The Second Life of Nick Mason (Nick Mason #1)(22)

Cole had been reading everything he could find about Japan lately, a place that appealed to him somehow, even if it was ten thousand miles away. Maybe that was the reason right there, the fact that it was on the other side of the world, different from this prison in southern Indiana in every way you could imagine. A place where honor meant everything, where a man would rather drive a knife into his own gut than bring shame on himself.

But Cole was just about done with the books on Japan. Mason figured he’d hear about samurai and bushido for a few more days and that would be the end of it.

He was coming up on one year in SHU by then. His cell mate was one of the two big bodyguards who had originally brought him over for his first visit. Mixed-race roomies were something you didn’t see anywhere else in the prison. In this block, it was commonplace. Just one more thing to learn about Cole, because Cole was unquestionably the boss of this unit. And that was why this was probably the most color-blind unit of any federal penitentiary in the country.

Mason would usually have lunch at Cole’s table. Afterward, Cole would receive his visitors. He would mediate disputes. He would administer justice. There would be fines levied. Or restitution paid between one inmate and another. Sometimes justice would get a little more physical. Not right there in Cole’s cell, of course. It would happen later, out in the yard or while waiting in line. It would be quick and severe and there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind who sanctioned it.

Everyone called him Mr. Cole. Even the guards.

Mason kept waiting for the hook. He knew there had to be something asked of him in return for this new living arrangement. For all of this deferential treatment. Just listening to the man talk about books every day couldn’t be enough. It would be Mason’s turn to administer the justice, to find the man out on the yard. He’d grown up on the streets of Canaryville, so he knew how to fight. But Cole never asked him to do anything else. I never had a father, Mason said to himself more than once. Maybe this is what it feels like.

A few days after that walk in the yard, Mason was sitting in his cell. It was a tough day for him, tough in a way he didn’t want to admit. Just the fact that it was this date on the calendar. Cole came in and stood over him. He had that way of walking right up to a man—any man in the block—just standing in the man’s space, maybe putting an arm on his shoulder. Something only he could do.

“You’re thinking about her,” Cole said.

Mason looked up at him.

“Your daughter’s birthday.”

Mason didn’t even bother asking him how he knew that. He didn’t bother reminding Cole about his rule, either, that he didn’t talk about his family here.

“Some days are harder in here,” Cole said. “Can’t help that.”

Then Cole did something he’d never done before. He sat down on Mason’s bed, a foot away from him. Mason saw the long scar on the back of Cole’s right hand. He already knew the story behind it. Cole had gone to see a girl when he was seventeen years old, but she lived in the wrong neighborhood. He was two blocks past a line he shouldn’t have crossed when two white men put a knife into the back of that hand. To this day, the jagged scar would be on his mind whenever he shook a man’s hand for the first time.

“I saw you talking to Shelley the other day,” Cole said. “Not thinking of getting ink, are you?”

Shelley was the man with the illegal tattoo gun. He’d made it with the motor from a CD player, an empty pen barrel, and a needle made by stretching out the spring from a stapler. He used burnt shoe polish for the ink. There’s probably one such man in every unit in every prison in America.

“No,” Mason said.

“Today’s the kinda day you might do that,” Cole said. “Get your daughter’s name on your arm or something.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“That’s all you need when you get outta here,” Cole said. “Cheap prison ink all under your skin, turning green. Might as well write CONVICT on your forehead.”

“If you hate tattoos so much, how come you let Shelley stay in business? One word from you and he’d be shut down.”

“He can ink anybody else he wants,” Cole said. “Just not you.”

Mason stood up. He didn’t mind listening to Cole most days. But today was not most days.

“No disrespect,” Mason said, “I’m taking a walk.”

“Sit down, Nick. You wanna be alone, I get that. But you should be talking to me about something else.”

“Like what?”

“You’re ready to hear this,” Cole said. “Sit the hell back down.”

Mason let out a breath and sat down on the bed.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Cole said. “If you could walk out of here right now, go see your daughter, what would you say to her?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I’m saying if you could, Nick. How old is she?”

“She’s nine.”

“Nine years old,” Cole said. “She hasn’t seen you since—what?— four years old.”

“That’s right.”

“You think she remember you?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Other day,” Cole said, “you remember, we was talking about bushido?”