Into the Fire(84)

Pretending to cough, Evan brought his fist to his mouth. Slipped the film inside. Swallowed.

Only a momentary relief. If he wanted to leave no trace behind, he’d lost the use of his pinkie finger for the duration.

He wasn’t sure what the optimal conditions were to enter jail but he imagined that they didn’t involve a concussion and a nonoperational finger.

The deputy swiveled back to the computer, logging the few items into the property-management system. He shoved a clipboard at Evan. “Review that this is all your stuff and sign.”

Evan unclipped the two-page form and took his time reading it, scrutinizing each line of text, rubbing his eyes as if hungover. He flipped back to the first page again. Then back. The whole time he was careful to hold out his pinkie like a Jane Austen heroine.

“It ain’t signing away your firstborn, high roller,” the deputy finally said. “It’s less than three bucks.”

Evan slotted the pages back into the clipboard and signed Paytsar’s name. Lowering his hand to his side, he returned the clipboard.

The deputy snapped his fingers. “Nice try.”

“Oh,” Evan said, “sorry.”

He gave back the pen.

But kept the staple that he’d managed to pry free from the form. He straightened it with his thumbnail and squeezed it lengthwise between his ring and index fingers.

Another deputy had appeared behind him, tapping him on the side of the neck with the butt of a hefty Maglite. “The jail sergeant signed off for you to come with me, sweet cheeks. You’ve got a history of drug use. Which means it’s time for your cavity search.”

Evan grimaced.

“I leave that to Horace,” the beefy deputy said. “He’s got a stronger stomach than me.”

Horace led Evan to a box of a room with a concrete bench. He held the flashlight like a baton, fist curled around the thick metal base. Evan’s neck still throbbed from the love tap.

“Strip,” Horace said.

Evan undressed, keeping his back turned as if in shyness. When he removed his sock, he shoved the staple through the tough, callused skin of his heel just beneath the surface.

“Turn around,” Horace said.

As Evan rose, a blue fishnet bag hit him in the chest.

“Put your shit in here.”

Evan obliged.

Horace clicked on the Maglite and adjusted his grip, clenching it up near the lens. At the slightest provocation, he could snap his hand forward and bring the metal shaft to bear. “Open your mouth. Tongue up. To the side. Other side.”

Evan obeyed.

“Now turn around. Bend over. Spread.”

After a moment Evan heard the light click off behind him.

“If you’re lucky,” Horace said, “you won’t have to do that again. Now get dressed.”

A perfect square of folded jailhouse clothes rested on the concrete bench. White boxers made from a papery fabric. An undershirt flimsy enough that the color of his skin showed through. Gray cotton socks. Vans-style slip-ons with thin soles, clearly manufactured by the lowest bidder. Dark blue uppers and lowers, loose-fitting because jail took all shapes and sizes. The shirt had a pocket at the left breast.

Evan followed Horace out of the concrete box to the next station, where Horace handed him off to yet another deputy. “This here’s Willy. Please let him know anything he can do to make your stay more pleasant. Hypoallergenic bedding, mint on the pillow at turn-down service, maybe a yoga mat in case you need to do some light strength work.”

As Horace grinned and faded away, Willy shot out an exhale, bristling a broomlike mustache fringed brown with coffee stains. He didn’t wear a weapon, but a holstered Taser was one snap away. “I gotta classify you. Figure out who gets housed in which pod. We keep certain criminal elements together. So. State your affiliation.”

Evan said, “I ain’t no gang member.”

“Fine. I’ll just put you in with the Norte?os. That should work out swell. Consider your cavity search a warm-up stretch.”

Evan fiddled with his hands. “Armenian Power,” he said.

“Shocking. Hovsepian.” Willy checked the monitor. “You got no priors with them, but I see your booking photo here. Nice look. I’m sure the judge’ll dig it at your arraignment.”

“Yeah,” Evan said. “I heard that one already.”

Willy gave him a droopy glare. “Arraignment ain’t till Monday. Sucks, that. Two nights in the can. You heard that one, too?”

Evan looked away.

“Gimme your left wrist,” Willy said. Evan complied, and the deputy fastened a bar-coded wristband on him, clasping it with plastic rivets. “You’ll be in 121 B-Pod with the other Armos. That’s here in Twin Towers, so consider yourself lucky. Old-school MCJ is bursting at the seams with prisoners trucked in from the overcrowded prisons—six, eight to a cell. We can thank the state budget, which seems to spring new leaks every quarter.”

Twin Towers had less brutal arrangements for the prisoners than Men’s Central, but its precast cells, bolted steel furniture, and pod structure were also expressly designed to eliminate any access to tools, implements, or loose items. Every last object in Twin Towers was locked down and kept track of.

“It ain’t exactly roomy here, but— Hey.” Willy snapped his fingers to get Evan’s attention. “I’m trying to help you out, punk-ass. I don’t care how many signs you throw, your drunk-in-public’s not gonna strike fear into the hearts of the motherfuckers on the other side of that wall.” He palmed his mouth, tugging his mustache down. “Ah, fuck it. Why do I bother? Get up.”