Into the Fire(86)

He arrived at Cell 24.

He entered.

Two bunk beds at either side, a metal commode with a concave sink dimpling the top of the toilet tank, a window the size of a shoe-box lid with a browning miniature fern on the shaded end of the sill. The reek was stronger in here, a fight-or-flight hormonal dump shoved through pores and sweated into dank bedding. Contributing to the stench, a bulky bearded man around six-four crouched over the commode. His pants and underwear were dropped and pulled free of one shoe so they wouldn’t tangle his ankles if someone tried to jump him. His wristband was coded H for highly dangerous. Evan couldn’t retrieve his name, but he recalled his alias, Casper, earned for his ability to vanish from crime scenes. His magic powers had run out recently.

On the top bunk, skinny legs dangling like a puppet’s, sat a nervous tweaker whose profile Evan hadn’t reviewed. He pegged the guy as a lowest-level offender, probably possession or trespassing. A patchy beard sprouted along the man’s jawline, and his eyes jerked sporadically. He twisted his hands in the rag he wore that used to be a shirt.

“Welcome … um, hi, hi, hello, welcome.” The tweaker tilted his head, reading the name on Evan’s wristband. “Paytsar was my uncle’s name. You got any ramen?”

“No,” Evan said.

“We got a extra bed still, which is a treat, a real treat, since Gonzo is laid up in the medical bay. He got shivved with a pencil, so they put us on lockdown and took all our shit. Hot plates, lighters, matches—everything. And now I can’t make my ramen no more.”

Casper wiped himself once and rose. “Shut the fuck up ’bout your ramen, Monkey Mouth.”

“It’s like cash in here, man,” Monkey Mouth whined. “Better’n cigarettes.” He broke off a dry strip of noodles from the cake in his lap and sucked the end. “It’s my last one, don’t have no more. Got two cigs, but can’t light ’em, can’t smoke ’em. No money on my card. Most of the phones is broke, so you’re gonna wanna spring for cell minutes from one a the big shots.”

The top bunk on the right was unoccupied, a mattress folded in half. Evan entered the tight space and flipped it open. He pulled the sheet neatly over the filthy mattress, hiding his soap and toothbrush beneath and then smoothing out the wrinkles as best he could. Three folds of the threadbare towel took it to pillow thickness. He set it down atop the sheet, perfectly centered.

Casper sidled up to his side, breathed down on him. He dragged a dirty hand across Evan’s sheet, bringing up folds in the fabric.

Evan stared at the mussed sheet but remained impassive, readying to protect his head if a blow came.

“You’re gonna sleep on the floor,” Casper said.

Evan thought back to all those years as a kid sleeping on the floor between bunk beds at Pride House Group Home. He wasn’t going to do it again.

He ignored Casper, straightening the sheet once more. Then he ran his fingers along the metal rails of the top bunk, checking the soldering for a loose bead of metal he might be able to strip off. No luck. He checked the posts as well.

Monkey Mouth rattled on, “Look, Paytsar, fighting’s against the rules. If you have to, though, stick to body blows. Don’t lump up anyone’s head too bad. Plus, there’re sharper bones in the face, right? They’ll get you abrasions on your knuckles, which the screws see and then, fuck. And if they ask you anything, you’d better hold your mud, ’cuz it ain’t good in here for snitches. It ain’t good at all.”

Evan said, “Noted.”

He moved to the window, Casper shadowing him. A single piece of tempered glass cemented in place with no handle or rail. Evan felt for any vulnerable metal around the sill, but it was just a concrete lip holding paint flakes and dust and nothing else. The precast cell was a seamless block cemented in place. No bars, no bolts, nothing usable. He eyed the plant, but it rose from a Styrofoam cup that was useless for repurposing.

He kept part of his focus on Casper, idling in his blind spot, but Casper didn’t make a move.

From the control room, deputies couldn’t see into the cells. There were no cameras in here, but even so, if Evan sent the guy out on a gurney in his first minute, it could compromise his mission objectives.

Survive, kill Bedrosov, escape.

When he turned, Casper blocked his way. “Give me your shoes.”

Evan said, “They won’t fit you.”

“I didn’t ask if they’d fit me.”

“Let’s get this clear right now,” Evan said. “I’m not sleeping on the floor. I’m not giving you my shoes. I understand you’re bigger than I am and that H stamped on your wristband probably serves as a pretty big badge of honor for you in here. But I want you to look at me. Look at me closely. And ask yourself: Do I look scared?”

He stared up into Casper’s bearded face. Unblinking.

Ten seconds passed. And then ten more.

Casper exhaled into Evan’s face, settled his shoulders. He raised a meaty arm, pointed at one of the bottom bunks. “That’s my Cadillac. You fuck with it, you so much as breathe on it, you’ll be dancing on the blacktop. Got it?”

“Got it,” Evan said. “Same goes for my stuff.”

He started out.

“I know your type,” Casper called after him. “You’re a cell warrior. All tough talk in here. We’ll see how you do out on the floor, fish.”