CHAPTER 34

I was alone in my cell. Not quite alone. The snub nose was there. At least, in my mind. Last time I saw it was on a bookshelf in my office. Behind a copy of the Iliad. That bothered me. More than anything had bothered me in a long while.

A buzzer rang and my cell door slid open. Three-hundred-plus pounds of black man in an orange jumpsuit creaked into the bunk below me without a word. The cell door slammed shut and we were alone. I could hear voices from somewhere down the hall, harsh angry sounds, the buzz of violence humming just underneath. A metallic lock turned over and a second door slammed somewhere close. Then it was quiet again. I stared at chunks of grayish plaster curling off the ceiling and wondered how much of it was asbestos. A long slow bout with cancer, however, was the least of my worries.

“White meat.”

The voice came from the depths below. It was a voice without malice, without anger. Just a lethal sort of boredom.

“Name’s Kelly,” I said and tried to slow down time as much as I could. If I had to fight, I’d fight. That was how it went inside. Unless you preferred a shank in the stomach, that is.

“Kelly, huh. Heard them guards talking ’bout you. Said you was a cop. Done up for murder. I’m thinking you ain’t Kelly no more, boy. Just white meat.”

My new friend laughed and shifted his body weight in the bed below. I swung off my bunk, boots first, and caught him flush with a size ten in the side of the head. The connection felt good. His head slammed back against the iron post of the bed frame. That felt even better. I dragged him by the shirt, out of the bunk, and onto the floor. He was heavy and out of shape. He was also most likely a killer, locked up with me in a space eight feet long by five feet wide. Best not to take any chances. Before he could get to his feet, I kicked him again, twice more, solid shots to the back of the head. He was groggy now but still with it. I ripped his shirt over his face so he couldn’t bite me. He got one hand around my windpipe and began to squeeze. I wrestled him over to the toilet, broke his grip, and drove his head to the bottom of the metal bowl. He came up for air after about ten seconds, his head slipping free of the shirt. I waited for him to say enough but he wasn’t saying anything. Just blowing air and trying to grab at me. I was behind him now and that wasn’t going to happen. The key was to keep things moving. Keep him off balance. No time to think of a way to get the advantage. I moved him off the toilet and back to the bed. I’d stripped off my pillowcase before he’d even entered the cell. Now I whipped it tight around his neck and began to squeeze from behind. His body was still on the floor, his face and neck soaked and lying on the side of the lower berth. We’d been at it less than thirty seconds and had barely made a sound. I thought I had another fifteen to twenty seconds left in me. Either he’d be dead, I’d be dead, or we’d come to an understanding. I leaned close to my cellie’s ear.

“You want to fuck with me? That what you want?”

I twisted the linen tighter around his neck and looked for the results in his face. The mouth was open now. Eyes bulged white and red in their sockets. I could see his chest, full of air that had nowhere to go, and his tongue, playing between a set of yellow teeth and silver fillings. I leaned in again.

“We got a problem, I’ll finish this right here. Like you said, I’m done for murder anyhow. Up to you, friend.”

I waited. My cellmate gave the slightest nod of his head. I loosened my hold on the pillowcase and he slammed forward into the bed. Taking in great reaches of air, spitting up some blood.

“Fuck the matter with you?” he gasped.

I kicked back up onto my bed. Wary but willing to believe it was finished.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Marcus.”

“Well fuck off, Marcus. I ain’t nobody’s meat. And if I have to kill a motherfucker like you to prove it, that’s okay too.”

Marcus was leaning forward on his bunk now, rubbing his neck, grabbing some more air and giving me a look of proper disdain.

“If I want you cut, white meat. You get cut.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Now stash all the fucking Rambo shit. I don’t want to fight you. Just seeing if you was going to be a bitch in here or what.”

“Now you know.”

“Okay, now I know.”

“Great, Marcus. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

“You a grouchy ass,” Marcus said and spit some more blood onto the cement floor. Then he eased back down in his bunk. I did the same. Marcus, however, couldn’t leave it alone.

“You really a cop?”

“Not anymore.”

“Who you kill?”

“Shut up, Marcus.”

“Was it a bitch? I killed a bitch of mine on the South Side a while back. Shit, ten years ago now. Screwing my brother, you can believe that. Not what I’m in here for though. Fucking cops too dumb for that.”

The buzzer rang and a skinny white guard came up. He carried a badge, a nightstick, and a bad complexion. He looked at me, looked at Marcus, and looked at some of Marcus’ blood on the floor.

“Fuck’s been going on here,” he said and poked my cellie with his nightstick. Marcus rolled over and faced the wall. The guard looked up at me.

“What happened here?”

“Slipped and fell,” I said.

The guard snorted. “Come on. Detectives want to talk with you.”

We walked down a short hallway and into a small holding room. Dan Masters was already there, thumbing through some paperwork.

“Uncuff him.”

Masters spoke without looking up. The guard did as he was told and left. I sat down and waited. After a minute or so, Masters restacked his papers and pushed them across the table. I took a look. The top sheet was a release order with my name on it.

“What happened to you?” Masters was looking at five fingers’ worth of bruises on my neck.

“Cook County’s Welcome Wagon.”

The detective shook his head. “That didn’t take long. You all right?”

“I’m fine.” I picked up the release order. “Tell me about this.”

“You’re out.”

“How do you figure?”

“Appears Evidence lost the murder weapon during processing.”

“Convenient.”

Masters raised his chin as if I’d asked him to fight. “No murder weapon, no case. In fact, the prosecutor’s not even sure there was ever a gun to lose.”

“Damn, by this afternoon Johnny Woods will have died from a massive stroke.”

The detective didn’t find me very funny. “If I were you, I’d shut up and run with it.”

Masters looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he stood up and left. I sat at the table and read through the paperwork. It was all there. A guard took me to the front. Fifteen minutes later, I was processed and back on the street, wondering what in the hell just happened.