A few low chuckles broke out among the group of Native Americans. The next time the old man spoke, his voice had a smile in it.
“You grow up on the rez?”
Black nodded, once. “Not here. Canada.”
“You grow up T’lingit, too? You’re pretty tall for one of them.”
“The girls were okay with that.”
More chuckles, even a few snorts. The leader spoke again.
“Which one? Which rez?”
“Nisutlin Bay 15.” Again, Miri’s grandmother.
“How your Wazhazhe people get way the hell up there?”
Black shrugged. “Gold rush. White people brought some. Some came for gold. Maybe that’s where I got the white blood, too.”
There was another silence. That one felt more loaded.
“Why you wearing a dog collar, wasichu?” the old man asked.
Black kept his voice deadpan. “They seem to think I’m dangerous.” His eyes stayed on the guy with the iron crosses on each hand, who was openly frowning now, glaring between Black and the cluster of men sitting just down the table from him.
“Are you?” the old man asked. “Dangerous?”
Black shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. My wife doesn’t think so. But then she’s FBI Wazhazhe, so she’d probably stab me in my sleep if I pissed her off.”
By “FBI” he meant “Full-blooded Indian,” which was slang Miriam taught him. She’d joked she lost her “FBI” card when she found out her father was seer.
His comment did the trick.
More chuckles broke out among the cluster of men sitting on the other side of the table. That time, the laughter was definitely warmer.
Then the old man spoke to one of the others beside him.
“Okay. Tell this white boy to leave our brother alone.”
Black fought to keep the relief off his face, knowing the white supremacist with the tattooed hands was watching him minutely still. He knew this wouldn’t protect him for long, not even from the other inmates. Even so, some part of him couldn’t suppress that relief, however fleeting.
Of course, the real reason for that didn’t escape him either.
Along with that relief, he felt a stab of longing for his wife so intense it blanked out his vision entirely for a few seconds.
He knew that would get worse, too.
A lot worse.
Separation pain tried to overwhelm him again at the thought.
He hadn’t been lying to her in the restaurant, about how bad things were for both of them right now. He already knew that pain would start to affect him in other ways too, if he ended up being in here more than a few days. He’d never had to control it wearing a collar before. If it went on too long, he wouldn’t be able to control it, no matter what he did. He’d be in serious fucking trouble if that happened, in more ways than one.
The collar would make all of that exponentially worse.
Either way, that connectedness with her was a feeling he intended to hold onto––he knew he’d need it if he planned to get out of here alive.
Maybe that’s the real reason he approached the chiefs.
Even in here, she protected him. It felt that way anyway.
Ten
NEW GUY
DOG GRINNED AT him, his teeth white in a tanned face, his lean body bent at an angle inside his royal blue prison shirt as he watched Black.
“...That fucker who was hassling you, bro? The one with Aryan shit painted all over him? He’s in for multiple homicides, man, including some of the People. You don’t want to mess with him... front and all that, that’s part of being in, but don’t go too far with those guys and don’t let ‘em get you alone. Guys like that, they don’t like guys like you, with big brains and smart mouths... get you killed, bro. Serious.”
Black grimaced, pulling his entire weight up so that his chin came over the thick metal bar. His shoulder hurt and he still felt sick from the drugs. Nausea from separation pain hit at his chest briefly, too, but he was determined to power through.
Once high enough, he lowered himself again, using his whole weight and moving his muscles at the same even pace.
“You’re like a machine, man,” Dog said, grinning. “It’s like watching one of those robot arms do reps. Like you’re greased...” He paused. “Hey, what kind of music do you like? You into music, man?”
Without waiting for his answer, he went on, grinning as he pushed himself off and down off the bar rhythmically, like he was juiced on nervous energy.
“I’m really into skate punk... but I like tribal stuff, too. You heard any of the modern tribal stuff? There’s this alternative band that mixes in trad music in Albuquerque... they are totally the shit. Like, awesome. Kick ass lyrics, too...”
Without commenting or letting his arms fully extend, Black brought himself back up again.
They didn’t have free weights in the yard, which was unfortunate, but didn’t exactly surprise him. They wouldn’t want prisoners getting too big. Anyway, weights could be used as weapons, unlike bars welded into the cement.
A few of the bigger guys were using one another as weights. Also not a surprise.
Where there was a will, there was always a way.
The young chief standing below him, watching him do pull-ups with seemingly zero interest in doing the same, the others called Dog.
No one explained to Black why he was called Dog.
Black already knew a few things about Dog, though, besides his taste in music.
Dog was here for armed robbery, having worked with a four-man crew across multiple states. He said the others flipped on him so he got the worst haul. Also, he got the worst lawyer. His public defender was a grade-A racist prick with a stick up his ass for The People, so Dog got fucked with that same shitty stick.
Dog liked to talk.
On a bench just to the left of the bar Black was using, the old man from the chow hall sat.
He wasn’t that old really, now that Black could see him up close. Late fifties, early sixties, and he still had a fair bit of muscle on him. He had a broad, sun-lined face and gray hair woven into his braid, which might make him look older than he was.
His name was Joseph.
Dog said Joseph was a professional boxer at one time, and he had the build for it. Joseph was in for murder, though; he’d killed a white federal agent who came out on the rez and pissed him off in some way the others didn’t elaborate about and Joseph didn’t talk about at all.
Joseph had been inside the system for over twenty-five years now.
Three others in the “chiefs” camp sat next to him on the bench. Black got their names as Devin, Frank and Easton. Black wasn’t sure if Easton was his first name or last name. He supposed it didn’t matter.
He didn’t know what those three were in for, since Dog did most of the talking.
“You might want to go easy on the staring, brother,” Dog was saying now. “Those weird-ass eyes of yours... they’re unnerving, man. Someone might want to stab you, just for those. Not like white man unnerving... not NDN either. You look like a white man fucked a wolf or something, then took a bunch of steroids and fucked a tiger...”
Joseph, Frank and Easton laughed from the metal bench. Devin smiled.
Black knew “NDN” was more rez speak, shorthand for Native American.
Dog talked a lot. He was young, probably only twenty-two, twenty-three years old.
Black glanced at the Latino man who approached on his right. The guy motioned towards the empty space on the bar and Black motioned his head in silent invitation. The tattooed guy grabbed for the section of bar next to Black and hauled his own considerable bulk up in a pull up.
Once Black was reasonably sure the guy didn’t want any trouble with him, he glanced back at Dog, nodding towards the metal bleachers about thirty meters to his right, past the basketball court where a group of African-American inmates were playing.
“Who’s that guy?” he said, when he reached the top of anoth
er pull-up. “Long sleeves. Sword tattoo on his neck? You know him?”
He continued staring at the man as he said it. The object of his curiosity sat alone, wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt under his prison jersey and baggy, royal blue prison pants.
Black brought his body back down again, even and slow, breathing out as he lowered himself down, his knees bent to keep his legs off the ground.
The Latino guy with the tats dropped from the bar after ten or so pull-ups. He shook his head at Black, watching him a few seconds more with an incredulous look on his face before he wandered away, muttering.
Black’s eyes never left the man on the bleachers.
The guy sat there like he hadn’t a care in the world, his feet planted, legs apart in a sprawl, his face tilted up to the sun. Black had already noted his physical characteristics so he’d recognize him again, something he had to remember to do when he was cut off from his seer’s sight. The man was well-muscled, but in an inconspicuous way, almost in a way he seemed to be hiding it. He had blunt-cut, dirty-blond hair, a scruff beard, and strangely predatory, light-colored eyes above high cheekbones.
He didn’t look dangerous the way swastika-guy had, but something about him drew Black’s eyes back more than a few times. The guy had a presence. Black couldn’t figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Also, he was alone. That was unusual.
Dog turned his head, letting out a snort when he saw where Black’s gaze rested.
“That crazy fuck?” he said. “That’s Cowboy.”
“Cowboy?” Black frowned, pulling himself up for another pull-up, then letting himself down. At the end of the arc, he spoke again. “What’s his story?”
Joseph smiled faintly from the bench, shaking his head. “How you talk when you do that?”
Black shrugged, mid-pull. “Passes the time.”
Easton and Frank snorted, glancing at Joseph with smiles on their faces.
Black did another pull-up, then spoke again. “Anyone going to tell me the joke around the Cowboy guy?”
“No one knows his story, wasichu,” Joseph said. Turning slightly on the bench, he glanced at the man sitting on the risers alone. “Cowboy keeps to himself. Reads all the damned time. Works out... like you. Runs. That’s pretty much it.”
“What does he read?” Black said.
The other three, Frank, Devin and Easton were staring at Black more warily now.
“What difference does it make?” Joseph said.
“I’ve looked at his books,” Dog volunteered.
The big guy, Frank, snorted, rolling his eyes. “Of course you have.”
Dog went on, undaunted. “I thought maybe he had porn in there, or something else good. But it’s weird shit, holmes. He reads a lot of dry, boring, weird shit mostly.”
When Easton and Frank chuckled again, Dog gave them annoyed looks, chewing on the edge of his dark blue prison shirtsleeve.
“What?” he said. “It is weird shit.”
“Define weird shit,” Black said, reaching the top of another arc.
Dog flopped his arms down, dancing lightly on his feet. It was amazing how thin the guy was, given that Black saw him literally licking his food tray clean in the mess hall earlier. He wondered if he was a drug addict, or just had one of those metabolisms.
“I dunno. Just weird, you know?” Dog shrugged, thinking. “Like, yesterday, I saw him reading some book about the jungle. Like how to survive if someone drops you out of a plane in the middle of the jungle. Day before that, it was how to plant seeds, make fertilizers out of your own shit, that kind of thing. Like end of the world, apocalyptic stuff...”
“Survivalist type?” Black said.
Frank spoke up, snorting. “Maybe. I saw him reading about gladiators once... Ancient Rome, chariot fighting. Like real old stuff about battles and fighting styles. I’ve also seen him with books about how to make bows and arrows, how to train horses.”
Dog snorted. “Maybe he’s got a bet going with someone on the outside... or the library gives him books no one else wants...?”
Easton grunted, kicking at the cement with the toe of his sneaker. “Dumb redneck wants to know about the apocalypse, he should come live on the rez for a few years.” He smiled wryly up at Black as he pulled himself back up the bar. “I could show him all kinds of apocalypse in New Mexico. Rats. Dirty water. Brown-outs every other day. The whole deal.” He let out a disgusted sound. “We got horses, too... and bows and arrows. Fucker would have a field day.”
Next to him, Devin grinned, shaking his head.
He definitely spoke the least.
Joseph was watching Black, a faint frown touching his lips. “Why you so interested in Cowboy, wasichu?”
Black thought about the question. His muscles were shaking now under the strain. He did two more pull ups then let himself drop, gasping a bit as he rested his hands on his thighs. Looking up at Joseph without straightening, he shrugged.
“He’s white. He’s definitely not Mexican, or NDN, unless he’s got a lot of white in there.”
“So?”
“So?” Black made a bare motion with his chin towards the group of whites clustered around the other set of exercise bars. “The Aryans leave him alone.”
The others exchanged looks.
Then Dog, Frank and Easton burst out in laughter.
“Just wait, brother,” Dog said, his voice a crow of pleased humor. “Just wait! You’ll get a good show one of these days. Just wait... we’re about due for one anyway...”
“Wait?” Black glanced at Easton and Frank, who only smiled knowingly, shaking their heads. Black looked at Joseph, then back at Dog. “Wait for what?”
Dog grinned, happy to tell him.
“For some new guy with Hitler delusions to come in and try to fuck with Cowboy,” he said. “Then you’ll get your answer. He may look all small and weird and shit, but I hear he got in here on some kind of multiple-homicide thing, too. Went crazy and killed a bunch of people in Shreveport or some place like that... with his bare hands. No one’s ever gotten the story out of him, but it was all over the news for weeks. They say he should have gotten the death penalty...”
Black’s jaw clenched.
He wanted to ask, but he knew he couldn’t.
It would raise way too many questions if he admitted he had no idea where he was. The United States, obviously, given the make-up of the inmates. Probably somewhere in the South, given the accents he’d overheard so far. Given the range and nature of the crimes they’d mentioned to him already, including a few on federal lands, he was fairly certain he was in a federal prison, so it could be anywhere.
He walked over to the lower bars and grabbed hold of them in his hands, lengthening his body out to push-up position.
“Cowboy can fight, then?” Black said.
He began doing push-ups, feeling his shoulders warm and then protest as he did, still sore from the pull-ups and from whatever happened to his shoulder while he was out. He glanced up and saw Easton looking at him with an expression flickering between admiration, disbelief and disgust.
“Do you ever stop, man?” he said. “Dog’s right. You’re a fucking machine.”
“Can he fight? Or not?” Black said.
Joseph nodded, exchanging knowing smiles with the other four. “Ayah. He can fight. The Aryans went after him the first day he got here... must be six? eight? months ago now? Four of them. They tried to shake him down, like Roscoe did with you, only in one of the common rooms.”
“Roscoe?”
“The big guy, from lunch.”
“Ah.”
Smiling wider, Joseph shook his head, hooking his fingers into claws and using his drinking glass to indicate the group converging around the man they called Cowboy.
“...So he just sat there, right? Reading his book while they surrounded him, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. Then the first one touches him. Well, that wiry fucker went full-moon crazy on their asses in one
second flat. Before the first guy even closed his hand, Cowboy twisted free and leapt across the table. He grabbed the biggest guy in the group and before any of us knew what the hell was going on, did some crazy jujitsu hold and broke the guy’s arm... right before he flung him into another table filled with blacks. So then the blacks are in the fray, fighting the Aryan guy, and Cowboy is beating the crap out of the three Nazis still on him. The guards rushed around to get at them and the sirens went off... it was over pretty fast.”
Joseph grinned at Black, tapping his temple with one finger.
“Cowboy was smart, though. See, he took out their best fighter first, throwing him at that table full of black guys... then he just picked off the others one by one. Knocked one guy out stone cold on the edge of the table. Broke the nose of the big guy, Roscoe, who just came to hook you...”
Joseph nodded towards the blond crew-cut with the iron crosses on his hands.
“It was fast. Really fast. The guards could only pick up the pieces after... and they threw Cowboy in the hole, but only for a few days.”
“And the Aryans?” Black said. “They didn’t go looking for revenge?”
Joseph shrugged. “They tried. He knows someone in the Mexican gang, so maybe that’s part of it. They mostly leave him alone now. They tried to corner him in the bathroom once and he sent another of their guys to the hospital by breaking the sink with his face.”
Easton laughed, doing a high-five with Devin, who grinned.
“...Too expensive to screw with Cowboy,” Joseph finished. “Every now and then a new Aryan comes in and tries to fuck with him. No one tells the new fish to stay away... it’s a pretty good show. Usually doesn’t last long, though.”
Black quirked an eyebrow.
Joseph shrugged, unapologetic. “Gets slow in here, brother.”
Black grunted, shaking his head. “Yeah.”
Not much he could say to that.
Still, his eyes shifted back towards the only man sitting alone in the whole yard, noting the door-stopper book lying open on the bench next to him. Black hadn’t noticed it until the others mentioned his reading fetish. Cowboy continued to face the sun, leaning back on his elbows like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Black And Blue (Quentin Black Mystery #5) Page 12
