“How’s it going, guys? Busy shift?” Burnside asked.
When he didn’t receive a response, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you Buddhist monks had taken a vow of silence.”
If he expected a retort to his wisecrack, he didn’t get any, which was probably for the best. They brought him back to the main cellblock and led him up the stairs to a new cell on the fourth level. They placed him in a cage that was almost a carbon copy of the previous one except for the occupant and a few items. Instead of a muscular black man, his new cellmate was a scrawny white guy who looked like he couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.
Damn, this guy is lucky I’m not a rapist, Burnside thought.
“How’s it going? I’m Ray Burnside,” Ray said, extending his hand.
“Frank Mauro,” the skinny guy mumbled, standing briefly from the chair in the corner and giving Burnside a limp handshake. He immediately sat back down on the cell’s only chair and immersed himself in a magazine, Road and Track.
The guy had a shaved head, a scraggly goatee, and a tattoo of a Swastika on his skinny left bicep.
So that’s how the fucker has survived so long in here.
“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” Burnside said, trying to initiate conversation.
After not speaking for so long, Ray thought he might even appreciate a conversation with this loser. For a response, his cellmate gave him an incoherent grunt without looking up from his magazine.
“You with the Skins?” Burnside asked, focusing on the Swastika tattoo on his cellmate’s left bicep.
“Yeah, why?” the inmate replied.
“Because I’m looking to join,” Ray said.
“I know who you are,” the guy said, as if this statement explained everything.
“That leaves me at a disadvantage.”
“Yeah, it does,” the inmate said.
Burnside waited patiently for the inmate to say something more. When he didn’t, Ray felt rage building in his brain like a black rampart.
“Then you also know about my reputation for biting off people’s body parts,” Burnside said, grinning as he approached the little man in the corner.
The man’s eyes bulged as he looked up from his magazine for the first time. His already pallid face turned even whiter.
“Look, buddy, I don’t have no problem with you. I just want to do my time,” the skinny guy said.
“I have no problem with that,” Burnside said, stepping closer and flexing his muscles. He assumed a fighting stance and drew back his right shoulder and arm. “All I expect is a little courtesy. I know that prison tends to make us all a little anti-social, but we can still exercise basic civility. Do you think you can answer my question with more than a one-word answer?”
“Sure, pal. What do you want to know?” the guy said, wiping sweat from his pale forehead.
“What’s it like being with the Skins?” Burnside asked, relaxing his muscles slightly, but not stepping back.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s all right,” Frank said, looking hesitantly up at the muscular inmate glowering down at him.
“How long have you been stuck in this shit-hole?” Ray asked.
“Five years.”
“What did you do to get here?”
“I stole some cars,” Frank said.
“And they put you in a max facility for that?” Ray asked.
“They put me in a max because I shanked a guy in medium security. A nigger.”
“That will do it. Did you kill the nigger?” Burnside asked, trying out his new despicable persona for the first time.
“Unfortunately, no,” Frank said.
“That’s too bad,” Ray said, working hard to stifle the disgust he felt for his scumbag cellmate. “He would have had it coming to him.”
“Your goddamned right he did!” Frank said, showing the first real emotion Ray had seen since entering the cell. His eyes widened and he stood dramatically from the chair, waving his magazine. “Nigger thought he could fuck with me. He ain’t laughing so hard now. Stuck a shank in his gut. Fucker barely survived.”
Comparing this guy to my previous roommate is like comparing a worm to a Boa Constrictor.
“It’s too bad you got caught and winded up here,” Burnside said.
“Your goddamned right it is. There are too many niggers here too. But we got a plan for that,” Frank said, grinning for the first time.
It was not a pretty sight. Ray saw a lot of gaps where teeth should have been.
“Oh yeah?” Ray asked.
“Very soon, the bosses of the Bloods will be wiped out and we’ll be the only ones running the show.”
Chapter 19
Evil Incarnate
The Bloods wiped out? How’s that possible?
Burnside was surprised at the turn in the conversation and didn’t have an adequate response ready. If he expected his cellmate to explain in more detail, he was quickly disappointed. After a brief pause, he thought of something to say.
“That’s good. We should kill all the niggers in this joint,” Burnside said, trying out the most despicable response he could think of at a moment’s notice.
“Goddamn right we should,” Frank agreed. “We’ll start with their leaders and go from there. I’m sure you’ll hear more about it when you join up.”
Frank re-buried his face in his magazine as if the conversation had concluded. Burnside wasn’t sure how to reply, so he lied down on the bottom bunk and enjoyed the feeling of having a thin mattress beneath him. After sleeping on a cement floor, it was paradise. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to dream about climbing a mountain, but the images refused to coalesce in his brain. Instead, the horrific image of his scumbag cellmate stabbing a black prisoner filled his mind. He pictured the impaled inmate closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, and clutching at a vicious wound. Blood flowed like a burst dam. Ray let his mind go blank and drift, hoping the images would disappear. He drifted to sleep for several hours until a loud buzzing noise woke him.
Ray opened his eyes and stared at the mattress above him. He was not sure where he was at first. Reality flooded back in a split second.
I was hoping it was all a bad dream.
“What was that noise?” Ray asked.
“It’s time to go to the yard,” Frank said.
That’s fucking beautiful. I can enjoy some fresh air and get this meeting over with at the same time.
Burnside waited patiently by the cell bars while his cellmate remained in the corner, turning the pages of another magazine. When Ray’s turn came, the bars slid aside and he stepped into line. He didn’t pay attention to what his cellmate did, but only followed the line when it began moving.
This is it. They will either go for it or they won’t. If they don’t, at least I won’t have to deal with this place any more.
They traversed the usual maze of dimly lit corridors that led to the yard and exited into the fresh air. Burnside felt good being outside, despite what he had to do. He breathed in deeply and looked up at the bright blue sky. White clouds drifted through it like boats on a stream. It was a gorgeous day, a day for picnics and long walks on the beach. He never would have known it from being inside the windowless prison.
Ray decided not to waste any time. He walked straight toward the workout yard where the Skins hung out, steeling himself for a confrontation. He felt adrenaline kick in as he approached one of the guards standing on the outskirts with his arms folded. He was a tall, muscular bastard with the typical shaved head and plethora of tattoos. Burnside’s muscles tensed for action, but he held himself in check.
“I have a meeting with the boss,” Burnside said to the goon.
“I know who you are. Go ahead,” the Skin said, waving him through.
Burnside sidestepped around the guard and continued through the weightlifting area, passing by an enormous inmate bench pressing. He continued toward the center where a lean, bald inmate sat on a bench in front of a beat-up looking universal we
ight machine. Three guards surrounded him. The wiry inmate stood as Ray approached and folded his arms across his chest. Burnside was surprised that the actual leader of the gang appeared to be smaller and less imposing than the others. He estimated that he stood about 5’8” and couldn’t have weighed any more than one hundred seventy pounds.
“That’s far enough,” the Skins leader said to Burnside as he approached. “Put your hands in the air.”
Ray complied and was searched thoroughly from top to bottom by two of the guards. When they didn’t find anything, they stepped back and walked away, leaving him alone with the boss and one guard. The remaining guard was thicker and taller than the boss, but he did not possess the same air of authority. The shorter inmate’s blue eyes gleamed with intensity as he glared at Burnside.
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble,” he said.
“I think maybe we had a slight misunderstanding before,” Ray said, trying to act casual as he squared off his stance.
“You’re a funny bastard,” the leader said without breaking a smile. “When you first got here, we thought you were just another pretty boy ready to get punked. It turns out you can handle yourself and you’re a true believer,” the Skin’s boss said, lowering his arms and placing his hands on his hips. He continued to scan Burnside up and down. “You don’t look like much, but looks can be deceiving. I rose up from the ranks the hard way and I didn’t do it with my size, as you can plainly see,” the Skins leader said, pausing for a reaction.
“There’s a lot more to a man than his physical build,” Burnside said.
“Well said,” the boss said. “I’m Derek Price and I’ll shake your hand after you’ve proved yourself, but for now, you’re not worthy. I have a job that requires your particular talents, but first you have to show me you’re loyal. Maybe that cafeteria thing was just a fluke. If you pass the test, you’re in and I’ll give you a real assignment. How’s that sound?”
“I’d rather be working with you guys than against you, seeing as we share the same philosophy,” Burnside said.
Price’s fierce blue eyes narrowed as he studied Burnside’s face as if he could bore into his mind with the intensity of his glare.
“I hope for your sake that you’re legit, because if you’re not, that little scene in the shower was nothing compared to what will happen to you. If you cross us, you’ll die by slow torture,” Price spoke matter-of-factly, as if he was discussing baseball statistics or the stock market.
The fact that he was speaking as if having a normal conversation made Burnside’s skin crawl.
“The fellow standing to my right is Jake, my lieutenant,” Price said, flicking his forehead toward the taller man standing beside him. “He’ll tell you what the test is. Don’t fuck it up. Right now, I have some other business,” Price said, turning abruptly and walking away as if Burnside didn’t exist any more.
The lieutenant, Jake, stepped closer to Ray and whispered in his ear, “I’ll make this simple for you. Put a nigger in the infirmary right here, right now. Find a nigger in the yard, any nigger, and fuck that piece of shit up. You do that, you’re in. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Burnside said, staring straight ahead and keeping his expression impassive.
“Just make sure you don’t kill the bastard. That will get you permanent solitary and you’ll be no good to us,” the lieutenant added.
“So it doesn’t matter who? Just anybody in the yard? “Burnside asked.
“You ask too many questions. A nigger. Any nigger. Most of them are with the Bloods, but it don’t matter. You do it, you’re in. You don’t, you’re on our hit list. One of our screws will be in contact with you if you pass the test. Now get the fuck out of my sight,” Jake said, sneering at him.
“Okay,” Burnside said, turning carefully so he still had Jake in his peripheral vision and walking away.
Ray moved toward the side of the weightlifting area that had the least amount of Skins occupying it. He passed by a Skin doing bicep curls and reached the edge.
Fucking psychos.
The last thing Ray wanted to do was to get into another fight and be thrown into solitary again. But that was what he had to do if he wanted to gain the trust of these psychopaths. He let all the rage he felt toward the Skins accumulate in his brain and swirl around in his head like a gathering wind. He imagined he was taking the fight to the Skins as he focused on the group of stragglers in the center of the yard. He scanned the crowd of inmates like a predator, searching for one with dark skin. When he found one, he moved toward him like a shark. The target was an older, balding guy with a slightly overhanging gut. Not much of a challenge, but it had to be done. The inmate was talking and smoking with another older white inmate. Burnside imagined the black inmate was the Skins leader, Price, as he closed on him.
Burnside approached his victim without saying a word had to use all his energy to psych himself up for the dirty job. The black man looked at him, quizzically, as he approached.
“Can I help you, buddy?” he asked, lowering a cigarette from his lips.
The cigarette flew from his hands as Burnside punched him in the gut. The black inmate doubled over.
“Hey, what the fuck!” the victim’s companion shouted as he placed his body between Burnside and the injured party.
“Get out of the way, old man. This is none of your concern,” Burnside said, clenching his fists.
“Bullshit, mother-fucker,” the white inmate said as he took an awkward swing.
Burnside easily blocked the attempt and shoved the inmate backwards. He tripped over the body of his fallen buddy. Ray hauled the black inmate to his feet and punched him in the jaw. He made it look good, but pulled back slightly to soften the blow. He pushed the inmate down on the ground and kicked him. The kick was also pulled back, but he thought it looked convincing enough. The inmate grunted with pain, but never screamed.
The white inmate got back on his feet and moved toward Burnside. The inmate took another swing, Burnside blocked it, and shoved him back. Ray hauled his victim to his feet again and smashed him in the right eye with a closed fist. Again, he pulled back and hit him just hard enough to leave a nasty bruise. Ray punched the inmate again in the cheek, hard enough to leave a mark, and shoved him back on the ground.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out and Ray felt a painful impact between his shoulder blades, as if smashed from behind by a heavyweight boxer. The breath was knocked out of him and he hurtled forward. He tripped over his victim and went down on his chest, fighting for breath. The fierce impact felt like it had hammered into his lungs harder than his back. Burnside guessed it was a rubber riot bullet. One of the tower guards must have seen his handiwork and intervened. He remained on the ground and didn’t move a muscle.
At least I won’t have to beat on that guy anymore.
Burnside remained in a prone position, trying to breathe normally. There was a lot of shouting and pandemonium in the yard, but Ray didn’t move a muscle in case the guard in the tower was still trigger-happy. He had an imperfect view of what was going on because he was lying on his cheek. Not that there was a lot to see. Just a lot of inmates gawking and some running away. Ray figured the guy he beat up wouldn’t go for any payback, considering the guard in the tower.
Ray felt like he had been lying on the ground for hours when he was finally lifted by paramedics and placed on his stomach on a stretcher. The pain in the center of his back radiated out to the rest of his body and he wasn’t sure if he could even move if he wanted to. He felt like he had been paralyzed.
This just keeps getting better. What’s next?
Burnside tried not to worry about having a permanent injury as they carried him across the yard on the stretcher.
That’s the last thing I need.
Chapter 20
The Messenger
The paramedics brought Ray to the infirmary without incident. He was still on his stomach, so he didn’t have a good view as a man in a white coat attached a blood
pressure cuff to his right arm. He tried to move, but realized his left arm and both legs were strapped down. The pressure cuff tightened on his bicep and he heard hissing as the pressure released. His back was wracked with pain as if he had been struck between the shoulder blades by a battering ram.
“What’s the verdict, doc? Am I still alive?” Ray asked.
“Your pressure is a little high, but that’s normal after getting shot,” the prison doctor, a short, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, said.
“We’ll put an icepack on your back, but you’re going to feel some pain for several days and have a nasty black-and-blue mark. The bruise will eventually heal,” the doctor said.
“Then why do I feel like I’m partially paralyzed?”
“That effect will wear off, but you’ll be feeling pain for a while.”
“Damn, doc, tell me something I don’t already know.”
“He checks out fine, medically speaking,” the doctor said, ignoring Burnside’s comment and turning toward a pair of guards standing to the right of the bed. “He’s all yours after I strap an icepack on him.”
“We sure as hell don’t want him,” one of the guards quipped. “But we have to take the son-of-a-bitch anyway.”
“Like I said, gentlemen, in a moment he will be all yours,” the doctor said, grinning at the guards as he walked away.
The doctor returned with a thick rectangular icepack wrapped in a wide bandage. Burnside gritted his teeth as the doctor placed the icepack between his shoulder blades. There was a moment of intense pain and then a seeping numbness crept into the bruise. The doctor taped down the bandage and left.
Ray saw two guards approaching. One of them resembled a Mr. Universe Contender. His oversized muscles looked like they were about to burst out of his blue-and-white corrections uniform. The huge guard held down Burnside’s left arm in an iron grip while a normal-sized guard opened the leather wrist restraint. Ray didn’t bother trying to move because it felt like his forearm was caught in a hand-shaped vise.
Mr. Universe remained in place, holding his arm down, while another other guard approached the hospital bed and unlocked the restraint on his other wrist. Another guard grabbed his right arm, but Ray figured he could easily break the grip. The only problem was he wouldn’t make it very far with his other arm being held in a steel vise.
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