Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  “Worth a shot. Send out some feelers.”

  “Right.”

  Ronald pushed himself away from his desk, let out a fatigued sigh.

  “In light of this fresh crop of bullshit, I’ll push the budgetary items back until next time. Anybody have a problem with that?”

  A murmur of “No’s” ran through the room.

  “Good. Let’s get out there.”

  Darren watched Kinnett, Morrow, and the rest filter out of the office. He hung back, waiting until he was alone with the warden.

  “You doing okay, Ron?”

  “Except for this class five headache I got going on, I’m peachy.” He pulled open a drawer and snatched out a bottle of aspirin. Darren watched as his friend popped four in his mouth and swallowed them dry.

  “Sorry I was late today.”

  “Wish that were the case with me, Darren. Shit, I’m sorry I came in at all.”

  “I’m serious. It won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t tell me something like that, okay? Neither of us knows if you can keep that promise, and one of us doesn’t care.”

  “How can--”

  “I was saying I’m the one who doesn’t care.”

  “Right.”

  “You honestly think talking to the faction leaders will do some good?”

  “I think so, yeah. Getting a dialogue going might take us a long way toward keeping this place calm. You’re going to give me a chance, right? You won’t pull the rug out from under me?”

  Timms gave him a smile. “No. I trust you.”

  “I know you do. I’m a priest.”

  “Which is why I won’t let my ten-year-old near you.”

  He chuckled in spite of himself. “That’s sick, Ron. Real sick, even for you.”

  “It’s your vocation, not mine!”

  “Whatever. We getting a drink after work?”

  “If the place hasn’t burned down yet, and the way this day is going, I don’t like my chances very much.”

  “You didn’t put ‘optimist’ on you resume, did you?”

  “No, just ‘hopeless romantic.’”

  “That’s what I thought. It was probably directly under ‘pessimistic pain in the ass,’ right?”

  “Get out of my office, Father. You have a flock to attend to, and I have a prison to run into the ground.”

  “Right. You have fun with that.”

  “Will do.”

  Darren gave his friend another smile and shook his head. He left the office, looking back long enough to see Ron rub his temples again.

  ***

  Sweeny hunched over his lunch tray like a vulture guarding a fresh carcass. His jagged shoulder blades scarped at the air. The wicked blade of his nose pointed downward while his eyes remained up and roaming, watching. His thin neck and smooth scalp completed the visual. Considering the man’s almost emaciated appearance, it was amazing he managed to hold control of the Aryan Brotherhood. In many ways, his bearing was his best asset. Nobody ever saw him coming, not until they felt the knife slide between their ribs.

  He peeled the rind off an orange, talking under his breath as he stared across the cafeteria. His lieutenant, a beefy skinhead named Hodge, listened close, never looking his boss in the eye.

  “It was the niggers,” Sweeny said in an even voice. “You know it, and I know it. No further investigation required.”

  “But one of the guys killed was a nigger.”

  “Good cover, huh? Law of averages. Even a fucking coon can understand it. Long as you get two white men at the same time, it’s cool to kill one of your own. Throws off the scent; gives you an alibi. Too bad there’s people like me who can see through their bullshit. Besides, Webber was a nobody, a fucking crackhead. It’s not like Diggs had Hall killed. No way. Those two are homeboys, y’know?””

  “Okay, so what do we want to do about it?”

  “Dumbass. What do you think we want to do about it?” He refused eye contact, even as his voice took on the properties of a rusty dagger.

  Hodge cleared his throat. “What I meant was, do we want to take two, even it up? Might start a war.”

  “We are at war, Hodge. Been at war ever since those monkeys went and got themselves emancipated.” He took a bite out of the orange, chewed it a few times before swallowing it down. “I’m tired of this eye for an eye game we’ve got going on. If we really want to step up--take this country back once and for all--it’s time we showed the rest of these fucks we mean business.”

  He nodded across the cafeteria, and Hodge followed his gaze.

  “Diggs?”

  “Yeah, Diggs. The head nigger, himself. It’s time that piece of shit went down for the count.”

  “We want to take out Diggs, we’ve gotta take out Tree, too.”

  Sweeny eyed Diggs’ bodyguard. Tree stood over six-foot-five, thick as a goddamn tank. Black eyes peered out from what had to be the ugliest face in human history. Sweeny had seen the big man crush a spic’s skull with his bare hands, retribution for a stiff drug deal. He’d heard rumors Tree had taken seven shots before slowing down long enough for the pigs to arrest him.

  “So go through Tree. I want Diggs to take a long fucking nap by the end of the week. There’ll be one hell of a reward to whoever pulls it off.”

  “Okay. I’ll make sure word gets out.”

  “Good. We’re gonna be back on top of this shitheap again. Mark my fucking words.” He grabbed his tray and stood, Hodge right behind him. He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. He turned to find a skinny little bastard with stringy red hair staring up at him, his jaw slack. Sweeny shot him a pissed-off sneer.

  “Eyes front, shithead.”

  The man did as he was told, almost falling out of his seat as he turned, and Sweeny led his good right arm out of the cafeteria.

  ***

  The cowering man went by the name of Maggot. It was not a name he had chosen. In fact, it was a name he hated with every last fiber of his being, but it was the name he had earned over his eight years in Burnham, and it was the name he would be stuck with for the rest of his life, because that was how long he was going to be a resident, and he knew good and well that, if he wanted that life to be a long one, he would accept Maggot as his given name.

  “Sorry, sir,” he muttered to his lunch, and he hoped Mr. Sweeny had not heard him. He did not like drawing attention to himself. Attention was bad, and he had taken more than a few beatings while screaming “Sorry, sir!” or “It won’t happen again, sir!” because of it. These days, he called everybody sir. Years before, he had called his own father sir, and the habit had stuck. Good manners usually did.

  Relieved at the sight of Mr. Sweeny walking away, Maggot curled himself over his tray, spooning a small bite of applesauce past his lips. Nobody sat beside him. Nobody ever did. He liked it that way; there was that thing about attention.

  The prison smelled wrong today. A stale smell filled the air, a stink like slow death. He remembered breathing the scent from years before, but he could not recall where.

  He held his breath as he chewed and swallowed.

  He gasped, almost choking on his applesauce, when a shadow fell over him. Wiping his mouth clean, he looked up and hoped he would not see a fist flying right at his nose. Sometimes you got sucker punched for no reason. Lord knows it had happened to Maggot a time or two in the past. Luckily, this was not one of those times. Instead of a punch, he saw a trio of Latinos, each one looking tougher than the last. The one in the middle, his face weathered, but his hair still dark and slicked back, jerked a thumb behind him.

  “You’re in my seat again, Maggot.”

  Maggot scrambled away from the table, scooping up his tray and taking it with him, clutching it tight to his chest.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That’s okay, but make sure it don’t happen again. I don’t tolerate bullshit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  One of the other Latinos watched the
skinny gringo leave. “That guy creeps me out, Marquez.”

  “Maggot?” the older man asked. “The little man’s harmless. Don’t twist your dick in a knot over him.”

  Omar Marquez sat down, and his boys sat down on either side. Rocha and Gonzalez were good soldiers. Marquez was lucky to have them working for him. At fifty-seven, he’d seen his share of good help and shit help, and these two definitely fell closer to the upper end of the scale. Their sales remained better than average, and they made sure the dirty work got done. Most days, you couldn’t ask for better without being an asshole.

  “Yeah?” Rocha said, “Well, I heard he ate two kids. Just made a stew out of ‘em and ate ‘em. You can’t tell me that shit’s right. I’m not gonna believe it.”

  “That so? I heard he got thrown in for kidnapping his sister’s chickens and trying to knock ‘em up with the second Christ. Truth is, nobody knows why Maggot’s in here, and don’t nobody care. Now why don’t you eat your lunch before you manage to piss me off.” He examined his tray. Same old slop. No wonder his stomach stayed angry at him all the time.

  “Sorry.” Rocha stabbed at his chow with a plastic fork.

  “And don’t sulk,” Marquez ordered. He’d never told himself the boys were at the extreme end of the spectrum, just close.

  Gonzalez picked a carton of orange from his tray and shook it. He leaned in close as he spoke, pushing the stink of tobacco and Pruno past his teeth. “I heard people talkin’ about those murders in solitary last night.”

  “No shit,” Marquez said. “Everybody’s talkin’ about ‘em. But if you didn’t hear anything reliable--anything useful--then it don’t add up to a squirt of piss. Hear anything useful?”

  Gonzalez shook his head, looked away.

  “That’s about what I thought.” He looked up, caught a glimpse of four approaching figures. “Here’s somebody who might have, though.

  “Anton Ribisi! As I live and breathe.” He smiled wide, making sure the old man got a peek at the sarcasm behind his salutation.

  The old man, somehow professional–-almost dapper--in his prison grays, never switched expressions. Marquez had heard people say Anton Ribisi was born with a poker face, and he believed it. He’d never seen a crack in that armor, not a single hint of anger, sadness, or joy. It was like emotions would just slow the Sicilian down, get in the way. Marquez admired the man’s control. It was a quality worth having if you wanted to run a good business.

  “Keep it up, Marquez. You tryin’ to make me laugh or puke?”

  “C’mon, Ribisi. Don’t play that way. Have a seat.”

  “A seat at your table? You lookin’ for prestige?”

  “The honor is all mine.”

  “You bet your spic ass, it is.”

  The old man nodded to his soldiers, and they flanked him as he sat down across the table. He set his tray down before folding his arms across his chest and taking a slow breath.

  “So what is it, Omar? I take it you’re looking for information again.”

  “I could be. What makes you think so?”

  “Everyone always is.”

  Marquez shrugged. He enjoyed these little duels with Ribisi. The two of them weren’t like the young chicos who ran the other factions. They were businessmen, respectable.

  Anton sighed. “To tell the truth, I haven’t heard a thing. This is strange, because usually I know every last fucking detail of what goes on in this shithole. Not this time, though.”

  “That’s a shame, Anton. A real shame.”

  “No shit.”

  “Does that make you feel inadequate? Like some puta?”

  One of the young gangsters made a move to stand, his face flushing with anger, but Ribisi put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. His eyes never left Omar’s.

  “No, you ballsy prick. I feel like I’m about to witness something bad.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. Think we might all be in for a world of shit.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Wish I could. It’s just a feeling, though. Couldn’t explain it if I tried.”

  “Because I’m stupid?”

  “No, Omar. Because I--”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Marquez looked up, the same as Ribisi, and found Officer Morrow standing over their table with a second guard. Morrow had a shit-eating smile on his face, some kind of “I’m your pal, so long as you don’t cross me” charm, and Omar felt the itching urge to slap it off. Instead, he repeated the smile he’d used to greet Anton. He was pretty sure Morrow didn’t get it.

  “Yes, officer?”

  “I need the two of you to come with me. Father Albright wants to talk.”

  “What about?” Ribisi asked.

  “I’m sure it’s all weather and stock quotes. C’mon. Your boys stay here.”

  Marquez nodded, saw Ribisi do the same. They stood together, then left the table like they owned the goddamn place.

  Three

  Ronald Timms looked up as a set of knuckles rapped quietly against his door. “Come in,” he said, and Heather stuck her head into the room.

  “Officer Kling is here with Deon Hall.”

  “Fine. Send them in.” A long sigh escaping his lips, he stood.

  The door opened again, and Kling guided Hall into the room. Kinnett expected the banger to be all attitude from the get go, trying to shrug from of Kling’s grip even as he sauntered with the casual ease of a real player, a sneer like a challenge on his lips. Instead, the C.O. led in a man who looked like he’d had the fight bled out of him. Hall’s breath rattled in the spacious office.

  “Sit,” he told the prisoner. He waved a hand at a chair that stood in front of his desk. At the same time, he walked out from behind the polished piece of mahogany, watched as Hall sat down, looking around through squinted eyes. There wasn’t a lot of light in solitary. The inmate’s movements were quick, anxious. Jumpy.

  “There’s no reason to be nervous, Hall.” He kept all but the smallest note of sarcasm out of his voice.

  “That shit’s easy for y’all to say.” A little bit of a sneer, but nowhere near enough to be convincing.

  “What do you have to be nervous about? Really?” he asked. “We just want to talk. No big deal.”

  “Bullshit, man! You know that’s bullshit!”

  “Watch your language there, Hall.” Kling, his voice firm.

  The con seemed to curl up into himself, his face twisting into a small pout. “Fuck y’all,” he said, and his voice was barely a whisper.

  Timms shook his head. “Y’know, Deon, I didn’t have to take you out of solitary for this. I could have come and done this right in the middle of your tiny-ass cell. I’d expect a little more in the way of gratitude.”

  “That so, Timms? Well, sorry all to fuck an’ back. How’s that tickle yo balls? Now, can I go back to my cell, please?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re not done talking yet.”

  “Fuck you, then!”

  Timms rushed forward, kicking a heel against his desk. It sounded like a shotgun going off in the small office. He jabbed a finger at Hall’s face, and the vicious sneer he twisted his own mouth into made the convict’s eyes bug wide.

  “That’s it, Hall! As of this moment, you get to shut the fuck up. You don’t say dick unless I ask for an answer out of you. Any other sound, and my fist goes right down your goddamn throat! Got that?”

  Hall’s nod was a tiny motion, like a mouse trapped in a corner.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good,” Ronald said, and his smile was almost instantaneous. “You want some coffee?”

  Hall shivered in his chair. After a long moment he managed to say, “Naw.”

  “No? You’ve been in solitary for two years, Deon. When was the last time you even had a cup of joe?

  “Can’t remember, man. Never really liked the stuff.”

  “You can’t remember? Jesus. C’mon! Have a cup. I’m not gonna spit in it or anything, okay? Scout’s honor.�
�� He flashed Hall a grin, one full of sincerity.

  “Fine,” Hall said. His voice still sounded frightened, small, but it was regaining some of its strength.

  “Great.” Ron crossed his office to where a coffeemaker sat on top of a short filing cabinet, a supply of napkins, sugar, and creamer beside it. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup from inside the cabinet and filled it. “Cream? Sugar?”

  Hall shook his head. “Naw, man. Gimme the shit black.”

  “Man after my own heart.” He turned to Kling. “Anything for you, Dave?”

  The officer smiled, but waved him away.

  “Good enough.” He poured himself a cup and returned to the desk, handing Hall his coffee. “Y’know, I have to keep all that creamer and sweetener shit in here because nobody wants coffee to taste like coffee anymore. Whole buncha crap, if you ask me.”

  Hall nodded and then took a sip. His lips curled at the bitter taste, but he took a second, larger sip before letting out a sigh.

  Timms took a drink of his own, watching the con over the brim. Once he swallowed, he set the cup on the edge of his desk.

  “So, Hall. I wanted to ask you a question or two about last night. We know the attack happened sometime between one in the morning and four. I was wondering if you might have heard anything during that time, maybe a struggle or an argument. Anything like that.”

  “Yo, Timms. I didn’t hear shit.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Absolutely? Nothing at all?”

  “I didn’t hear anything, okay? Just like I told you.”

  Ronald shared a look with Kling. The guard shook his head, disbelieving.

  “Don’t give me that, Deon,” Timms said. “I’ve been in the solitary unit enough times to know that place is far from soundproof. Three men were murdered, their throats ripped out. That doesn’t happen without somebody giving out one hell of a shout at some point.

  “Now, truthfully. Are you telling me you didn’t hear anything?”

  Anger flashed in Hall’s eyes. “I already told you, I didn’t hear shit! Ease up off my fuckin’ dick!”

  Ronald held up his hands. “That’s enough.” He took a sip from his coffee and set it back down, sloshed the brew around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “You’re protecting somebody, maybe? Diggs. You’re in solitary because of him, aren’t you? Protecting his honor from The Brotherhood? Maybe it was his people went in to get Jenkins, took care of Webber and the guard on duty to cover their tracks. Am I getting warm, Deon?”