Lights Out (3 page)

“Yeah?” Rocha said, “Well, I heard he ate two kids. Just made a stew out of ‘em and ate ‘em. You can’t tell me that shit’s right. I’m not gonna believe it.”

“That so? I heard he got thrown in for kidnapping his sister’s chickens and trying to knock ‘em up with the second Christ. Truth is, nobody knows why Maggot’s in here, and don’t nobody care. Now why don’t you eat your lunch before you manage to piss me off.” He examined his tray. Same old slop. No wonder his stomach stayed angry at him all the time.

“Sorry.” Rocha stabbed at his chow with a plastic fork.

“And don’t sulk,” Marquez ordered. He’d never told himself the boys were at the extreme end of the spectrum, just close.

Gonzalez picked a carton of orange from his tray and shook it. He leaned in close as he spoke, pushing the stink of tobacco and Pruno past his teeth. “I heard people talkin’ about those murders in solitary last night.”

“No shit,” Marquez said. “Everybody’s talkin’ about ‘em. But if you didn’t hear anything reliable--anything useful--then it don’t add up to a squirt of piss. Hear anything useful?”

Gonzalez shook his head, looked away.

“That’s about what I thought.” He looked up, caught a glimpse of four approaching figures. “Here’s somebody who might have, though.

“Anton Ribisi! As I live and breathe.” He smiled wide, making sure the old man got a peek at the sarcasm behind his salutation.

The old man, somehow professional–-almost dapper--in his prison grays, never switched expressions. Marquez had heard people say Anton Ribisi was born with a poker face, and he believed it. He’d never seen a crack in that armor, not a single hint of anger, sadness, or joy. It was like emotions would just slow the Sicilian down, get in the way. Marquez admired the man’s control. It was a quality worth having if you wanted to run a good business.

“Keep it up, Marquez. You tryin’ to make me laugh or puke?”

“C’mon, Ribisi. Don’t play that way. Have a seat.”

“A seat at your table? You lookin’ for prestige?”

“The honor is all mine.”

“You bet your spic ass, it is.”

The old man nodded to his soldiers, and they flanked him as he sat down across the table. He set his tray down before folding his arms across his chest and taking a slow breath.

“So what is it, Omar? I take it you’re looking for information again.”

“I could be. What makes you think so?”

“Everyone always is.”

Marquez shrugged. He enjoyed these little duels with Ribisi. The two of them weren’t like the young chicos who ran the other factions. They were businessmen, respectable.

Anton sighed. “To tell the truth, I haven’t heard a thing. This is strange, because usually I know every last fucking detail of what goes on in this shithole. Not this time, though.”

“That’s a shame, Anton. A real shame.”

“No shit.”

“Does that make you feel inadequate? Like some puta?”

One of the young gangsters made a move to stand, his face flushing with anger, but Ribisi put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. His eyes never left Omar’s.

“No, you ballsy prick. I feel like I’m about to witness something bad.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Think we might all be in for a world of shit.”

“Do tell.”

“Wish I could. It’s just a feeling, though. Couldn’t explain it if I tried.”

“Because I’m stupid?”

“No, Omar. Because I--”

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Marquez looked up, the same as Ribisi, and found Officer Morrow standing over their table with a second guard. Morrow had a shit-eating smile on his face, some kind of “I’m your pal, so long as you don’t cross me” charm, and Omar felt the itching urge to slap it off. Instead, he repeated the smile he’d used to greet Anton. He was pretty sure Morrow didn’t get it.

“Yes, officer?”

“I need the two of you to come with me. Father Albright wants to talk.”

“What about?” Ribisi asked.

“I’m sure it’s all weather and stock quotes. C’mon. Your boys stay here.”

Marquez nodded, saw Ribisi do the same. They stood together, then left the table like they owned the goddamn place.

Three

Ronald Timms looked up as a set of knuckles rapped quietly against his door. “Come in,” he said, and Heather stuck her head into the room.

“Officer Kling is here with Deon Hall.”

“Fine. Send them in.” A long sigh escaping his lips, he stood.

The door opened again, and Kling guided Hall into the room. Kinnett expected the banger to be all attitude from the get go, trying to shrug from of Kling’s grip even as he sauntered with the casual ease of a real player, a sneer like a challenge on his lips. Instead, the C.O. led in a man who looked like he’d had the fight bled out of him. Hall’s breath rattled in the spacious office.

“Sit,” he told the prisoner. He waved a hand at a chair that stood in front of his desk. At the same time, he walked out from behind the polished piece of mahogany, watched as Hall sat down, looking around through squinted eyes. There wasn’t a lot of light in solitary. The inmate’s movements were quick, anxious. Jumpy.

“There’s no reason to be nervous, Hall.” He kept all but the smallest note of sarcasm out of his voice.

“That shit’s easy for y’all to say.” A little bit of a sneer, but nowhere near enough to be convincing.

“What do you have to be nervous about? Really?” he asked. “We just want to talk. No big deal.”

“Bullshit, man! You know that’s bullshit!”

“Watch your language there, Hall.” Kling, his voice firm.

The con seemed to curl up into himself, his face twisting into a small pout. “Fuck y’all,” he said, and his voice was barely a whisper.

Timms shook his head. “Y’know, Deon, I didn’t have to take you out of solitary for this. I could have come and done this right in the middle of your tiny-ass cell. I’d expect a little more in the way of gratitude.”

“That so, Timms? Well, sorry all to fuck an’ back. How’s that tickle yo balls? Now, can I go
back
to my cell, please?”

“I don’t think so. We’re not done talking yet.”

“Fuck you, then!”

Timms rushed forward, kicking a heel against his desk. It sounded like a shotgun going off in the small office. He jabbed a finger at Hall’s face, and the vicious sneer he twisted his own mouth into made the convict’s eyes bug wide.

“That’s it, Hall! As of this moment, you get to shut the fuck up. You don’t say dick unless I ask for an answer out of you. Any other sound, and my fist goes right down your goddamn throat! Got that?”

Hall’s nod was a tiny motion, like a mouse trapped in a corner.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Ronald said, and his smile was almost instantaneous. “You want some coffee?”

Hall shivered in his chair. After a long moment he managed to say, “Naw.”

“No? You’ve been in solitary for two years, Deon. When was the last time you even had a cup of joe?

“Can’t remember, man. Never really liked the stuff.”

“You can’t remember? Jesus. C’mon! Have a cup. I’m not gonna spit in it or anything, okay? Scout’s honor.” He flashed Hall a grin, one full of sincerity.

“Fine,” Hall said. His voice still sounded frightened, small, but it was regaining some of its strength.

“Great.” Ron crossed his office to where a coffeemaker sat on top of a short filing cabinet, a supply of napkins, sugar, and creamer beside it. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup from inside the cabinet and filled it. “Cream? Sugar?”

Hall shook his head. “Naw, man. Gimme the shit black.”

“Man after my own heart.” He turned to Kling. “Anything for you, Dave?”

The officer smiled, but waved him away.

“Good enough.” He poured himself a cup and returned to the desk, handing Hall his coffee. “Y’know, I have to keep all that creamer and sweetener shit in here because nobody wants coffee to taste like coffee anymore. Whole buncha crap, if you ask me.”

Hall nodded and then took a sip. His lips curled at the bitter taste, but he took a second, larger sip before letting out a sigh.

Timms took a drink of his own, watching the con over the brim. Once he swallowed, he set the cup on the edge of his desk.

“So, Hall. I wanted to ask you a question or two about last night. We know the attack happened sometime between one in the morning and four. I was wondering if you might have heard anything during that time, maybe a struggle or an argument. Anything like that.”

“Yo, Timms. I didn’t hear shit.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely? Nothing at all?”

“I didn’t hear anything, okay? Just like I told you.”

Ronald shared a look with Kling. The guard shook his head, disbelieving.

“Don’t give me that, Deon,” Timms said. “I’ve been in the solitary unit enough times to know that place is far from soundproof. Three men were murdered, their throats ripped out. That doesn’t happen without somebody giving out one hell of a shout at some point.

“Now, truthfully. Are you telling me you didn’t hear anything?”

Anger flashed in Hall’s eyes. “I already told you, I didn’t hear shit! Ease up off my fuckin’ dick!”

Ronald held up his hands. “That’s enough.” He took a sip from his coffee and set it back down, sloshed the brew around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “You’re protecting somebody, maybe? Diggs. You’re in solitary because of him, aren’t you? Protecting his honor from The Brotherhood? Maybe it was his people went in to get Jenkins, took care of Webber and the guard on duty to cover their tracks. Am I getting warm, Deon?”

The con shook his head and looked away.

Ron leaned in close.

“Because I can throw Diggs in solitary with you. I can put him in a nice little concrete hole that he won’t see the outside of for a good fucking while. Is that what you want, Deon? You want your pal Diggs to rot in solitary with you? Say the word, and I can do it. Don’t say shit. I don’t care. I can do it either way.”

“Diggs didn’t have shit to do with what went down last night.”

Timms smiled. “So, you did hear something.”

Hall’s eyes widened for an instant, an awful moment when he realized he’d shown his cards, then his poker face returned.

“Like I said, fuck you.”

Timms decided to take a different route.

“Is it retribution you’re afraid of? Maybe you actually saw who did it. Maybe they wanted you to see it, wanted you to get a message of some kind. If that’s the case, Hall, we can keep you safe. We’ll put you in protective custody; you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

He waited for Hall’s answer, sitting there on the edge of his desk with his arms crossed. A long, silent moment passed, and he kept his eyes locked on the convict.

Slowly, Hall’s shoulders began to bounce up and down. A chuckle escaped his throat, and soon he was laughing outright, his hands on his belly and his mouth open wide.

“What’s so funny?” Ronald asked.

“You, man!”

“Me?”

“Hell yeah, Timms. Who you think?”

Hall’s laughter quieted, and he continued to speak.

“Think about it a second, man. You bring me in here, sit me down, and tell me how three people were killed in solitary last night--fuckin’
solitary
, man--and then you tell me you can keep me safe? C’mon, Timms. How much bullshit you expect a brutha to swallow before he chokes?”

Timms felt his cheeks flush. Anger rose hot and fast within him. He waved Hall away. “Get him out of here.”

Kling grabbed the convict under one arm and ushered him toward the door. The man’s coffee went flying across the carpet.

“You a funny guy, Timms!” Hall called out as he was dragged through the door. “You funny as hell, homeboy! Ought to get yo ass up on stage!”

Ron slammed the door shut on Hall and Kling, then stomped back to his desk. He downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, swallowing the bitter liquid, and then crumpled the cup in one hand and tossed it away.

This was turning out to be one shitty fucking day.

Four

Jefferson Diggs sits in the backseat of the convertible, surrounded by his boys and mellow as all hell. The sticky clings to his lungs, flavors his mouth and throat, numbs his lips. The beer in his hand isn’t as cold as it used to be, but he doesn’t give a fuck. It’ll get him drunk just the same. But right now isn’t the time for getting drunk. Right now, Diggs is a business motherfucker, and his business is retribution.

He reaches between his legs, and his fingers slide over the .45’s grip. Most of his boys like nines, but Diggs likes his piece to make a good
boom!
--to put a man on his ass with the first shot. You don’t need no second bullet when Diggs is cappin’ your ass. One’s gonna do you just fine.

Rollo eases the Caddy to the left, turning the corner. Diggs and the rest crane their heads, eyes peeled as they look for those bitches from Diego Street. They got a solid beef with the DS Raiders, one spelled out in two bodies so far. Diggs don’t think two is gonna even it up, though. He tells his boys he wants motherfuckin’ blood, and they’re more than willing to deliver.

So they drive into DS territory, and they swear they’re gonna kill every last Raider they see. You don’t toy with the Sevens, man. They gonna fuck you up if you do.

Diggs sees to that.

Benjy points to the right, and Diggs turns to see a trio of Raiders hanging on a nearby stoop. Two slingers look out over their hood while the third sits on the steps, some bitch braiding his hair. Diggs smiles when he sees them. Time to up the ante.

“Dumbass niggas too stupid to know we comin’.” he says.

“Maybe they ain’t give a fuck,” Benjy says.

“So what? Don’t mean shit, now.”

He sets his beer in the floorboard and racks the slide on his piece. Beside him, Benjy does the same with the shotgun. In the passenger seat, Hall knocks the safety off his Uzi. He looks back and tosses Diggs a nod. Diggs returns it.

Rollo slows the car.

Benjy rises up out of his seat, leaning past Diggs.

The Raiders look up. Shock registers across their faces, but it isn’t gonna do a whole lotta good.