around here is yo’ pussy.”
“That’s what the last guy said who was sittin’ in that chair.”
His face hardens. “What the fuck did you say?”
“He was a big fella, too, just like you. In fact, I think that’s his gun you’re holdin’. I know ’cause I used it to shoot your two friends over there.” My eyes cut to the red stain on the cement next to him.
His jaw snaps shut, and his eyes narrow in hatred. “You tellin’ me you killed Skeeter and Lawn Boy?” His voice sounds like a dangerous combination of rage and grief, so I soften my tone.
“Only ’cause they fired first. Like I said, I don’t wanna hurt anybody. But you got what I need in there, and I ain’t leavin’ without it.”
The tattooed testosterone machine’s nostrils flare as he considers my proposition. Then, he stands up and swings the Uzi toward me, biceps flexing as he squeezes the handle in anger. I close my eyes and hold my breath, but the br-r-r-r-r-ap never comes.
“Two hundred,” he finally says with a frustrated growl. “For Skeeter and Lawn Boy.”
I nod solemnly. “Two hundred.”
When the behemoth turns and passes through the sliding tarp door, I exhale in relief and dig a wad of cash out of my back pocket with a shaking hand. It’s everything I had hidden in my sock drawer. Figured I’d better keep it on me now that my house has been overrun by Renshaws.
With knocking knees, I walk over to the blue Toyota and tuck all my twenties under the passenger windshield wiper. Then, I retreat to the F-150 a few parking spaces away.
Visions of an ambush flood my mind while I wait. I picture the guard running out with five, ten, fifteen thugs on his heels, all of them blasting the parking lot with semiautomatic weapons until the dumb girl in the baggy hoodie is just another red stain on the cement.
Maybe that’s the real reason I came here.
Maybe I want them to kill me.
But they don’t. What feels like hours later, the tarp door slides open again, revealing guard number two holding four plastic grocery bags and looking none too pleased about it.
He makes murderous eye contact with me as he lumbers toward the blue sedan. Then, he drops the bags on the hood and snatches the cash out from under the wiper blade. Counting it twice, the leathery redneck spits on the ground in my direction. Then, he turns and walks back to his station.
I wait until he’s back in his lawn chair and as far away from me as he’s going to get before I approach the car. He watches me walk with a predatory stare but doesn’t make a move as I inspect the bags. It’s all here—the vitamins, the soup, the fruits and veggies. This time, I can’t keep my tears at bay as an overwhelming mixture of pride and disbelief swells in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking as I give the ogre a small, sincere smile.
“Fuck you,” he replies, dropping his eyes back down to the phone in his lap.
Wes
Three hundred fifty-four.
No matter how many times I count the gray cinder blocks lining my six-by-six cell, it always comes out to three hundred and fifty-fucking-four.
It’s so small I can’t even lie down on the cot without bending my knees, which is exactly what I’m doing as I stare at the ceiling with my pillow pressed against my ears, trying to block out the sobs of the guy in the holding cell next to me.
Sad bastard kept me up all night. I’d felt bad for him at first, but now, I wish somebody would come put him out of his misery. I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take.
His guttural wails finally die down—thank God—but before I can roll over and try to get some shut-eye, the fucker decides he wants to chat.
“Hey, neighbor? You doing okay?” He sniffles, blowing his nose on God knows what.
Ugh. Do we really have to do this?
“Yep,” I deadpan.
“I’m sorryyyyy.” His voice breaks on the last syllable, and the tears start up again. “I’m trying to be quiet … I really am.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“It’s cool,” I mutter without an ounce of sincerity. I’m not exactly long on compassion right about now.
“I’m Doug.” He sniffle-snorts like a rusty trumpet.
“Wes.”
“Hi, Wes. What are you in for?”
Oh my God.
I roll my eyes. This guy sounds like a pocket-protector-wearing Trekkie with a comb-over and a degree in Norse mythology.