Trace, Chapter Three

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Chapter Three

The transport bus on Monday morning held Colin and two other prisoners, both young guys who looked like this was probably their first stint -- they had that wide-eyed, oh-shit-this-is-real expression that Colin remembered from his own reflection in the transport's tinted glass, the first time he'd gone in. He gave them a reassuring smile, and both of them pulled into themselves just a little more. Well, there was no helping some people.

The prison was about an hour out of the city, a long drive west past bedroom communities and townships, sleepy little villages, golf courses, and then just rolling fields. Railburg Township was small and miles from anywhere, with a lot of empty storefronts and decaying buildings, trailers on the outskirts. Most of the people who lived there worked at the prison if they didn't work at the fast food joints in town or the strip malls where the prison employees shopped. There was a single scummy motel, and a train station that had once been a shipping hub. Now it was mostly used by prison visitors, or recently-released inmates desperate to get the hell back to civilization.

Colin hadn't spent a long time there, but when he did his deal to get out of prison they'd kept him in town for two days while he was processed. By then he'd rather have been in Railburg Correctional than Railburg Township; at least in prison you could see the walls holding you in.

Just past the town, on the winding two-lane road to the prison, he started seeing flickers of black on the edges of his vision. For a second he thought he was going to pass out, but they just stayed there, dropping in and out of his peripherals. He ignored them until one flashed vividly enough that he could see what it was, and then he tried not to groan in case he freaked out the fresh meat. It was a badge, black metal like iron, and the flickers could easily be the manes of horses. Not the Darkman himself, but an honor guard.

The Darkman's riders were in Railburg Township, and they were following the transport to the prison. He wondered idly where Guye's soldiers were, but if the armies of the child-myths weren't massing -- if they were simply fleeing New York for some unknown reason -- then the Darkman's riders might have fled to Railburg, and there would be no reason for the soldiers to go there.

His suspicions were confirmed when they pulled up to the guardhouse, the first gate they'd have to pass through to get to the prison. There was a pair of black horses, one on each side of the gate, with tall figures in black uniforms astride them. They bucked and wheeled and screamed, silently, as the transport passed through -- but to his relief, they didn't follow. The black flickers around his vision stopped abruptly, though one of the new boys let out a low moan and Colin fought down nausea at being back. The guard driving the transport laughed.

Railburg lay before them, a quarter of a mile off, two of its five housing wings curving slightly around the central hub, blocking off their view of the rest of the prison. Sometime in the seventies the old prison, built when the state was young, had begun to fall to pieces, and the new modern building had been erected out of local white granite, some architect's dream made manifest. In the right light, Railburg could blind a man.

After the processing, after the strip-search and the humiliating medical examination and the cell assignment, Colin was led to the yard, shuffling awkwardly in cuffs and shackles. He hadn't seen Joseph yet, but he knew the guard who unchained him in the anteroom; the guy gave him a hesitant smile and said, "Watch out for the ABs."

"The Aryans better watch out for me," Colin replied.

"No, seriously Cat -- watch out for them. There's a new guy in the lead and he don't know you."

"He will," Colin said, rubbing his wrists, and he stepped out into faint chill and muted sunlight on cement.

Gutierrez was waiting for him, leaning against the wall of the prison a few feet away. He waved and Colin went to him with a smile, returning the tight one-armed hug Gutierrez offered and only stumbling a little when he slapped him on the back. Gutierrez was a lifer, already in his fifties, a small bald man made entirely of muscle. He hardly needed it; the last inmate to touch Gutierrez without his invitation had, they whispered in the cells at night, been struck down by God.

"How've you been?" Gutierrez asked, keeping hold of Colin's bicep and leading him to a little table nearby. It afforded unparalleled views of the yard -- the finest entertainment Railburg could offer most men -- and it had belonged to Gutierrez since long before Colin came to prison.

"Been all right," Colin replied. "You keeping your head down?"

Gutierrez laughed. "Sure, sure. We heard you were coming, you know. So what happened? You pull a big one, the cops get you by the heel?"

"Felony burglary while in possession of a deadly weapon," Colin replied.

"Hm." Gutierrez studied his face. "At least that's what you're telling them, eh?"

"Pretty much." Colin didn't even bother to deny it, not with Gutierrez. "Anything I need to know?"

"Not that I can tell you, but you'll hear it eventually from whoever knows it," Gutierrez said, rubbing his chin. "Hey, you heard Marlow died, right?"

"What? No," Colin said, startled. He'd sent Gutierrez packages monthly, with stuff for him and most of the guys Colin knew, and he'd always included some chalk for Marlow. "Holy shit, no kidding?"

"Yeah, man," Gutierrez said, seating himself on the table. Colin sat on a bench in front of it, leaning back to look up at him. "He's with God now."

"God tell you that?" Colin asked, grinning. Gutierrez gave him a solemn nod.

Colin lowered his head to watch the yard, startled by the admission; he shouldn't be, but he'd forgotten what it was like here.

He could almost see news of his arrival spreading -- the few prisoners he'd met on his way to the yard had either kept polite distance or greeted him cheerfully, and they were now dispersing throughout the compound. They'd approach a little knot of inmates and one or two would look his way, and then that little knot would separate and move on. Nothing like the prison gossip network; it would do his work for him while he sat quietly and let them look.

The air was thick with power, eddying currents drifting across it, and he could feel the way it moved around Gutierrez, around himself.

"Marlow dead," he mused. "That's a hell of a thing. What happened?"

"Heart attack," Gutierrez said.

"Jesus. He was what, fifty-five?"

"Fifty-eight. It's not a long life, man," Gutierrez reminded him.

"So, what, did he just drop on the yard, or how'd it go down?" Colin asked, because he was suspicious already; there were plenty of things that could look like heart attack, or be marked as a heart attack in the official paperwork if the guards had been involved.

"He was working," Gutierrez told him. "About a month ago now. Too much strain, I think. I offered to help, he said I shouldn't get involved."

"He was making a curse?" Colin asked. Gutierrez nodded. "Did it work?"

Gutierrez blew air through his lips, obviously trying to figure out how to word it. "No. Never finished it. There's some strange shit going down. Has been for a while."

"You're the second person in three days to tell me that," Colin said.

"Won't be the last."

"Anyone step up? To replace him, I mean?" Colin inquired, hoping this wasn't too blunt. It wasn't that he was glad Marlow was dead, but the two of them weren't exactly chief mourners. Gutierrez had never really liked Marlow and even Colin hadn't been his friend, just a co-conspirator.

"Not him specifically," Gutierrez said. "What about you? How's outside?"

"It was fine." Colin waved a hand. "Oh! I see Carmen sometimes."

"Yeah? Me too," Gutierrez said, a little smile crossing his face. "She comes to see me when she can. You see my boy?"

"Once in a while. Seems like a good kid."

"Hope I never see him in here," Gutierrez said quietly. "Hard to tell."

"Doesn't seem like that's where he's going," Colin told him. "Still in school, got a job, he's doing all right. But I'm not a fortune-teller, on the outside."

Gutierrez turned and bent a little, very soft indeed now. "No. I heard you were a snitch."

"Don't put that out there too loudly," Colin said, keeping his voice even. "Who'd you hear it from?"

Gutierrez pointed upwards, and Colin gaped; after all, knowing God was just sort of in the area was one thing, but he didn't think God had been paying that much attention to a sinner like himself. It was about two seconds before Gutierrez burst out laughing and Colin punched him in the arm.

"Nah," Gutierrez snorted. "I heard it from a guy who got it from this asshole named Galano in A Block."

"Galano," Colin muttered.

"He's a son of a bitch. Don't worry, nobody believes him. You knew him outside?"

"Something like that," Colin growled. "Is he gonna be a problem?"

"He is a problem, mijo. You had a meal here yet?"

"No," Colin said. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"You'll see when you do."

"I'll take care of him," Colin insisted.

"You ain't got the mojo to do that alone," Gutierrez told him. "We could together, though."

"Sure, we can do that," Colin said thoughtfully. "Hey, you seen Noel?"

"He's around," Gutierrez answered. "Don't know if he wants to see you yet. He'll find you if he does. If not..."

"I'll see him tonight," Colin finished. "Sure. The ABs giving him trouble? Guard told me to look out for them."

"Him? Fuck no," Gutierrez said. "ABs won't touch Noel now. You know what they said? They said when you walked out like a ghost, last time, you took Gustaf with you."

"Why in the hell would I take fucking Gustaf with me?" Colin demanded. "What kind of idiots -- "

"Calm down," Gutierrez put a hand on his shoulder. "They say you stole his soul and took him with you as a servant."

Colin exhaled, calming himself. "Nobody told them what happened? He's upstate now, Death Row."

"Sure, we hear that. Nobody knows if it's true. Some places..." Gutierrez shrugged. "You go into the dark, and nobody hears from you again. Gotta say, Bloods all like the idea of an AB being a slave. And it's better than the truth, huh?" Gutierrez asked. "Better for you, anyhow. The Aryans'll make trouble no matter what, but they'll find someone easier than you. Ah," he added, when Colin opened his mouth. "Can't save everyone, Suicide. Knock one down, another'll just get up."

Colin sulked a little, but he knew Gutierrez was right. You couldn't take care of every bully in prison; nobody would be left.

He glanced to the side, towards the fence; between the chain-link of the yard and the outer wall of the prison was a ten-foot gap, the patrol alley. A group of guards were out along it, some pacing, some stopping to talk or have a smoke. He saw Joseph there, listening to another guard who was no doubt lecturing him on patrol protocols. He had a gun, the biggest gun Colin had ever seen Joseph carry, tucked under one arm with the muzzle pointed at the ground. Colin dropped his eyes before one of the guards caught him staring, but Gutierrez was faster.

"You got un hermano in the guards, yeah?" Gutierrez asked.

"Not un hermano," Colin replied. "Un amante."

"Oh, de veras?" Gutierrez elbowed him. "Nice work. Don't stab this one, eh? Rifkin wants a word with you, by the way. Or he will soon."

"He usually did," Colin answered, standing up. "You see Noel, tell him I'm looking for him."

"Won't do any good," Gutierrez called after him, as Colin walked away. He threw up a hand to show he'd heard, then broke into a half-jog (a full run would put the guards on alert) towards another corner of the yard, where Rifkin was holding court. One of Rifkin's hangers-on tried to stop him as he approached, hand on his chest, and Colin narrowed his eyes.

"Better not," Rifkin called, deep voice booming off the walls. "You don't want to take on Suicide, man."

The man pulled his hand back as if Colin might burn him, stepping aside. Colin watched his face as he passed, memorizing the shape of his features, just in case. When he reached Rifkin, he grinned.

"Boy thought you were maybe AB," Rifkin said, offering his hand. Colin shook it, and Rifkin came away with a pair of Parliaments between his fingers. He tucked one in his shirtsleeve and the other between his lips.

"Man, what the hell are they doing?" Colin asked. "Everyone and their mother keeps telling me, look out for the Aryans."

"Stirring up trouble. Nothing I can't handle," Rifkin replied cockily, lighting the cigarette with a match. "So. Suicide. Welcome back. Got a job for you."

"Gutierrez said you wanted to see me," Colin replied. He appreciated that about Rifkin: he got down to business.

"Yeah. You know the Fives? Italian boys?"

"Most of them," Colin said cautiously.

"You go do whatever they tell you to do -- whatever they tell you," Rifkin said.

"Aw, come on, man's got his pride," Colin said, because he wasn't about to do anything for the Italians without knowing what he was getting into. Rifkin eyeballed him, and he settled down.

"Within reason," Rifkin amended. "Once you're done, you tell them Rifkin don't owe them shit."

Colin gave a languid shrug. "No proble -- "

"Those exact words," Rifkin cautioned. "You say, Rifkin don't owe you shit."

Colin frowned. "Do I need armed escort?" he asked sardonically, jerking his head at two of Rifkin's lieutenants. Rifkin laughed, sudden, sharp, the way he had the first time Colin had stolen his cigarettes.

"Go," he said. "Wish I could say it was good to see you, Suicide."

"Don't do the crime, right?" Colin said, and backed away until he was outside of the little crowd around Rifkin, then turned and hurried towards the loose assembly of men draped over benches and tables, yelling casual insults at each other and at guards too far away to hear.

Vincent Leoni sat at the center of it all, a tall olive-skinned man running slightly to fat, a former capo for one of the Five Families and now Consigliere of the Fives, the catch-all gang that took in Family boys in prison. He called himself the head of their Correctional wing; he controlled the Italian interests not just in Railburg but across the state, out as far as Jersey. Colin liked him, as much as he felt he could like someone who used to break fingers for a living. Leoni gestured him over when he caught sight of him.

"Rifkin sent me," Colin announced, by way of greeting.

"Oh, he did?" Leoni asked. "What's he say?"

"Says to do what you tell me," Colin replied. "Within reason," he added, when a couple of assholes laughed. Leoni eyed him with a lascivious grin, but he knew better. He might have tried it, before Colin went into Seg, but not now. Even though he couldn't know if Colin had any power anymore -- even though Colin himself wasn't sure how much he had.

"Pleasure before business," Leoni said. "How you been?"

"Couldn't complain, up till they arrested me," Colin said. "You look all right."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do okay," Leoni told him. "Sai ch'è successo a Marlow?"

"Si, certo," Colin replied. "Perch'è così segreto?"

"Segreto?"

"Macchè, parliamo italiano."

"Non hai sentito com'è morto? Mentre che faceva una maledizione. Meglio segreto."

"Eh, giusto. Allora dimmi, cosa vuoi?"

"What I want," Leoni said, gesturing for one of the younger men near the end to come down, "Is for Paolo here to show you around. Introduce you to the new boys. Make sure you can still pull off what I need. Any problems?"

"No, Padrone," Colin said with a grin, turning to Paolo and offering his hand. "Suicide Byrne."

"Paolo Vincenzio," the young man replied, shaking his hand. "This way. Let's do a lap."

They dawdled slowly around the yard, while Paolo talked and Colin listened -- about who was boss of which gang, about the power struggle going on among the Muslims and their tensions with the Bloods, about the Latinos trying to get all up in the Italians' business.

"What about the AB?" Colin asked. "Seems like everyone's warning me off them."

"Carl," Paolo said, nodding subtly in the direction of a short man with a shaved head and the slogan 100% on his temple, mirrored with a swastika on the other side. "Vicious son of a bitch. He might try to recruit you, he doesn't know better."

"I used to be in tight with the Aryans," Colin said. "Kind of."

"I been told you used to be in tight with everyone," Paolo answered, as Colin stopped to greet someone, moving on quickly when Paolo tugged on his sleeve. "What you want to be tight with the Aryans for?"

"Easier than not being," Colin said absently.

"Low class crackers," Paolo said, and spat in the dust of the yard. "White trash."

"Some," Colin replied. Paolo looked at him. "Most, maybe. Hard to reason with a Brother."

"You know about Noel?"

"Sure. He's not AB anymore though."

Paolo shrugged. "Says he's not. He does good work. Did me, see?" he said, and rolled up his sleeve to display a Sacred Heart on the inside of his arm. "He won't work for the AB, makes them a little tense. There's this story that when Noel got out of the gang you cleared out their last Grand Dragon or whatever, make sure he stayed safe."

"That's the story," Colin agreed.

"It works okay, but if Gutierrez didn't put the word out, they'd give him a harder time. You know Gutierrez," Paolo said. "He talks to God."

"Anyone can talk to God," Colin replied. "Difference is, when Gutierrez talks to Him, God talks back."

"Sure, sure. Hey, he said you had mojo. You make curses or what?"

"I do a little of everything," Colin said. "Paolo, this is bullshit, you're not showing me around for my health or theirs. So what's up?"

Paolo looked a little guilty, but not very much. "I gotta take you to see an S.M.M."

"S.M.M.? That's nothing to do with me. Fives shacking up with Bloods now?" he asked. Paolo shook his head.

"So there's this kid out of S.M.M. comes in, and first thing he does is get rowdy with Gutierrez," Paolo said.

"Surprised he's still alive."

"Yeah, well, he's just a kid. Next thing he does is tell Leoni he wants protection. The Bloods don't like mojo, he says, and he says he got mojo. So they won't protect him and the Aryans keep comin' after him. He tried La Mugre first, they wouldn't bite. Muslims would take him in but not with the Aryans on him. Crips just laughed their asses off."

"I can imagine," Colin said softly.

"Leoni says, prove you got mojo, but this kid can't prove shit. So Leoni figures, you prove this kid has mojo, or not, that proves you still got it, and we got a job for you."

"What if I lie?" Colin asked. Paolo grinned, a familiar grin. It told Colin that Paolo was one of them.

"I'll know," Paolo said.

Colin made a quick resolution not to tell Paolo any lies.

"If I prove he's mojo, you boys give him some protection?" Colin asked. He could feel himself slipping back into the lazy, clipped drawl of the prison. Words used with economy, and grammar optional.

"No. He's useless. He got mojo, then he's one of yours," Paolo replied.

"What, like you?"

"Fuck, whatever. Family first, I got a gang already."

"Either way, I don't need the Aryans crawling up my ass," Colin said, annoyed.

"Nobody does, man, but guess what? Anyway, he's probably got no mojo. Hey!" he called, as they approached a small knot of men in a corner of the yard, most of them Bloods to judge from their tattoos. "Hey Laney, you're gettin' called out!"

Colin fought the urge to rub his forehead in dismay. It would be Laney.

One of the Bloods stepped aside to reveal a young man with a roughly shaved head and a swollen, bruised cheek, stitches in his lip. Aryan work, probably. He was lucky they hadn't carved him up -- or maybe he was just strong enough to get away from the worst of it. Colin noticed raw open cuts on his knuckles.

"Suicide here to see you," Paolo said, grinning like this was a game. The other men looked at Laney but didn't move to defend him. Laney stood up and came forward, cocking his head at Colin.

"Hey, Laney," Colin said, his smile warmer than Paolo's. "How you been, man?"

"Fucked up," Laney replied, but he let Colin wrap an arm around his neck and smack him on the back before he stepped away again. The Bloods were giving each other nervous looks. The smirk was wiped right off Paolo's face.

"We'll talk later," Colin said to him in an undertone. "Just tell me you got mojo."

"Them Darkman riders still at the gates?" Laney asked.

Colin gave him an appraising look and turned to Paolo. "He's got mojo. I knew him outside. You believe me?"

Paolo had backed away to a safe distance. "Yeah, man."

Colin glanced at the others.

"You believe Paolo?" he asked. There were slow nods. "Okay then. Laney's mine. You touch him, you answer to me and Gutierrez."

"Gutierrez ain't got shit to say -- " one of them started, and Colin cut him off sharply.

"You touch him, you answer to me and Gutierrez, or you answer to Rifkin," Colin said loudly, and then turned to Laney. "Keep your head down," he muttered under his breath.

"And who the hell are you?" one man demanded. Another elbowed him in the ribs.

Colin didn't know either one of them. He ignored the question and turned to Paolo again. "Tell Leoni."

"Hey, fucker, I asked -- " the man said, and Colin snapped his fingers without looking at him. A slip of paper appeared in his hand and he offered it to the man, who sniffed and took it, looking like he was going to throw a punch in a minute. Then he looked down at what was written on it and went tense.

"See you later, Laney," Colin said, and walked away. Paolo hurried to catch up.

"What was on the paper?" he asked. "Hey, how'd you do that?"

"It was a secret," Colin replied. "His secret. Now he knows I know. Bloods won't give me any problems, I think. What time is it? Almost dinner, right?" Paolo nodded. "Okay. So you tell Leoni I can do whatever job he's offering. Some point I'm going to have to throw down with Carl. Right now, I'm going back to Rifkin because I don't want to get knifed over dinner. Everything clear?"

"Yeah, clear, okay," Paolo said. He broke off from Colin, hurrying back to the Fives. Colin gave Gutierrez a nod and went to join Rifkin for dinner.

He looked in vain for Noel on the dinner line, but he didn't see him. He did catch a quick glimpse of Galano, back in the kitchen where they were changing out the food pans and thawing flash-frozen vegetables cooked last week. He ducked aside quickly, hovering behind Rifkin and mostly unseen. He didn't need to get into it with Galano on his first day in.

The half-cup of vegetables that he'd been doled along with his beef hash was soft. When he prodded it curiously with his plastic fork, he found most of the pieces were rotten where they'd been cut. He opened his dinner roll, individually packaged in plastic, and almost had to spit out the bread when grit ground between his teeth. There were strange little seeds in the sad heap of peach cobbler they were given for dessert.

Well below standard even for prison. Gutierrez's remark about the food suddenly became clear. Colin narrowed his eyes at the kitchen and reminded himself to talk to Gutierrez and see what he had in mind.

"This is some bullshit," Rifkin said, delicately slicing off a soft, brownish patch on one of his carrots. A couple of other heads nodded. "Every fucking meal."

"What happened?" Colin asked.

"Fucking Galano got a kitchen job," Rifkin said. "I'm fucking starving because of him."

"This is rank," Colin agreed. "Nobody's done anything about it? We get this kind of food last time I was in here, there'd have been trouble inside of two days."

The other inmates just looked at him, flat-eyed, as if they didn't understand what he was saying. He frowned down at the food. After a few seconds, someone brought up some other petty grievance with the prison, and they just...kept eating.

Colin stuck with the meat, avoiding the vegetables entirely and trying to ignore the odd acrid aftertaste of the onions in the hash. He ate sparingly, and at one point he looked up to find Laney doing the same. Laney gave him a slow nod -- he was sitting alone, even in the crowded hall, a significant gap surrounding him on either side. Colin supposed it could be worse; he wondered how many meals Laney had managed to eat in peace since arriving.

Something to deal with in the morning, he decided, as they mustered into lines to return to their cells for evening lockdown. Colin fell into line -- his new cell number, block, and wing already memorized -- and followed the others out.

Here he was: back in a bare little room like the one in which he'd spent three years, with a toilet and a sink, a cot, a table bolted to the wall. It was empty -- no art on the walls, no stash of food and other supplies, nothing from the inmate commissary. There was a safety razor and a prison-issue toothbrush wrapped in plastic on the sink. He hadn't been allowed to bring anything in with him. He might not be here long, but three walls and some bars got boring pretty fast.

He closed his eyes and carefully didn't think about Seg. One wall was barred but open; that was enough. If he had to he'd lean against it and chatter at the men nearby until lights-out. They might be hostile at first but Colin could always talk someone into a conversation, given enough time. He distracted himself for the moment with thoughts of Joseph and Analise, the warm house in Brooklyn, the way New York was crisp and windblown in the fall.

He thought about Laney, who was really too old to see the Darkman but who'd never stopped when you were supposed to -- not like Colin, who'd never seen them at all until he came out of prison. It was beyond useless, believing in children's stories in a place like Railburg, but he couldn't deny it was mojo, any more than he could deny the riders at the gates. Laney was his responsibility, his and Gutierrez's.

He wondered what Joseph was doing.

The lights went out at ten, and they had their last bed check at eleven. After that Colin lay awake and counted, boring but necessary, until he slipped into a groove and the numbers ticked by without much thought. Around midnight, by his count, he stood up and stretched, then shuffled silently through the bars of his cell. On the other side he dusted off the little iron filings that always clung to his clothes, and went looking for Noel.

They said some folks with mojo could walk through walls. Colin could get out of his cell, of course, that was hardly a parlor trick. Marlow had been able to do that. But none of them could get through concrete, or the solid steel door of the cell block. Just as well, really. The temptation to escape would have been enormous, but even that would have been overshadowed by the temptation to get into the restricted areas -- the guards' common room, the locker room, the warden's office -- and make mischief. That would have been fine entertainment.

Not that where he was going was anything less than entertaining. In his last months in prison he used to spend hours after lights-out in Noel's cell, stretched on the bed, letting Noel tattoo him. Colin was the perfect subject, after all; Noel could cut beautiful epic art into Colin's back or chest or arms and in the morning the ink would wash right off his unblemished skin and he could do it all over again.

It took him some time to find Noel's cell again, padding silently through the corridors, ignored by the cameras and the few others who were still awake. When he did, Noel was sitting crosslegged on the bed in the dark, mostly in shadow. His thick red-brown hair had grown out shaggy since Colin had seen him last, over the tattoos on his formerly-shaved head, curling down over the scar on the back of his neck where he'd let Colin cut away a swastika. He was still and quiet and patient in the dark.

It seemed obvious, now, why Noel had been avoiding him. This was how it was supposed to be. Colin knocked his knuckles against the bars and then stepped through them, standing uneasily just on the other side.

Noel nodded, unfolding into a gangling, rope-muscled man as he stood up. He jerked his head at the bed and Colin went to it, pulling his shirt off. He lay down on his stomach, folding the shirt under his head, and drew his arms up to stretch out the muscles in his back. The cool prison air prickled on his skin.

Noel straddled the backs of his thighs, bending over him, and swiped a rag soaked in contraband alcohol across his back before he went to work. He'd been a very skilled and misguided tattoo artist on the outside. Inside he was still in high demand -- now, because his needles never hurt.

The work, painless, felt like gentle pressure, a warm point everywhere he cut and rubbed. Colin felt a drop of sweat land on his shoulder; he could hear Noel's harsh breath, knew he was feeling the pain Colin should feel, because that was Noel's curse, his penance.

He'd missed this more than he realized, the way his muscles unknotted under Noel's touch, the way the more relaxed he grew, the sharper Noel's movements were though the pain. Noel didn't like pain, didn't get off on it, but he wanted it all the same. Colin closed his eyes and dozed while Noel worked.

When it was finished, Noel dropped down next to him on the narrow bed, body pressed up against Colin's, a palm resting on his back.

"I missed you, Suicide," Noel said quietly.

"I missed you too," Colin mumbled, half-asleep.

"How long you in for this time?"

Colin turned his head a little, eyes still closed. He couldn't tell Noel about his fake ten-year sentence, couldn't raise his hopes; he'd be here weeks, at most. He considered telling Noel to ask Gutierrez, who would tell him the truth, but that was a coward's option.

"I don't know," he said finally. It was still cowardly but not so bad, and not so untrue.

"Ah," Noel answered. "It's like that."

Colin nodded against his arms. Noel's thumb pressed down into the muscle of his back, and Colin heard his breath hitch as the pain hit him.

"How much longer you got?" Colin asked. Noel exhaled, thinking.

"Fifteen years, sent inside six years ago...nine for my full sentence. Four, with good behavior and if I get a good public defender at the parole hearing," he said.

"You didn't want to see me in the yard today."

"You had business," Noel answered. "I wanted to say hello my own way."

Colin opened his eyes and grinned at Noel's face, bare inches from his. The lingering pain made him look tired and worn, even though he was smiling. "Show me?"

Noel pointed over his shoulder, up the wall to where a drawing was taped to the cinderblock. A pair of rough, sketchy wings on a man's back -- not feathered but leathery, with spines and scales, with sharp claws.

"Been saving it in case you ever came back," he said. Colin imagined he could feel them cut into his shoulders, the long bones rubbing up against his ribcage, terminating in claws brushing his spine. He was silent for a while, listening for the ease in Noel's breath that told him the pain was dying down.

"Galano's the reason the food stinks, huh?" he asked. Noel chuckled.

"That's what they say. When they talk about it. Nobody does, much."

"Gutierrez says we gotta take care of him," Colin continued.

"Can't help you there," Noel replied. "That's Gutierrez's show. I ain't got that much mojo. You two do. You knew Galano? Outside?"

"He's a nasty piece of work."

"Don't have to tell me." Noel settled a little deeper into the thin cot.

"What about this kid Laney? You know him?"

"Sure. Everyone knows about Crazy Laney," Noel replied. "He threw down with Gutierrez."

"So I heard. That why Gutierrez won't protect him?"

"Gutierrez got no time for him," Noel said. "They had a...whatsitcalled. Disagreement about God."

Colin laughed a little. "A theological dispute?"

"Sure. Gutierrez says he talks to God. Laney says ain't no God. Throwdown," Noel shrugged a little, then twitched like he was trying to shake off the pain.

"You're a master of brevity, Noel," Colin said.

"Uh-huh, whatever. Anyway, Gutierrez says Laney's a blasphemer, Laney says Gutierrez's a liar."

"Laney's got mojo," Colin said. Noel looked faintly surprised. "He sees devils. Maybe for him there's no God."

"So, what? You try to push him on Gutierrez, there'll be real trouble," Noel said.

"Laney's in trouble now. I know his family, I said I'd look him up. His gang pushed him out, the ABs are harassing him -- I can't let that go."

Noel looked pensive. "You can't fuck the Aryans up twice, Suicide. You put your ass on the line for me once, ain't that enough? You can't save everyone. Laney maybe don't want to be saved."

"He's one of us," Colin insisted.

"Listen, you forget how it is?" Noel demanded. "Whites stick with whites, blacks stick with blacks. Hell, the Latinos give me shit for running with Gutierrez. What the fuck you want, some kind of Rainbow Coalition up in here?"

Colin pressed his lips together, patient. Noel sighed.

"I got out, I know, you fucked them up for me," he said softly. "I don't want to see nobody get beat down. But you help Laney, you are asking to get in real trouble, Suicide. The new guy in AB -- "

"Carl? He leaves you alone, right?" Colin asked.

"Sure, because I got mojo. And because of you and Gutierrez," Noel added, thumb rubbing into Colin's skin again.

"He's nothing, then. I can handle him. Bigger things to worry about, anyway," Colin said. "But Laney's one of us. You in or out, Noel?"

Noel chewed his lip. "In. For you? Always in. But I don't like it."

"Thank you," Colin said. "You don't have to. I won't make you fight."

Noel nodded. "You'll get stiff if you stay. You should go back."

"Yeah." He pushed himself up, unthinking, and Noel groaned. "Sorry, sorry," Colin added, moving with care.

"Come back when it's gone," Noel grunted.

"See you in the yard," Colin told him, and started the cautious journey back to his own cell.

Chapter Four

Comments

[minkrose]

I was also somewhat irked by the lapse into another language, since it's a major pet peeve in things like Tolstoy and Holmes (and somehow, my copies never have translation notes).

As long as it's translated somewhere, it's fine, but otherwise, it's irritating.

But I did look it up on Google Translate, because I hate not knowing. It's harder to do that when I'm reading an actual book.