Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(79)

Inside, Margo stood behind the bar, restocking the reach-in coolers. Old Charlie, alert at his post, stared down his first beer and shot of the day, communing with whatever voices that wouldn’t let him be. Margo did a double take when she saw Lea. Old Charlie gave her the once-over, saw nothing that interested him, and went back to the matter at hand.

“Didn’t know it was Cinderella day,” Margo said.

“Hi, Margo.”

“Look at you, you really are a Gilmore Girl.”

“You know, I’ve never actually seen that show.”

“Oh, it’s really good; you’d hate it. So what’s with the hair? Since when were you a blonde?”

“It’s actually my natural color.”

“I don’t like it. People will be confusing us now.”

“Take more than hair to confuse y’all, you evil harpy,” Old Charlie muttered and threw back the shot.

“Did you bust up with your partners?”

“Have you seen them?”

“No, but one of them came and got the van last night.”

Lea smiled. Gibson . . . pain in the ass didn’t know how to quit. Well, she hoped he found what he was looking for. She put the apartment key on the bar top. Margo looked at it and came out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a bar rag.

“Is it in good shape? I’ll take it out of your security deposit if it isn’t.” Margo’s voice was thick with feeling.

“Better than when you rented it to me.” Lea handed Margo two envelopes, one for her and one marked “Parker.” “I’m sorry it isn’t more. Things haven’t gone the way I’d hoped.”

“It’ll do.” Margo tossed the envelopes onto the bar. “You sure about this, Gilmore? You know you could just let whatever this is go.”

Lea’s felt her own throat tighten, and her eyes felt heavy and wet. She remembered why she’d stopped wearing makeup in the first place. There wasn’t time to redo it now so she couldn’t afford tears, but then Margo drew her into a fierce hug, and Lea knew it was a lost cause.

“Let it go,” Margo repeated.

Lea choked back a sob, shook her head.

“All right, then,” Margo said, conceding defeat. She let go of Lea and took a step back.

“I need a damn drink after all that,” growled Old Charlie.

Lea agreed entirely.




Merrick lay in his bunk and thought about the future soon to come. He rubbed his coarse blanket between his fingers and dreamed of four-hundred-thread-count sheets. Of course, they made sheets with thread counts in the thousands, but that was just a marketing gimmick for rubes who thought more meant better; counts of more than four hundred meant using thinner, weaker thread to fit it on the loom.

He would sleep well tonight.

When the lights finally came on, Merrick waited by his bunk while the guards took the morning count. He expected one of them to pull him aside, but the guards passed by without a glance and blew the whistle that signaled inmates were free to move around. He asked a large white guard with more tattoos than most of the inmates if there was somewhere he should go.

“Out my sight would be a good start, inmate.” The guard refused to make eye contact. “Don’t know nothing about no release.”

Perplexed, Merrick got in line for the showers and then headed to chow as if it were any other morning. He accepted his daily dose of breakfast and took his tray to an empty table, where he picked at it moodily. The table soon filled up around him with inmates talking among themselves. No one spoke to him or even acknowledged his presence. He’d never exactly endeared himself to his fellow inmates, and they were happy to see the back of him. There would be no congratulations or fond farewells.

A tall black guard came into the cafeteria and scanned the room for someone. Merrick made himself tall in his seat and looked his way.

“Merrick! What are you doing just sitting there?”

The room fell silent, then the guard continued before Merrick could answer.

“Get your ass moving, or did you go and fall in love? I can come back in another year, you need more time.”

That elicited much merriment from the assembled congregation, and Merrick heard wolf tickets being thrown his way. That he was soft. That he was a punk. That he was a stuck-up bitch. Maybe I am, he thought, but this stuck-up bitch is going and you’re staying. He hustled over to the guard and apologized profusely. The guards were ontologically incapable of mistakes, so it was always safer to act sorry. Merrick followed him back to the dormitory.

“Collect your shit,” the guard said and stood aside while Merrick gathered his possessions, such as they were, in a plastic tub. The guard was still angry about earlier and muttered under his breath. “Making me look for you like it’s my job.”

Shit collected, the guard escorted Merrick to a holding cell and cuffed him to a bench alongside two other inmates, each with tubs filled with their possessions: priceless artifacts on the inside, worthless junk in the real world. His compatriots passed the time engaged in the time-tested ritual of good-natured one-upmanship, trading stories about where they were headed, first meals, first drinks, the parties, and all the fine, fine ladies they had lined up. They tried to include Merrick, but he ignored them. He’d spent eight years humoring idiots like these two, but those days were behind him.