your ass. One’s gonna do you just fine.

  Rollo eases the Caddy to the left, turning the corner. Diggs and the rest crane their heads, eyes peeled as they look for those bitches from Diego Street. They got a solid beef with the DS Raiders, one spelled out in two bodies so far. Diggs don’t think two is gonna even it up, though. He tells his boys he wants motherfuckin’ blood, and they’re more than willing to deliver.

  So they drive into DS territory, and they swear they’re gonna kill every last Raider they see. You don’t toy with the Sevens, man. They gonna fuck you up if you do.

  Diggs sees to that.

  Benjy points to the right, and Diggs turns to see a trio of Raiders hanging on a nearby stoop. Two slingers look out over their hood while the third sits on the steps, some bitch braiding his hair. Diggs smiles when he sees them. Time to up the ante.

  “Dumbass niggas too stupid to know we comin’.” he says.

  “Maybe they ain’t give a fuck,” Benjy says.

  “So what? Don’t mean shit, now.”

  He sets his beer in the floorboard and racks the slide on his piece. Beside him, Benjy does the same with the shotgun. In the passenger seat, Hall knocks the safety off his Uzi. He looks back and tosses Diggs a nod. Diggs returns it.

  Rollo slows the car.

  Benjy rises up out of his seat, leaning past Diggs.

  The Raiders look up. Shock registers across their faces, but it isn’t gonna do a whole lotta good.

  Thunder booms.

  Benjy fires first, the scattergun jerking in his hands and the shot ripping one of the brothers right the fuck in half. The other two start to scramble, and the bitch screams, but then Hall is squeezing the trigger on that Uzi, and all three are dancing--shaking like they got some real fuckin’ soul in ‘em. Diggs screams through a smile that feels a mile wide, and his own shot catches the girl in the neck, blowing her back through the screen door before she twists and falls, and then Diggs can hear screams coming from inside the house, too. He pulls off another pair of caps, but he can’t even tell if they hit anything because Hall’s already tore the other two Raiders all to shit, just blood and tissue all over the walls and the steps and the porch. Big wet chunks of motherfuckers lying in the dry grass.

  Diggs hears those screams wailing from inside the house like a siren, and he wants to jump outta the car, wants to run across the bloody lawn and kick that screen door right off its motherfuckin’ hinges as he enters like the boogey man, and he wants to find those screaming voices and put caps in every last one so that later on the Raiders will know it was the Sevens who done the deed, wants to draw his fuckin’ name in blood and take the bitch’s head as a trophy. Because you don’t fuck with Diggs and his Sevens. You just fuckin’ don’t.

  But now ain’t the time. Now’s the time to get clear before five-oh rolls up.

  Rollo punches the gas as Benjy collapses back into his seat, and they’re gone. Nobody bothers to look back. Ain’t no need. The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds. Ten little ticks of a watch hand, and now they’re looking for more targets. Diggs and his boys are on their way to teaching the DS Raiders a lesson. Gonna be a long day, man. One long-ass day.

  Diggs laughs and finally knocks back a sip of his beer.

  ***

  Diggs glanced up when Morrow brought Ribisi and Marquez into the chaplain’s office, gave them each the smallest of nods, but he didn’t say anything. They were business partners only when he needed them to be. The rest of the time, they were just two more unlucky assholes behind bars, same as every other bastard in Burnham. The men sat down in two of the other chairs that stood in a circle. One seat remained empty.

  Diggs went back to staring at his hands, admiring his fingernails. He had the feeling he knew who would be brought in next, and he didn’t want to look at his cracker face when the man arrived. He looked the motherfucker in the eye, and he just might get up and shank the shit out of him. Might not be the best thing to do in front of a priest.

  Sure enough, Sweeny sauntered in a moment later, all shit-eating grin and, “Howdy, everybody! Do the nigger and the spic really have to be here, or isn’t this a talk for the civilized races?”

  “Fuck you, whitebread bitch.”

  Sweeny gasped, his shock as fake as his hospitality. “You eat fried chicken and biscuits with that dirty little jungle mouth?”

  Diggs felt his anger rise like a pillar of black smoke.

  ***

  “That’s enough,” Father Albright said as he entered the cramped office. He never felt comfortable trying to assert authority over these men, but he did what he had to do. It helped when he thought of it like lion taming. You didn’t show fear, but you didn’t go challenging a pride of man-eaters with nothing in your hand but a wooden chair, either.

  Placing a kind, respectful smile on hi
s face, he pulled a folding chair out from behind the door and set it with the rest. Then, he sat. He didn’t want to do this from behind his desk, didn’t want it to look like he was handing out orders. That was how others might handle it, but he wanted these men to know he didn’t consider himself superior. More than anything, he wanted a truce that was agreed upon, not forced.

  The four men, Burnham’s elite, ignored each other, playing it cool. They examined the worn carpet or counted ceiling tiles or gazed through the scum-covered reinforced glass of the office’s only window, looking everywhere but at each other.

  “I asked Warden Timms if I could talk to you about recent events, most notably the murders we had in the solitary unit last night. You did hear about those; I presume?”

  The cons nodded. Sweeny blew a raspberry at Diggs, who gave him a sneer in return. The white man giggled.

  “Warden Timms wanted to go to lockdown. Officer Morrow talked him out of it, and I think that was the right thing to do.”

  The men looked at him, and he felt his stomach constrict the slightest bit. They were waiting, expectant. Marquez cocked an eyebrow, and Albright could sense the room’s patience wearing thin. He’d better lay out his proposal, get it all out now.

  “I want to ask the four of you for your help in our investigation, and there is going to be a thorough investigation. I can assure you all of that.”

  “You want us to share information?” Ribisi asked.

  “Would you be willing to do that?”

  The older man sighed. “Father, I respect you. I even respect what you’re trying to do, but even if I had any information to share, I’d more likely keep tucked in my back pocket than go spreading it around to the higher ups.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re not in a power position here, Father,” Marquez chimed in. “You’ve come to us for help. Maybe you don’t have to, but the fact that you are doesn’t say a lot for you. If that’s the case--if you really need our help--then we have you bent over. We would need something in return, and I’m not very sure you’re capable of giving us anything we’re interested in.”

  The others murmured in agreement.

  “Omar, I--”

  The Mexican held up his hands.

  “It’s okay, Father. I don’t mean to insult or bait you. I’m just explaining, is all. Just like Ribisi, I don’t know shit.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Are you kidding, Father? If I had anything to give you, and I thought I could get a free conjugal or week off work detail out of it, I’d spit it out faster than the cafeteria food. And believe me, that shit they serve up in the kitchen is worth spitting.”

  Darren nodded and turned to Sweeny and Diggs. “How about the two of you? Either of you have anything you can tell us?”

  “Naw, man.” Diggs never bothered to lift his eyes from the floor. He rocked back and forth the slightest bit, his shoulders rolling.

  Sweeny shook his head. “The Brotherhood didn’t have anything to do with this, Father. You have my word on that.”

  Sweeny, Albright knew, was a lying, manipulative snake, the definition of evil. Maybe Satan was the Father of Lies--the root of all evil--but the skinhead was a talented apprentice. That was how he kept control of the Aryans. Part of it was respect, but most of it was fear of how low the man was willing to go.

  “Fine,” Albright said. “I didn’t bring you here to interrogate you, anyway. I wanted to ask you, not as an administrator but as a man, to not answer these murders with more violence. Nobody wants Burnham to turn into a war zone. We will find out who was responsible, and the responsible party will be punished by us. I don’t want revenge. I just want to find out who did this, and that’s going to be a lot easier if the four of you can keep your men from hunting each other down.”

  He leaned forward, looking at each one in turn.

  “Does that sound like a deal?”

  “What about the hacks?” Diggs asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The fuckin’ hacks, yo. One of their own got himself killed last night, too. How we know the hacks ain’t gonna just start bustin’ heads ‘til they get the right homie?”

  “You shut your goddamn mouth, Diggs,” Morrow said, jabbing a finger at the man. “You don’t have to worry about the C.O.’s doing shit, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, man. Y’all’s shit smells like roses.”

  “Y’know, I’ve heard just about enough from you.” Morrow took a step forward, and Darren reached out, grabbing the guard by the elbow.

  “Please calm down, officer.”

  Morrow’s breath shot hot and angry through flaring nostrils, but the man took a step back, his muscles easing the slightest bit.

  “So, a truce. No violence while the proper authorities conduct an investigation. Can we do that, gentlemen?”

  Ribisi let out another sigh. When he spoke, his words were calm and measured. “Father, I like it when this place is quiet. It’s more conducive to my overall temperament. So whatever you want, the Sicilians will see that it’s done. All I ask in return is your assurance that no one ends up searching for a scapegoat just so they can put a lid on this.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “We’ll see, Father.”

  “I don’t see any violence comin’,” Marquez said. “Not from us, anyway. We got no stake in this shit.”

  “Thank you. Jefferson? Tom?”

  Diggs shrugged, his face noncommittal. Sweeny tossed up his hands.

  “Long as you find out which nigger did it, I don’t give a damn.”

  Diggs’ eyes darted to the Aryan’s, burning with sudden rage. “Fuck you, Sweeny! How I know this wasn’t some bullshit yo Nazi ass ordered, huh?”

  “Because I don’t kill my own kind like you gangbanging jungle bunnies do!”

  “I swear to God, Sweeny, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m gonna break my dick off in ya!”

  “Enough!” Morrow slammed his nightstick down on Albright’s desk for emphasis. The angry breath was back, joined by a red flush of anger over the man’s face. “No violence! You can agree to it, or you can both go the hole.”

  Albright frowned. There it went, his one chance to gain their trust, to form a truce that was their idea as much as his. Now it was peace or solitary. Whatever agreement was made now would be a condition, not a gift. He let out a long, slow breath, hoping the others didn’t hear.

  Sweeny and Diggs glared at each other, their hatred hanging in the air like fumes.

  “Gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Sweeny said. “You won’t see any interference from the Brotherhood.”

  “Same here. Do yo shit. We’ll chill.”

  “Good. Thank you all. The officers will escort you back, now.”

  “I would like to go to the gym,” Ribisi said.

  “Fine,” Morrow replied. “You come with me, then.”

  One by one, the faction leaders left his office, and Albright watched them go. Morrow led Ribisi out last.

  “Ray?” he called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for fucking that up.”

  “What?”

  He waved the guard away. “Just get out.”

  “I’m helping, Darren.”

  “With your head up Ron’s ass? I told you to go.”

  Ray left without another word, shutting the door on his way.

  Darren sat behind his desk, closed his eyes and prayed. When he was done, he snatched a cigarette out of his drawer and a lighter from his pocket. It was a silver Zippo his father had given him when he had been ordained. He flicked it open and lit his smoke. It made him feel better than the prayer.

  ***

  Morrow tried to push away Albright’s words as he guided Anton Ribisi through some of Burnham’s darker hallways. It always amazed him how the building seemed to repel light sometimes, like it had an allergy or fear of the stuff and wanted to cast it as far away as possible.

  B
eside him, the older man sighed again. He always seemed to do that when he was about to talk.

  “You were a little anxious back there in the chaplain’s office, Morrow. You should really learn to relax.”

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Is that what you think, Ribisi? I’m the one who needs to relax?”

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Is that what you think, Ribisi? I’m the one who needs to relax?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I know the way you work, Anton. I’ve seen it before. You telling me to relax is like the pope telling people to wear sensible hats.”

  The man shrugged. “No one’s perfect, right?”

  “Guess you’re right.”

  “Absolutely. But I’m serious about you relaxing. You really should. It’s bad for the heart, all that stress. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “You showing a real concern for my health, or are you just busting my balls?”

  “You doubt my sincerity? That actually hurts.” The old rubbed two fingers over his heart. “It hurts me right here.”

  “That’s touching. It really is. You should write greeting cards.”

  “Bah! We both know those things are for pussies. There isn’t a real man on God’s green earth who has any use for one.”

  Morrow chuckled. “Sentimental bastard like you around, I feel so sorry for your wife.”

  “She’s a money-grubbing cunt. I always preferred my gumar. Her name’s Lisa. Blonde. Fucks like she’s got a car battery strapped to her ass.”

  “Sounds nice. Too bad you can’t get her in for a conjugal.”

  The Sicilian tossed his hands into the air. “Don’t remind me! She comes for visiting hours now and again, but she can only sneak me handjobs.”