Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  At my turn in line, I say, “Thank you,” and duck away to find a secluded place alone. There are two older guys playing cards and joking at a nearby table. I find the pairing curious—black and white—but both old as the hills. I sit and peer in the bag—a sandwich, a banana, a small container of milk, and an empty cup.

  Oh. Dear. Fuck. No.

  This combination is the thing of my nightmares.

  I pull open the sandwich, fearing the famed mystery meat. It’s peanut butter and jelly. Not near enough peanut butter, but it will work.

  “Water is over there,” one of the older guys says, pointing to the fountain. “On holidays and some Sundays, we get tea, but you better hurry.”

  Tucking the smokes on my ear (cause no way I’m leaving those), I fill my cup and drink it down. It’s not the best water, but it comfortingly reminds me of the earthy flavor out of the tap at La Chiesa. I fill the cup again and head back to the table. My banana and milk are both missing as the two gentlemen sit happily enjoying my lunch.

  I smirk because anger won’t get me anywhere in here. “You want the sandwich, too?”

  “Nah,” one says, munching on the banana. I grab my sandwich, bag, and water and go pull up a chair with the fellas. They didn’t invite me, but I don’t give a fuck. They’re so old, and I doubt they’ll confront me.

  Peering over his glasses, the white one says, “What’s your name?”

  “Lucas,” I reply, watching their game. “Yours?”

  “I’m Milton, and this is Mike,” the black one replies, speaking with his mouth full of banana, which is pretty gross. “What you in for?”

  “Murder,” I say, mumbling as I eat a bite of the sandwich. I’ve got to fit in, or they’ll nickname me Slaughterhouse Sal or Sissy Sal or some other dumb prison name. “You?”

  Drawing a card, Milton replies, “Serial rapist and kidnapping.”

  “I murdered my brother and raped his wife,” Mike says, laying down a few cards. “And his daughter.”

  “Do you know where I can get a light?”

  “You’re asking for information,” Mike replies, assessing his next move. “Information costs.”

  “Milk and bananas for the next month,” I offer.

  Mike shifts his gaze to look at me. “You’re bidding too high, Kid. I would’ve settled for a week. But deal.”

  We don’t shake on it. Word is reputation here. And reputation elevates status.

  Status is everything.

  “Go to the yard, over near the outdoor equipment, ask to talk to Handcock,” Milton says, throwing me a bone. “And whatever you do, don’t make any jokes.”

  “… Handcock?” I wearily reiterate. This sounds like a bad B-movie where I end up face down in the yard, getting my ass plowed by a bunch of burly men. Mike nods. “Is he going to want something?”

  “Of course, he is, son,” Milton replies. “This is the cooler. Ain’t nothin' for free.”

  I wad up my trash, tap the table twice, and stand up. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t tap,” Mike warns, looking up at me. “Be a machine. Don’t think. Don’t react. Don’t feel.”

  “Gotcha,” I say, holding back the nod. “I appreciate it.”

  Milton smiles. “Come see us again at dinner, Lucas.”

  I walk away, trying to restrain the tremor running through my body.

  Holy. Fuck.

  The crowded yard is larger than I expect. Around the perimeter, the grass is worn down by guys running. There are a few tables in the center, some boxing bags, and a pull-up bar. A concrete area exists for basketball and handball. The equipment is everywhere, but the segregation in the yard is real.

  Black gang. White gang. Mexican gang. A line of inmates blocks the fourth corner. I look around. There are no correctional officers in the yard. I should’ve asked the old geezers what color Handcock is.

  Maybe I do belong with Milton and Mike.

  Milton is black; Handcock probably is, too.

  Roll the dice and pray.

  I walk up to a young, good looking loner, watching the basketball game. His trim build, bluish-gray eyes, and light-colored skin are stunning against his mountain of fro. He’s multi-ethnic, though I’m unfamiliar with the combination. Over the years, I’ve learned to spot some quickly. Italian-Puerto Ricans, for instance. I still get some wrong, but guessing is always fun. I don’t look anything but daego. “You know where Handcock is?”

  “You see that massive white guy?”

  Furrowing my brow, I say, “Ya.”

  “That’s Handcock,” he scrutinizes over me. “What do you need?”

  I flip the smoke from my ear. “Lighter.”

  “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Tiny.”

  We walk to the end of the basketball court, and while I expect all eyes to be on me, they aren’t. Everyone is too busy, doing their own thing to sniff out the new guy.

  “Tiny!” He yells as we move into the fray. “Tiny, you got a light man?”

  It just so happens, Tiny is smoking and fucking huge—I’m talking massive, tall, muscle-bound to the point where his issued uniform barely fits. “Who are you?”

  I recognize the Creole accent, and on the spot, I decide to trust. “I am Sal Raniero.”

  “… You know, Saint?”

  “Younger or older?” I ask with a smirk.

  “Deacon,” he replies with a smile. “Kush move over and let our new friend sit on the bench.” I don’t know if befriending the black gang was the smartest or dumbest move I could make, but it was done. “There are two crews for each group.”

  “Per race?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Tiny says, nodding and handing me his lit cigarette. “You do a deal with Je Suis. You can talk to Mock.”

  “Is Mock here?” I ask, lighting my smoke before returning his. “Who was the guy that introduced me?”

  “Yeah yeah, Mock is here. You won’t miss him,” he informs, keeping it low and muttering. We are buried in the group and concealed by his men. “Je Suis is his crew in Nola. And that kid is new. His name is Barnaby Shank.”

  “Is Mock…”

  “He’s a white guy, all inked up,” Tiny says, strumming his fingers. “I don’t make a point to know anyone else.” He waves to the group of Latinos. “But I know they have at least two crew.”

  I nod to the odd corner with the mixed mess of guys. “What’s up with them?”

  “You don’t want them,” he warns with a fierce stare. “They’re all chomo and psych camp kids. Don’t go there.”

  I don’t ask because I know. They’re the child molesters, sex offenders, and mentally ill lumped together because that was how this shit worked. The chomo takes advantage of the psych. The problem comes when they jump someone new—like me—or some poor schmuck having a breakdown and one of the other crew gets wind of it. “How do you know Saint?”

  “He’s selling Je Suis the old RR clubhouse.”

  Puffing on the smoke, I ask, “Are you Je Suis?”

  “Nah,” he says, lighting another smoke. “I got busted on a ganja run.”

  A common problem exists with smaller gangs—lack of security, lack of guns, lack of money.

  “Who’s the leader?”

  “Here?” He eyes me. “Depends on the day, sometimes we’re borderline fucked-up. Keep your head down and your ears open. You’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say, dropping the smoke in his empty Coke bottle as he had done.

  He taps my knee. “And don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it.”

  “Good deal,” I reply as he offers his knuckles to me for a pound. “Thank you for the fire.”

  He spots the bandage. “You a fighter?”

  “I’m Italian,” I say, standing up. “Boston.”

  He heartily laughs. “Fair enough. Good to meet you, Boston.”

  Suddenly, home doesn’t seem so far away.

  I’m not a fool. I’m being recruited. And I got lucky—today.

  I head back through t
he mess hall when I hear Milton’s haggard voice, “You find Handcock?”

  I stroll over and say, “No, I met Tiny through Barnaby Shank.”

  “Be careful with that. You need to open your damn ears, Lucas,” Milton warns, glancing up at me. I give a remorseful – I just got scolded by an older man – nod. “They’ll feed you a nice line and hand you your own ass. You can’t even imagine the shit these boys can come up with. Next time, listen to me and go to Handcock. You ain’t gonna outsmart the system here. You’ll think you’re jumping through hoops until one day you wake up with a noose around your neck.”

  11

  Matcha

  “Sorry, you caught me eating,” Ronnie says, wiping her mouth and pressing the button to unlock the gate.

  “Must be good,” I comment, trying not to laugh at her wide-eyed look of embarrassment concealed with a smirk.

  “It’s from this little Chinese restaurant not too far away,” she informs as I step through one nightmare and into another. “You want a bite?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m not feeling too good.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “A bite or two.”

  “Have you seen yourself?” she says, twirling her fork in the noodles. “Come here, face the hallway, and open your mouth. There isn’t anyone close by but Milton and Mike, and they’re both blind as bats.” She stuffs the fork in my mouth, and it tastes incredible. “You have too much muscle to be eating one bite. You need to hit the commissary, stock up on beef jerky, peanut butter packets, nuts, and vegetable packs. Don’t let yourself go to waste in here.”

  “Can I make a phone call?”

  “Of course, I’ll show you around,” she says, wobbling off the stool and leading me to the gate for the hallway. I feel trapped in a series of interconnected cages. “Here is your cell for the next three days—#17. And this is the small common area.”

  “Can I stay in my room…cell?”

  “You can, but if you stop eating for too long, they’ll call for medical and psych consults. You don’t want to do that because they may end up moving you to another facility.” She stops and leans into me. “A quack house, Sal.”

  Yeah, I don’t need that.

  Yet.

  “In three days, you’ll be moved to general pop,” she says, pushing the flat door to my cell open. The door has a small square window. “In that unit, you’ll have access to the library, workout area, several common areas, and get a job. You’ll get your uniform. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t get caught with contraband, get to your cell for lockdowns, and don’t fight.”

  “I don’t plan on it,” I say, wavering on my opinion of getting into solitary as fast as possible. If I make trouble, then I don’t find Violet, so I’m going to have to behave. “I’m staying low.”

  “This hallway is holding with a public bathroom,” she says, using her hands to talk. “Inmates are either awaiting charges, trials, being moved within the facility, or transferring to another. In general, gates automatically unlock at six in the morning for religious purposes and specialized studies like anger management and narcotic/alcoholic meetings. Breakfast starts at seven, lunch is at noon, and dinner is at five. You’re expected back in the housing unit at eight and lights go out at ten. You may have a dorm where you share a room with one to three others, depending on how full we are.” With her hands on her hips, Ronnie says, “You have any questions?”

  “Are you always stationed here in holding?”

  “No, we rotate pretty regularly,” she says with a smile. “You’ll see me in general. Need anything else?”

  Matcha tea and a blow job.

  “No, Ma’am.”

  * * *

  I close the door of the holding cell. It consists of a thin cot, four walls, and nothing else. Sitting on the mattress—and that is being way too generous, it’s thinner than the one I had at Sibyl if that’s possible—I consider why I came here in the first place.

  Sherman “Violet” Hendrix.

  Sounds like a hippie on a bad LSD-trip from the sixties, I know.

  Facts are he was born in Metairie in 1962 with four brothers and three sisters. Very religious. Father was an assistant to the preacher and an electrician. Mother was a Sunday school teacher and nurse until the babies came. Joined the army and stayed in for a few years until Pappy Peles recruited him for the inception of Sibyl. He worked as an agent until the Bindel murders, at which point he disappeared, reportedly to the L. Botham Wiggs Correctional Facility. No wife or children—which I’m not entirely sure I believe, considering he comes from a large, spiritually-based family.

  I need to find out what happened in the Swiss chalet that night. Why did Sibyl suddenly feel the need to run a mission against two of our top agents? Did Henney really escape on her own? Why the cover-up? And last, but far from least, if it happened once, it could damn sure occur again.

  I strip off the orange shirt from the infirmary and lay down with nothing to entertain me but my mind.

  For the first time since my arrest, I think about Lydia Kettles murder. I’m a bit lost without my computer, files, and resources, but I’ll make do. What I can’t understand is why someone would kill Lydia at Juliet. I get why taking her out would be beneficial. She was Angelo Gennaro’s mistress, but the killing occurring at Juliet feels off to me like someone wanted to send a message.

  “Ronnie,” I whisper, darting for the door. I catch her eating dessert, a scrumptious looking piece of cheesecake. With her expression one of complete ecstasy, I lean onto her podium. “I have a question.”

  “You need a shirt,” she mumbles as I gingerly smooth my hand over hers and take the fork. Diving the fork into the cheesecake, I work my magic, giving her bedroom eyes and slow seduction. I close my eyes and slightly moan. She frantically wipes her mouth and huffs, “Yes?”

  “Is there a visitation log?”

  “All those records are kept online.”

  I dip the fork into the dreamy goodness and steal another bite. “Can you access them?”

  “I can from my office.”

  “Could you look up Sherman Hendrix and tell me if he has had any visitors?”

  She furrows her brow as I take another forkful. “We have almost two thousand inmates, Sal. But I don’t recall the name.” I feed her the bite on the fork, and she lifts her finger to finish savoring. “But I tell you what, I’ll look around. Go get your shirt on before I get in trouble.”

  “Shame.” I wink.

  “You’re trouble, Raniero.”

  On the way back to my cell, I grin.

  I just have to learn the new way to work it.

  In the small common area, there are two phones, some sofas, and a rack of books, but what I need is a pad of paper and a pen. I’ve never had to run an investigation with no resources.

  This is a test I’m not sure I’m adequately prepared for.

  Picking up the phone, I dial the only number that matters. I glance around, utterly aware of my surroundings. All of my nerve endings tingle with the surge of the unknown. The adrenaline rush as an agent is always present, but being in captivity has elevated the spike to an unbelievable level—like I’m buried against the hay bale and waiting for the next strike of the whip.

  I’d be aroused if I wasn’t utterly petrified of the wrong person finding out. I’m worse than a rat—a snitch—and if I’m caught, they will hurt me. They will hurt me not because I’m weak, but because it will be one versus hundreds. The crew affiliations will no longer matter. Ridding the world—or the slammer—of child molesters will no longer matter because my head will be worth four times as much.

  Vega practiced this with me.

  I’m trained, I remind myself.

  For months, we met and quietly prepared for the hardships—mental and physical—of prison life. While I can depend on my initial training at Sibyl, I understand those natural reactions come from six years of intensive study. I have only about a dozen sessions under my belt as to how to handle the bul
lshit behind the cage doors.

  She would’ve been so much better than me.

  But she isn’t even on my team anymore.

  “I didn’t expect you to call this soon,” Deacon says, chuckling. “… Are you okay?”

  “I’m in an orange jumpsuit,” I mumble, keeping my eyes wide open. “Orange was never my color.”

  “Neither are stripes.”

  I laugh. “… Is she in New Orleans?”

  “She is,” he informs. “But your mistress is acting weird.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, letting my feelings surface. “Define weird.”

  “I don’t know…like getting her oil changed and packing up.”

  I clutch the phone, white-knuckling it. “She’s going after her father. You’ve got to keep an eye on her. Do whatever you have to do to make sure she is safe.”

  “I will,” Deacon promises with a whisper. “And you swore you’d be good to Iris. We have a deal.”

  I remember.

  I hate that I remember, but I do. Any thoughts of Iris disturb my equilibrium and bring me closer to a place of buckling under the stress. “What else?”

  “Be careful what you say to Dominic, but don’t send any red flags.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I don’t know if I do,” I admit, thoughtfully as I see Ronnie teetering to the main gate. “If you need help, call Nico. I gotta go.”

  “Don’t forget why you started this to begin with.”

  “Never,” I reply, hanging up the phone.

  “Mr. Raniero,” Ronnie whispers close to me. “We need to talk privately.”

  I panic. “Have I done some wrong?”

  “Not at all,” she says, crossing her arms with a smile. The tone and body language are discombobulated. “But I ran your medical records for the file and discovered you broke your left ankle in 2009.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I nervously excuse. “I included all previous surgeries on my forms.”