Something Stinks in Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 4)

by Reed, Grant T.

  Merle’s jaw clenched and his soap hit the floor as he forgot to balance it on the towel. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “CLOSE CELL ELEVEN.”

  From his perch on the off-kilter top bunk, Johnny I.Q. sat upright and lowered the book he was reading.

  Two loud groans mingled within the cell.

  The muscles in Johnny’s face fought to remain controlled. With guard Gunther eyeballing him, he simply swallowed before lowering his head onto his thin pillow and raising his book, again. “You get the floor, by the toilet,” he said haughtily. “Stoneman has already claimed the bottom bunk.” Sure enough, all eighty-seven hundred pounds of the massive golem was jammed into the lower bunk, his legs and feet overhung the collapsed mattress and buttressed up against the bars of the cell. “Stoneman, say hello to Snakeboy.”

  The granite mass rumbled, and the iron cage of the bunk beds groaned and creaked when the colossus shifted his weight. Johnny was forced to hang onto his mattress as the whole contraption squealed and shifted beneath him. Stoneman lifted his left arm from where it had rested on the floor, his middle finger raised in a salute to Merle.

  * * * *

  “You’ll move, if you know what’s good for you,” said Johnny. His nasally tone brooked no argument. “I get to brush my teeth first.” Behind the dragon, Stoneman shuffled closer, and Merle lowered his toothbrush, without argument. He sat on the lower bunk, watching as Johnny dipped his toothbrush into the wooden cup and attended his chompers. Merle peeked around Stoneman’s legs and took in the cement wall, barely six feet away. Antagonizing Johnny in here would not be wise, especially with Stoneman taking up half of the real-estate. He didn’t mind though, as he had used Johnny’s toothbrush to clean the toilet seat yesterday, while the man was away on laundry duty. Johnny hummed to himself and inspected his pearly whites in the mirror above the sink.

  “ROLL CALL,” boomed guard Gunther’s voice from outside the cell. The buzzer sounded and their door was released with a loud clack.

  “Oops,” said Johnny, “Looks like you don’t have time, this morning.” He flashed a smile at Merle.

  “You missed a spot,” pointed out Merle. “Got yourself something brown between your teeth, there.”

  “Really?” asked Johnny, annoyed with himself. He picked at his teeth with a finger nail.

  Merle followed Johnny and Stoneman out of their cell, and placed his hands on the railing in front of him. Beside them, the other inmates were emptying out of their cells and doing likewise. From the far end of the hall marched Guard Gunther and a small oriental man – also in uniform. Gunther’s co-worker was half the size of the large black man, and twice as old. His name was Guard Oganhimeir, but everyone just called him Oldtimer. The inmates shouted their assigned number as the pair passed by them. Oldtimer checked off the prisoners from a list on his clipboard.

  “Eight eighty-seven,” barked Merle, standing to attention. Below them, on the first floor, two other guards that Merle did not know made similar rounds. Echoes from the men below drifted up to him.

  “ALL CLEAR ON TWO,” rumbled Gunther. “Let’s go, you miscreants - to the Meat Hall.” Merle swung in line behind Stoneman as they trudged off for their morning meal. As Merle had discovered yesterday, it would be anything but fancy. Behind them, their cells closed at the sound of the buzzer.

  Merle remained behind Stoneman as the men entered the lunchroom. He took a food tray as he passed the stack. In front of him, Johnny and Stoneman had each taken a tray. Merle said nothing as the two men behind him whispered angrily.

  “I told you, he’s been helping himself.” Merle used his peripheral vision to note two skinny white men with shaved heads. Andre and Marcus, from cell ten, he knew.

  Marcus wiped at his thin mustache. “We’ll see about that.”

  The line continued past three men on the other side of the counter. Two of the men wore kitchen whites, and it was their job to fill the trays as the convicts passed. The third man was a muscled guard. His billy club was out and tapping an agitated beat on the counter. Johnny stopped in front of the first man, but refused to hold out his tray. “What’s on the menu?” he asked brazenly.

  The two cooks shared a knowing glance. The spoon shot out dumping a sloppy wet pile of gruel onto Johnny’s tray. At the same time, the guard’s club smacked the counter with an ear popping rap. “You stupid, boy?” huffed the sentry. He leaned in close to Johnny. “Don’t you know pancakes when you see ‘em? NOW, MOVE ALONG.” Johnny was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Stoneman held his tray out and received two spoonfuls of the slop. Everyone shuffled forward.

  “See,” huffed Andre, from over Merle’s shoulder. Marcus scowled and nodded.

  Merle collected his meal and remained silent. He averted his eyes while passing the sullen guard. Waiting for his tin of water, he surveyed the fast-disappearing seating. Two days in, and he already knew the prison was rife with gangs. It was not that he felt left out, but a dragon had to do what he had to do to survive. He was contemplating approaching a table of baldies, when he caught the subtle wave of a man from a table in the back corner. His caller was in his forties, with dark curly hair and a patchy beard. A second bearded man sat at the table next to him, both of them eyeballing the little dragon. Merle looked up as a tin of water was slammed onto his tray, and when he glanced back, the first bearded man made the same gesture as earlier. There could be no mistaking it. He was being summoned.

  Merle watched as Johnny sauntered up to the nearest table and thumped his tray down between two very large bald men. “You guys know who I am?” he asked huffily. When the tattooed men shrugged, Johnny scowled and gave them a thumb jerk toward the door. “Beat it bozos. I eat alone.” Stoneman ambled up behind his master and set his tray down next to Johnny’s. He crossed his arms over his granite chest, and his head gave a slight nod to the larger of the men, as if to say ‘What’s up?’ With hardly a second glance at the enormous golem, the two men abandoned the table. Johnny was oblivious to the angry stares they aimed at his back. Gleefully, he dug his spoon into first one tray, and then the second. “Don’t taste like pancakes, to me,” he complained.

  Merle shook his head and made his way to the back table. The older of the bearded men kicked out a chair for him as he approached. Merle slid his platter onto the table and jumped up into the chair. “How’s it going?” asked the man who had kicked the chair.

  “I’ve stayed in worse dives than this,” admitted Merle.

  The younger fellow elbowed his companion. “Hah, Cecil, Kline said this guy was a riot.” Cecil shoveled in a spoonful of slop and nodded.

  “You guys know Vic?” asked Merle. He took up his spoon and poked at the gruel, as though it might crawl from his plate.

  “Yes,” agreed Cecil, leaning in close, ‘but it was Mr. Kline, you know, Daniel, that asked me and Troy to watch over you.”

  “Mr. Kline’s here, at Rockhaven Penn?” asked Merle hopefully.

  “Nah,” said Troy, “he’s down at the Sunnyville Correctional Center for Gangsters, or the S.C.C.G for short. The warm weather agrees more with him and the other big fishes.” He winked at Merle.

  “That doesn’t change the fact he looks out for his own,” said Cecil in low tones. “You stick with us, and you’ll be safe enough.” Merle felt the smallest bit of relief stir in his gut, or perhaps it was that last bite of gruel. Either way, he was grateful.

  “First thing you need to know are the factions in here,” continued Cecil. “You got ‘Poncemen Puissants.’ Only Poncemen allowed, in there. They grow their hair out and braid it.” Cecil nodded at a table of five burly inmates with long braids. “I wouldn’t make fun of those locks either, if I were you.”

  “Then you got the baldies, though you may want to acknowledge them as ‘The Monarchs’,” divulged Troy. “They belong to the warden, and you should avoid them at all costs.”

  “The Rusty Baritones accept anyone with the ability to carry a tune. They’re harmless, though
I do reckon some of them sing a little higher, thanks to the Monarchs.” Merle watched as a handful of inmates surrounded Johnny, mmm bopping in unison.

  “Beat it!” yelled Johnny. He used his spoon to flick a globe of gruel into the face of the nearest pest.

  “And you guys?” asked Merle, returning his attention back to his new pals.

  “We’re the Bearded Bandits,” piped up Troy, pride in his eyes. “We’re a select few, but nobody will touch us, because of the repercussions from the S.C.C.G. We got twenty boys here in Rockhaven. We’ll introduce you to the others, after breakfast.” Merle nodded.

  “The last clan is ‘The Bone Smugglers’,” said Cecil.

  “Bone Smugglers,” snorted Merle. “What kind of name is that?”

  “They’re the weak ones. The outcasts.”

  “You DO NOT want to be a Bone Smuggler,” divulged Troy, in a loud whisper.

  “Your cell mate would be a Bone Smuggler, if he didn’t have that gigantism hovering over him, all day,” confided Cecil.

  “Oh come on,” sighed Troy, when he realized Merle remained clueless. “You know…butt pirates, donut punchers, pillow biters, REAR ADMIRALS!”

  “Alright, he gets it,” snapped Cecil. “Now, eat your pancakes.”

  The lightbulb in Merle’s head blinked twice, and he tapped at his tray. “Is this really pancakes?”

  “Of course,” agreed Cecil, with an amused look. “What’d you think it was?”

  “I don’t know,” murmured Merle. “It’s just really similar to yesterday’s oatmeal.”

  “No way,” argued Troy, around a mouthful. “This is much fluffier.”

  Cecil tapped the table with an index finger, to get Merle’s attention again. “If you’re going to survive in here, there are four golden rules. Rule one is to get yourself into a gang as quickly as possible – avoiding the Bone Smugglers, of course. Rule two is to always mind your own business, and to never get involved in anything not sanctioned by your gang. Rule three is to never apologize – for anything. The last, golden rule is to keep your mouth shut. In here, a narc is a dead man.” He nodded, as if that was the end of it.

  Merle scraped the last of his pancakes onto his spoon and slurped it back. He turned as Johnny’s voice drifted over the crowd. “Nice hair, Nancy. Are you and Goldilocks there going on a picnic later?” The man’s laughter washed over them as the two Poncemen across from Johnny glared at the yappy youth.

  “And those who don’t get into a group?” asked Merle.

  “Good as dead,” replied Cecil.

  * * * *

  “I’ve seen guys like you, before,” grunted Oldtimer. “If you think you’re going to get that judge to have another look-see, you’re mistaken.” Merle remained silent as the old man passed him a third bundle of court papers from the top of his trolley.

  “Waste of space,” agreed Johnny, from his top bunk. As usual, his nose was buried in a book.

  “I’m sick of your attitude,” snapped Merle, “and so is everybody else, for that matter. Half this cell is mine, and I’ll use it as I see fit.”

  “A third of this cell is yours, mister, and not by any choice of mine.”

  “Settle down, or I’ll rap some heads,” threatened Oldtimer. He reached for the billy on his waist, but his knees trembled and he was forced to grab his cart, for support.

  “Another attack?” asked Merle, with concern.

  “It’ll pass,” wheezed the old man. “Those pork chops we had for supper aren’t sitting well.”

  “Pork chops!” exclaimed Johnny, with a snort. “I knew it was a familiar taste, just couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  Oldtimer straightened, belched, and passed the last of Merle’s documents through the bars. One of the papers fell from its folder and drifted into the notch of Stoneman’s armpit. The golem had assumed his usual position, crammed into the lower bunk. Merle glared at the golem, but left it, for now as he carried the heavy load over to their single, small desk.

  “Was it Coral that dropped these off?” asked Merle. Oldtimer shrugged and rummaged through the bottom shelf of his trolley. “Slim woman, early thirties, shoulder length brown hair. Sometimes she wears glasses, though I don’t suppose she needed them today.”

  “Nope, this guy was big and thick. Dumb as a post. Ah ha, here it is.” He pulled out a blue envelope and flicked it through the bars, at Johnny.

  “Vic,” said Merle knowingly.

  “Oh boy!” exclaimed Johnny, “more fan mail.”

  “I hope this is the last of it,” said Oldtimer with a meaningful look at Merle. “I ain’t your personal delivery boy.”

  Mistaking the man’s words as being directed at him, Johnny looked down from the bunk, the envelope clenched in his teeth as he struggled to open it. “I doubt it, old man. I have more fans than you can count.” Oldtimer batted a hand at Johnny and shoved his cart down the corridor.

  Merle had asked to see Coral and Frank, but his request was denied. Rules were rules, he had been told, and visiting day came once a month. No one could receive visitors until the first, and today was the tenth of October.

  ‘I’ll have to pen her a note before bed,’ he thought. He bent to retrieve the paper that had dropped beside Stoneman. It was a page from the coroner’s report.

  “Oh yes, indeed; this is a good one,” smirked Johnny, from his top bunk. “It’s from my number one fan. She can’t get enough of us.”

  Merle ignored him and assessed the page in his hands. It was a diagram of Potty’s body. An ‘X’ crossed off the figure’s left arm, and there were lines penned in, with small notes indicating where bruises had formed. Under distinguishing marks, the coroner’s assistant had listed ‘King’s First Infantry Tattoo, right shoulder.’ There was no mention of any needle mark.

  “Says here, I’m number one in her heart,” drawled Johnny.

  “That’s nice,” mumbled Merle, not paying his cellmate any attention. ‘I wonder if that’s how Old Man Potty lost his arm?’ thought Merle. He didn’t recall there being any mention of Senior serving in the core.

  “She says, if she was here, right now, she’d plant a great big one on me,” continued Johnny. He waved the paper in Merle’s direction.

  “Whatever,” said Merle, taking his report over to the desk.

  The clanging of their cell door made both of them look over. Guard Gunther ambled into view, his dark skin glistening with sweat. “Quail, you’re on kitchen duty, let’s go.”

  “Yes!” clapped Johnny. Come on, Stoneman, finally something fun to do around here.” Johnny jumped down from the bunk as Stoneman heaved himself into a sitting position. The bed squealed and Merle half expected to be killed by an exploding bolt. It was only a matter of time before the granite man destroyed the bunk entirely, and Merle prayed he wasn’t in the cell when it happened.

  The cell door closed behind them, and Merle listened to their receding footsteps fade before he hauled himself onto the slanting top bunk. Taking Johnny’s book, he flipped to the last chapter and tore out the final few pages. Tittering to himself, he was about to approach the toilet for his coup de grâce, when he espied the discarded letter. Licking his lips, he reached for the note, unable to contain his curiosity.

  Mr. John Irwin Quail

  1666 Stone Quarry Rd.

  Rockhaven Penn

  Cell 11

  Dear Johnny,

  It’s only been a few days and already I miss you. I hurt my back taking out the garbage, the other day, and I said to myself that I never realized how useful Stoneman was to have around this place. I guess, I will have to see if that kid down the street can do the gutters again this year. You know my back is not good enough to get up on that ladder, especially after my fall, last year. And no, I am not blaming you for not holding the ladder. I don’t want to argue about it anymore. I have become accustomed to taking my pills, anyway. I was merely reminiscing over old times.

  I turned off your global View in the basement. I will dust down there, e
very few days; I know how your allergies are. I have also made your bed. Your ‘Golems Gone Wild’ magazine came in, this morning, and I put it with the others on your nightstand.

  Lord, I feel so lost without you two. You know you will always be number one in my heart, right?

  The nights are the worst. Sometimes, I make a sandwich for you and just leave it on the counter with your milk. It’s hard to break routine. I also find it difficult to sleep without that G.V. unit blaring into the wee hours of the morning. I’ll figure out something. I guess, I just miss you boys. I even miss cleaning the cement out of the tub, after Stoneman’s baths.

  If you were here, right now, I would give you both a great big kiss. I pray you serve your time without incident, and I await your safe return to my loving arms.

  Mom

  P.S

  Your last cheque came in from the insurance company. I know it was barely enough to pay for Stoneman’s repairs, but look on the bright side: at least you have a little left over, right? I’ll deposit it in your saving account for you. I think you’re almost up to a hundred gons now! I’m so proud of you!

  “Number one fan, indeed,” cackled Merle, “one and only fan is more like it.”

  * * * *

  Merle spent the next three days pouring over every report and affidavit at his disposal. There was nowhere to start, but at the beginning. He was missing something, and come hell or high water he was going to find it. He tracked his way through the timeline that Wally Thompson had provided to the court and poured over every last detail of the corroborating evidence. His evenings were spent cataloging the reports and making his own timeline. Papers from the case and several new pages of his own notes were taped to the cement wall above both the toilet and the sink.

  ‘This damn security log says she went to her office and didn’t return for twenty-five minutes. That puts her in the clear as far as finishing off Potty is concerned. It just doesn’t make sense.’ It was possible that security guard Godle was the one who injected Potty with the poison, but it was Azilda’s adamant denial of ever being in the first aid room that had convinced Merle she was lying. ‘I know you were there, and I know that bead was from your necklace.’