Noble Warrior (16 page)

Liked them a lot.

M.D. knew how Thrill Billy wanted to fight even before they traded their first strikes. He'd come out of the chute like a tornado, a bull rushing forward looking to storm his opponent. No
fear. No hesitation. A cyclone of violence and rage.

Sure, M.D. could choose to stand and bang with him. Or he could hop on his bicycle and dance, peppering him with shots from the outside till a bigger opening to land a significant blow appeared.
But the most strategic way to beat this opponent, M.D. knew, would be to get in his head. To frustrate him. To use Thrill Billy's own energy and aggression against him.

It was a classic judo mentality, and the more McCutcheon considered it, the more confident he felt it would work.

Clinch him up, lock him in tight guards, boil his blood and get him agitated. Once Thrill Billy began feeling constricted and tense in McCutcheon's confining holds, M.D. knew his
opponent's anger would grow.

And with anger he'd lure Thrill Billy into a mistake. Set a trap. Snare his prey.

McCutcheon would use patience to battle his opponent's impatience. Use his mind to battle his enemy's brawn.

McCutcheon knew his battle plan. Fighting strength and aggression with strength and aggression is what Thrill Billy wanted. Clearly, power was his strong suit. But did he have the temperament to
roll around on the ground for seven or nine minutes with his arms tied in knots and his legs wrapped in a tangle of locks, without the ability to strike, kick, or punch? How would he feel snarled
on the ground, unable get more than three inches of separation between his hulking upper body and M.D.'s chest?

Thrill Billy wanted a striking war, so M.D. would take him to the ground and like a snake, slowly and patiently tighten his coil, until aggravation clouded his opponent's better judgment
and he made a mistake. Once he did, M.D. would take advantage and finish the fight.

Perhaps an Achilles lock? Maybe an arm bar? Even something as simple as the snaring of the wrist that would lead to McCutcheon putting unbearable amounts of pressure on his foe's tiniest
joints. No, it wouldn't be a sexy win with a big knockout punch and lots of blood, but M.D. owned no ego when it came to how he triumphed. What mattered most was victory—it was the only
thing that mattered—and as McCutcheon watched Thrill Billy jump up and down like a hyper-caffeinated teenager who'd just swallowed a quadruple espresso, he knew his opponent had already
lost the fight long before they'd even begun their dance.

He'd meet the storm with calm. The fury with serenity. Inevitably, cool waters always prevailed over hot seas.

“All right, my li'l darlings,” Krewls called out with a gleam in his eye. M.D. prepared for war the way he always did, with a final slow, deep and patient breath. Amateurs
tensed up before battle; professionals knew the value of staying relaxed and fluid. “Time to put your big-boy pants on, fellas, 'cause once again it's...”

“I know this is not what it looks like!”

All eyes spun toward the open end of the corridor. Walking up the hall, his black boots clicking with each step forward, came Major F. Franklin Mends, a newly minted major who'd recently
transferred to the D.T. with the very clear goal of cleaning the place up.

Everyone knew the rumors. Everyone knew the gossip. F. Franklin Mends owned a master's degree in public policy and a second master's degree in criminal justice. He came to Jentles
with a purpose. An idealist. As a man who believed in the power of reform.

An officer ready to put his money where his mouth was, too.

As many of his superiors knew, Mends could have pursued his agenda from the comfort of an air-conditioned office in the state capital of Lansing, but instead he chose to walk a beat.

“But why?” his wife asked when he informed her that he'd decided to take a position at Jentles.

“Because all reform must be started by people who have experience where the rubber meets the road.”

“But we have kids, honey. Twin three-year-olds.”

“It's not as dangerous as the media makes it seem.”

“No, it's more.”

“Jamie,” he said taking his wife by the hand. “These are people I am trying to help. Human beings that are being treated like animals. I can do some good.”

“Do your good at home, Franklin. I'm begging you.”

Despite his wife's pleas, Mends took the position. She thought about leaving him over it. She knew he'd make no friends and be at constant risk every time he crossed through the
front gates of the prison. F. Franklin Mends wasn't merely seeking to change a penitentiary; he sought to change a culture. His ambitions seemed too high, too risky, too fraught with danger.
Jamie didn't have the stomach for it.

Franklin did.

“It'll be okay,” he told her. “I promise.”

She did not believe him.

“You're on the wrong block there, Major,” Krewls said in an authoritative tone. “I know you're new here, but this area, my team, we already have it
covered.”

“Do not make me respond to this in an official capacity,” Mends warned. “Times are changing, but I'll do the right thing tonight and give you a chance.” Mends
looked at the guards from Moorly. One report and multiple officers from multiple institutions would fry.

The Moorly guys held their tongues and looked to Krewls to make the next move. He was supposed to have his end entirely handled, and he didn't. Far as they were concerned, this was
Krewls's mess and he needed to deal with it.

“Our friends have come a long way.” Krewls peeled off five one hundred dollar bills, crossed the room, and stuffed them into Mends's pocket. Handling matters might cost a bit
more than Krewls anticipated, but he figured he'd make it up on the back end by riding his new pony M.D. a little harder later on down the line. “Your shift, I believe, it's on
Cell Block D. Right, Major?”

Mends removed the cash from his pocket and tossed the bills in the air. Everyone watched as the money fluttered like rectangular green birds crisscrossing their way down to the floor.

“FSSSSSSSHHHH!”
came a sinister hiss. Mends spun around, and the face of a dwarf with a triangular nose and glowing eyes popped his head through the iron bars.

“You're in over your head, Major Mends.”

“You're in up to your neck, Major Krewls. All of you are.”

The two men glared at one another. A standoff. Krewls's eyes told Mends he needed to wander back up the hallway he'd just walked down, and go disappear behind some paperwork.
Mends's eyes said that he'd snitch on every last one of his crooked comrades if this nonsense did not stop right away. Goblin and Pharmy began banging on the bars of their cell and
howling like monkeys in a zoo. The Moorly officers, knowing their place, remained silent. Both Thrill Billy and M.D., still shirtless in the center of the room, remained where they were, neither
knowing what to do next.

“I guess our brothers drove a long way for nothing,” Krewls finally said.

“Not really,” Mends answered. “They drove a long way to learn that they ought never drive this way again.”

The seven men from Moorly glared. If a prisoner would have set Mends on fire just then, not a one would have spit on the man to extinguish the flames.

“You,” one of the Moorly staffers called to Thrill Billy. “Let's go.”

Two minutes later the door slammed behind them, seven hours' worth of driving all for nothing. Mends, after picking up the neatly folded prison shirt sitting on the floor, tossed it to
McCutcheon.

“I'll escort this gentleman back to his quarters,” Franklin said. “You men can relax and finish your shift in peace.”

Mends grabbed M.D.'s arm by the bicep and led him down the hall. Not in a domineering way, though, more like a caring son might lead an aging father by the arm with a strong but
compassionate grip. Thoughts of reversing the hold and locking Mends into a Kimura never even crossed McCutcheon's mind.

“Don't worry, son, you won't have to do this again.” Mends opened the door to M.D.'s cell. “You're not an animal. You're a human being entitled to
fairness and dignity. The system needs to remember that. Going forward, we're gonna try.” M.D. stepped inside his six foot by eight foot space and the door locked behind him.

“Get some sleep,” Mends said. “I'm sorry it's gone so far.”

Major Mends walked away, his black boots echoing softly through the prison with each receding step. M.D. turned around and saw Fixer staring at him. The old man inspected McCutcheon top to
bottom, checked his face for injuries, his fists for signs of impact, his body for any markings of battle at all.

“Hmmm,” Fixer said. “An interruption, I presume?”

M.D. didn't answer.

“The new guy, Mends?”

McCutcheon hopped into his bunk.

“A guy who thinks he is going to change the system is admirable,” Fixer said. “But what guys like this usually find is that it's the system that changes them.”

H
ostility and tension permeated the atmosphere of the prison like dampness does the air just before a rainstorm. At every turn the potential for
violence existed. Inmate versus inmate. Guard versus inmate. Inmate versus guard. And now even guard versus guard. In a facility used to being on edge, a new edge existed, and each man in the
penitentiary felt the tension of an invisible, threatening vibe.

Secrets didn't exist in lockup. Word had spread about McCutcheon, Mends, Thrill Billy, the guards from Moorly, and Krewls, and by lunchtime the only thing that remained unknown was how the
conflict would be resolved. Disputes between gangs got settled on the yard or in the showers. But battles between guards? Would it be a war of paperwork or something more? No one knew.

Yet everyone felt this was just the beginning, not an end. Krewls had ruled too long and too viciously to simply walk quietly away.

Over the next twenty-four hours McCutcheon felt an eerie calm following him as he made his way through the D.T. He took breakfast and lunch in his cell with Fixer, read about forty pages of a
book the old man owned about a woman who quit her life to travel to Italy in order to eat, drink, and find the meaning of life, did an hour in the yard for rec with some stretching and a light
workout, and then went back to his cell where he passed the time with a nap as well as intermittent visions of upcoming dream dates with Kaitlyn.

The entire day passed without incident. At each turn M.D. felt the gaze of many others following him, but obviously someone with significant influence circulated the word to leave McCutcheon
alone.

Clearly, the request was being honored, too. Not a soul in the facility batted an aggressive eye in M.D.'s direction. He felt almost invisible.

“I didn't invent the prison campfire,” Fixer said as he barbequed a few links of summer sausage on the thin silver poles of an old radio antenna. “But I definitely
perfected it.”

“It's delicious,” M.D. said taking another bite.

“Making us some dessert, too.” Fixer began pulling a few different packages down from his shelf. “I swear, if it wasn't for whippin' up food, I'd have gone
nuts years ago.”

Fixer rummaged through his supplies. “Commissary privileges what done saved me. I ain't eaten S.O.S. in over thirty-five years. Hmm, let's see.” Fixer studied his
resources. “Okay,” he said with a smile. “Got it. In here, they call this Correctional Cake.”

Fixer began walking M.D. through all the steps of cake making, penitentiary style. “You start with some Oreos, but ya gotta scrape the cream out and set it aside, 'cause the cookie
part, once ya crush it, becomes your dry crumb crust. I like to hold it all together with peanut butter.” The old man held up a tube. “This stuff's gold. Run ya nearly fifteen
smokes if you want to trade for it on the black market.”

“I don't smoke.”

“Neither do I” Fixer said. “Shit'll affect the performance of your penis.”

M.D. laughed.

“Then ya mix the peanut butter with the inner cream of the Oreo and a dash of vanilla extract. Of course, some folks who ain't got my talents for securing ingredients just use water,
but I got connections.” Fixer carefully tended to the creation, his attention locked on the dessert with the same love for his work as that of a fine bakery chef. “Once I spread this
wet mix over the top of the chocolaty crumbs, I crush up some M&M's and then do it all over again to make a second layer. Top it off with a few Hershey's Kisses, a little banana,
and voilà! We're in business.”

Fixer presented a cake. It looked as if it could win a contest on one of those cable TV cooking shows.

“I'm very impressed.”

“Wait till ya taste it,” Fixer said as he flipped a spoon around to slice it, using the handle of the utensil as if it were a knife.
“Mm-mmm!”
Fixer passed M.D.
a piece.