by Nesly Clerge
“I’ll make some calls and get a team together. It may take them a few days to come up with a plan of action then get going on it.”
“That works for me. Gotta go before the recording comes on. Thanks, Parker. I really appreciate it.”
“Whatever’s going on with your health, I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“You and me both. Unless something else comes up, we’ll talk when I see you.”
Starks put the receiver in place. What he saw when he turned around stunned him: About twenty inmates stood with their gazes fixed on him. Their hands raised and came together, their applause loud, their whoops genuine. After several seconds, Starks raised his hands to quiet them.
One inmate said, “We been complaining for years. Nothing’s ever changed. This is the first time I’ve had any hope about that.” Other inmates nodded and murmured their agreement. The inmate glanced at the men near him and said, “With the Dragon involved, maybe something will finally happen.”
Starks scanned their faces. “I’ll do what I can.”
Hands patted him on the arms, back, and top of his head as he moved through the cluster. He heard word being spread as other inmates entered or passed through the area.
He’d been referred to—with respect—as the Dragon, an interesting and unexpected result he couldn’t have planned better.
CHAPTER 13
SAM CARSON ASKED, “You gonna live?”
“I plan to. The doctor’s ordering a test that’ll have to be done at a hospital. Says it’ll be some weeks before it can be done. I’m seeing if I can speed it up. He said to avoid strenuous activity and get some rest.”
Carson arched back in the chair and linked his hands behind his head. “Library work ain’t strenuous.”
Starks smiled. “All things considered, I think I should rest today. I’ll be back here for my afternoon shift tomorrow, unless something changes that. Are we square?”
“Get your butt to bed. See you tomorrow.”
Inmates watched and whispered as Starks passed them on the way to his cell. They could be commenting about his passing out or the second call to Parker. Perhaps both. He knew which one he preferred their attention be on.
Jackson wasn’t around and likely wouldn’t be back for hours, as his dinner shift in the kitchen would start soon. Jackson often complained that they worked hours to prepare what inmates spent ten minutes or less eating. “But, who can blame them? Doesn’t take long to poke a fork around in a pile of shit and realize nothing good’s hidden in there.”
Starks climbed into his upper bunk and lay back on the thin mattress. He was afraid, afraid he had a brain tumor or some other crazy affliction that would rob him of his health and possibly his life, that is, if some inmate didn’t take advantage of his weakness and kill him before he could die.
The concept of dying brought his grandfather to mind. Growing up in his grandfather’s house provided him with guidance he’d needed as a child and teen. Granted, some of it turned out not to be the wisest advice, but most of it was practical. Not only had his grandfather pushed him about a better-than-good education, he was big on taking care of the body. Old Ryan Lee Morgan had kept his physique by eating right, walking five miles a day, embracing hard work, and being sexually active with the several younger women he managed to maintain long-term relationships with. His grandfather had lived to be ninety-six, but didn’t look a day over seventy-five in his casket.
Ryan’s girlfriends had taken to each other at the wake. When they hadn’t been weeping at their shared loss, they’d exchanged stories that caused them to weep harder, laugh, or cause eavesdroppers to blush. Keeping that many women happy simultaneously was a talent the old guy hadn’t passed down to his grandson.
“Tomorrow’s not promised to anyone, my boy. Acquire all you can, live a full life, have the fun you want to have, and always take care of your health so you have the energy to do it all. You don’t want to die young and have another man take care of your family, do you? They’re your responsibility.”
No one can say Bret Simon is taking care of my family, Starks thought. But, the fucking freeloader is another man living in my house, with my children, and letting my money pay his way.
Ryan Morgan had lived long enough to witness the destruction—there was no other word for it—of his marriage and family, thanks to Kayla, but had died before Starks had helped it to implode even further. He was grateful every day his grandfather had been spared that.
Kayla was to blame, for what had happened then and for how he was feeling now. And Jeffrey, of course. It was remarkable that he hadn’t had something go wrong with him before this, considering how they’d caused his stress to reach a new level, a level that seemed to now send his blood pressure to a dangerous number.
He’d have to deal with them, as soon as he knew what to do. The obstacles were clear. And serious. In the matter of Kayla, he needed to keep his children safe and their love for him intact, and her from stripping him of every last cent. As for Jeffrey, he had to not do anything that would destroy his business. Both situations had the potential to create ripples that became tsunamis.
Starks closed his eyes. He drifted into a hard sleep within a few minutes. He didn’t dream.
Starks woke when Jackson called his name. He sat up and rubbed his face hard to wipe away the lethargy he felt. The time on his clock showed it was 7:30. Not only had he slept through the three and six o’clock counts, but he’d been allowed to.
“You okay?” Jackson asked. “I heard you passed out.”
“Don’t make it a big deal. I’m not.”
Jackson sat in his chair. He stared up at Starks as he slipped off his shoes. “You went to the infirmary.”
Starks shrugged. “Just a precaution.”
“You’re holding back on me.”
“I’m not. The doc’s ordering a scan, but I’m sure it’s nothing. All right?”
Jackson slipped his yellow scrub shirt off, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it on the floor. “You looked ragged out. What’d’ya say we switch bunks.”
“Don’t you fucking dare treat me like an invalid. I’m fine.”
Jackson held his hands up. “Okay, you’re fine. Don’t get your shorts up your ass.”
Starks stared straight ahead.
“Something else I heard,” Jackson said. “Heard you told your attorney to kick some prison butt about the crappy medical care.”
A half-smile formed on Starks’s lips. “Word spreads fast in this place.”
“It doesn’t just spread sideways, you know. Higher-ups will hear about it, if they haven’t already. You can bet on it.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll take proper action and save me a shitload of legal fees.”
“And maybe they’ll throw your ass in the SHU.”
“If they do they’d better kill me, because once I got out, they’d be a sorry bunch of motherfuckers.”
“I think the ink from your tat is affecting your brain. You’re turning into something of a wildcard.”
The possibility that he might be on the brink of losing mental function terrified him, but he couldn’t show it. “Sometimes playing it safe means taking a big risk. You play the cards in your hand and cheat if you need to so you win. As a former semi-professional magician, you know what I mean.”
“Just don’t get cocky and do something stupid.”
“I don’t do stupid.”
“Hunh.” Jackson faced his desk. After a few moments, he opened a book.
Starks’s knew Jackson well enough to know he wasn’t reading. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Hunh.”
CHAPTER 14
STARKS LINED UP for the 8:00 a.m. count. As usual, two guards took care of this task: One to check off inmates’ names on a sheet on a clipboard, the other to hand out mail. More than half the inmates in his block were handed envelopes. Starks wasn’t one of them. He still resented getting his divorce papers in the mail, and that the papers had been read b
y some prison official before he’d seen them. But he wasn’t alone: all the envelopes and occasional packages handed out each day were already opened.
He decided to eat and read at his desk. An offensive odor came from below. He pulled the box of dirty clothes from underneath. Doing laundry wasn’t strenuous, and he wasn’t going to sit in the cell with that smell until his library shift started at one. It took only seconds to get everything together and he was on his way to the laundry room. Breakfast could wait.
The large rectangular space was vacant: No inmates employed to do laundry, no inmates hogging or waiting for machines. People had been there, though. The glass windows on the front-load machines against the wall to his left, with the exception of the first one, had clothes in them, even though the washing cycles had ended.
Starks noticed something else, something that shouldn’t have been there. Red-tinted water inched its way across the floor, its origin from the corner where washers ended and the row of dryers positioned at a ninety-degree angle began. A groan came from the space created by that configuration. Starks no longer wondered what he would find there, but who. He slowed his steps, edging his way forward, and peered over the last washing machine.
Hot bile burned his throat and he felt light-headed. The grimy, lint-filled floor in that three-by-three space contained Skullars’ crumpled body, whose legs were tucked under him. Blood leaked and oozed from multiple stab wounds. His clothes and hair were sopping wet.
“Aw, damn it. Skullars, it’s Starks. I’m here, buddy.”
Skullars coughed; blood cascaded over his swollen lips. He focused on Starks as best he could through puffed, bruised eyes. His mouth barely moved as he struggled to whisper, “Help me.”
Starks rushed to the door and screamed for guards.
A guard not on his payroll turned into the corridor and shouted, “What’s your problem?”
“Man down.”
The guard sprinted forward, following Starks to the corner. “Goddamnit.” He pressed the button on his walkie-talkie to speak and got static. “Goddamn cheap shit they give us.” He pointed at Starks. “Stay with him while I get help.”
Starks grabbed his clothes and towels from the box. It was a meager pile, but he used every item to try to staunch blood flow. “Skullars, can you talk? Can you tell me who did this? C’mon, buddy.”
The words were faint and delivered haltingly. “Dem batty boys… You know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Starks added gentle pressure to one of his towels placed against what he estimated was the worst wound. “I’m going to take care of those fuckers personally. I promise.”
Skullars tried to smile. His body tensed then went completely limp.
Starks shook him. “Stay with me, buddy. Stay with me. Don’t let those bastards win.” No response came from Skullars.
Starks smashed a fist against the nearest dryer. He looked at Skullars’ still form usually so full of vigor and life and felt a cold, silent rage swell inside him. “I swear to you they won’t get away with this.”
The first guard on the scene and four more rushed into the room, two of them pushing a gurney. One of them said, “Anyone checked him for a pulse?”
Another guard motioned for Starks to switch places. He climbed into the space and placed two fingers against Skullars’ neck. “There’s a pulse but not much of one.”
Starks said, “Then there’s a chance?”
“Maybe a slim one.” The guard pointed at one of the others and said, “Let’s get Bailey out of there. Maybe there’s something the doc can do until the EMTs get here.”
Two of them pulled the washer away from the wall as far as they could. It took the five guards and Starks to lift Skullars as carefully as possible out and onto the gurney. Three guards left with the injured man; the other two stayed to interview Starks. It took a half hour for him to convince them he’d found Skullars in the corner and the laundry room empty, and that the two of them were friends.
The guards finally left. Starks surveyed the space. The long table had stacks of folded clothes and clothes to be folded on it. The attack had been a brutal one, yet there was no blood splatter anywhere in the room. Nothing had been disturbed in a way to indicate a struggle had taken place. Skullars would have fought his attackers. They’d gotten to him in the shower room then dumped him in the laundry room. The showers were just around the corner, a relatively short distance to travel. Even so, this meant a number of inmates and guards had been involved in order to do what was done. And it had gone down not long before he’d arrived.
He grabbed his box but abandoned his blood-soaked laundry and headed for the door. He stormed to his cell, aware of but ignoring the dropped jaws and startled expressions as he passed inmates. Guards watched him as well, but they’d already gotten word about what had happened.
Jackson froze in place when Starks entered the cell. “Jesus, Starks. Is that your blood?”
“No.” Starks pulled the knitting needle from his hem. “I need two more shanks. I know you have several hidden. Get them. Now, Jackson.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“The guys Skullars refused to be a sex toy for got him. A fucking brutal attack. More than just the three of them. You can bet your ass some guards are complicit.”
“And, what? You’re going after them?”
“Get the damn shanks.”
Jackson grabbed an empty envelope from his desk. He squatted near the base of the toilet, which he’d loosened bolts on. Using a shoulder, he pushed the toilet up a fraction of an inch and carefully slid the envelope into the narrow gap. Two six-inch blades slid out—kitchen knives minus handles. Jackson retrieved a roll of duct tape from under his shirt stack. “Keep watch.”
Starks positioned himself at the entrance while Jackson wrapped the bottom two inches of each blade with tape. They switched places. Starks mixed a small batch of toxic paste and ran the two blades and his knitting needle through the mixture. He waved the three shanks to speed drying time.
“How do you know who did it?” Jackson asked.
“Skullars told me. It was all he could say before he lost consciousness.”
“So he’s alive?”
“Barely.” Starks hid the needle in his hem. “I’ll look for the bastards in the yard first. If they’re not there, I’ll hunt until I find them.”
“You’re going out like that?”
“Like what?”
“Your clothes are covered in blood.”
“I want them to see me coming. I want them to know they picked the wrong fight with the right man.”
“Give me the knives.”
“No fucking way you’re going to keep me from doing this.”
“I’m not. I’m going with you. I’ll hide them on me.”
“I need the knives where I can get to them fast. Hand me the tape.”
Starks slipped his shirt off. He tore a three-inch strip of tape from the roll and used it to secure the knife to the inside of his upper left arm. A one-inch strip was placed under the poisoned knife point. He did the same for the other knife on his other arm. Jackson had to help him put his shirt back on. The sleeves just covered the weapons.
“You got a plan, or you planning on winging it?” Jackson said.
“Maybe we can accomplish two things at once.” Starks turned his chair around and motioned for Jackson to sit across from him. Their heads were inches apart as the two spent several minutes discussing strategies.
Starks said, “You clear about your part?”
“I’m clear.”
“Follow my lead.”
CHAPTER 15
ONCE IN THE yard, Starks halted to scan the area for three Caucasian men with fresh injuries, likely standing together, bragging as they recounted their “victory.” The mid-morning light dimmed as dark clouds moved to cover the sun. A wind gust blew dust into the air. Starks, with Jackson behind him, edged his way north. The boisterous conversation in the yard grew subdued, but didn’t stop compl
etely. A few men muttered Skullars’ name. Word was out about what had happened.
Starks spotted the three men standing with two other inmates in the northwest corner. One of the men facing the yard saw Starks and said something to the others, who turned to watch him. Their faces and arms, at least, were less bruised than he’d anticipated. Realization hit: their ambush had been as well planned as it had been executed; otherwise, Skullars would have injured them more severely.
What they’d done today was unforgivable. If they could do that to someone as large as Skullars, who had a better chance of defending himself—if the odds were fair, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what they’d do to a smaller, weaker man. He didn’t have to imagine, he knew.
Starks glanced at Jackson. Jackson was only an inch taller and about ten pounds heavier than he was; average-sized. Jackson knew what it was to be a target. Had several Los Hermanos not interrupted Big Bo and a few of his soldiers, Jackson would have been raped, as well as beaten.
Tough guys joined prison gangs. Weaker ones usually had no one to turn to, a consequence that resulted in their suffering at the hands of others. It was a fact of this life, one he intended to change. Today was as good a day as any to ramp up his intended power shift.
Starks faced Jackson, using the brief interval to draw the needle out and palm it in his right hand. Their gazes locked then Starks pivoted and approached the men.
One of the men puffed his chest and sneered. “What do you want, runt?”
“You left Skullars for dead. He was conscious long enough to tell me it was you. You danced, now it’s time to pay.”
“There’s five of us and only two of you.”
Jackson moved next to Starks and cleared his throat. Twice. His voice quavered as he said, “They’re right, Starks. No one will blame you if you walk away.”
Starks said, “Get out of here, Jackson.” He glanced behind them and saw a small crowd had formed, with more inmates ambling in their direction.
Jackson tugged gently on the back of Starks’s shirt. “C’mon, man. We’re outnumbered.”
