Crap.
My mind hurtles back in time to our run-in with the Pritchard Park Bonys. None of them mentioned any names, let alone the name of their leader. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any Bonys anywhere who seemed like leadership material.
Except for this guy.
“You?” I say, going out on a limb.
“You damn right!”
The masked man tips his head back and laughs. The sound allows me to breathe again. And sounds strangely familiar.
“What brings y’all to A-town?”
“I … uh …”
I glance at Quint, who looks like he’s about to piss himself, but thankfully, Lamar pipes up from the backseat, trying to sound more hood than country, “Her baby daddy caught a case, yo. So, we goin’ to the capitol to bust his ass out!”
“Ohhhh shiiiiiit!” The leader of the Bonys covers his toothy rubber mouth with a fist. Then, he offers it to Lamar for a bump. “Yo, Fat Sacks!” he yells to the Bony in front of the truck, wearing a black ski mask and a neck full of heavy gold chains. “These muhfuckas is gonna storm tha castle!”
The other Bony says something, but evidently, I’m not the only one who can’t hear it because the prez shouts at him to repeat it. The gold-chain guy pulls up his ski mask and shouts louder, and everyone in the car gasps audibly.
“Holy shit!” Quint whisper-shouts.
“Is that Big Boi?” Lamar asks.
“From OutKast?” I squint, trying to get a better look at him before he pulls his ski mask back down. “No way.”
Lamar, Quint, and I all turn to stare at The Prez in unison. I want to ask him if he’s André 3000 so bad, but I also want to live, so I keep my mouth shut and pray that Lamar does the same for once in his life.
“It’s y’alls’ lucky day,” The Prez announces, slapping the roof of the truck and making us jump. “My VP and his boys here are gonna give you cats a lift. It’d take y’all ten hours to get through this shit in that redneck mobile.”
“Oh my God! That’s what the GPS lady said!” Lamar whispers as Quint and I open our doors.
May 7
Wes
Three hundred fifty-four cinder blocks, and not a damn one of them is even a little bit fucking loose.
I know because I stayed up all goddamn night, checking every single one.
The air vent is too small for a toddler to crawl through.
The floor is solid cement.
There are no fucking windows.
No fucking outlets.
And because the lock is unpickable without a bent nail, they put everything in here together with screws.
Out of options and ideas, I’ve been lying on my cot for the last few hours with my hands under my pillow, whittling the end of my bonus toothbrush into a spike, using the side of a screw. I don’t want to have to hurt these guys. I actually kind of like them—well, except for Mac. But if it comes down to them or me …
“Mornin’, sunshine. How you doin’?” Elliott calls from the hallway before appearing with a plastic tray. His smile fades as soon as he sees me. “Sorry. I guess that’s a silly question, ain’t it?”
I sit up, leaving the evidence of my shiv-making operation under my pillow, and scrub a hand down my face. “I was hoping I’d get some sleep with Doug bein’ gone, but”—I shrug—“not so much.”
Elliott shakes his head. “That was the cryin’-est damn man we eva had in here.” He lifts a hand to the ceiling. “God rest his soul.”
While Elliott reaches for his key, the rusty-ass gears in my brain slowly begin to turn again. “Since nobody took his spot, I guess this is a slow week for arrests, huh?”
“Why? You lookin’ for a cellmate?” Elliott wiggles his eyebrows at me while he unlocks my door.
I know he’s cracking jokes to keep things light, but heavy is the name of the game right now.
“Nah. I was just thinking, it’s probably nice for you guys to have a day with no executions. No burlap jumpsuits. Nobody crying or pissing themselves. No last meals or last words. That’s gotta be hard, day after day.”
Elliott narrows his eyes at me as he sets my tray on my sink. “You tryin’a guilt-trip me, handsome? ’Cause I ain’t fallin’ for it.”
“No. I just know you guys didn’t exactly sign up for this,” I say, repeating his drunken words from last night. “But hey, at least you won’t have to do it much longer. Now that they’re televising the sentencings, I’m sure you’ll get some acting work soon.”
Elliott steps back out of my cell and closes the door with a loud clang. He can’t look at me until he wipes the flattered smirk off his face.
What a shit actor.
“When you said, ‘All rise,’ in the courtroom yesterday … I got chills, man. Didn’t even sound like you.”
Elliott purses his lips to keep from smiling as he rests a hand on the billy club hanging from his utility belt. “I’m just tryin’a shine. That’s all.”
“Well, good fuckin’ job.” I stand up and grab the tray off the sink by the door.
“Pssh.” Elliott drops his eyes and waves me off, but he doesn’t leave.
We’re only about three feet apart now, separated by a few dozen metal bars.
“For real,” I say, going in for the kill. “You know, I have some friends in the TV industry. Maybe they’ll notice you tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be watching my … you know.”
Elliott’s face falls.
“I would offer to put in a good word for you, but I’m sure you’re not allowed to let me talk to anyone. Or maybe you can. I mean … it’s not like there are any laws anymore.”
“Nice try, handsome, but no laws means that the chief can skin me alive and wear me like a Gucci fedora if he wants to, so ixnay on the calling your friends-ay.”
I shrug. It’s not like I have anyone to call anyway. I just want him to think I have something he wants.
“Why you tryin’a help me anyway? You know I can’t let you go.”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve got, like, eighteen hours to live. It couldn’t hurt to do somethin’ nice for somebody before …”
“Before you meet your maker.”
I clench my jaw and nod.
“Well, for what it’s worth”—Elliott glances up at the camera at the end of the hall and turns his back to it, finishing his thought under his breath while he locks my cell—“anybody who walks the Green Mile already got themselves a one-way ticket into the pearly gates, as far as I’m concerned.”
Elliott pockets his key and steps away from the bars. Using his normal volume and level of sarcasm, he says, “Eat up, buttercup. I’ll be back for that tray in half an hour.”
“Thanks, man,” I say in a tone as low and sincere as the one he used ten seconds ago.
Then, as soon as he’s gone, I shovel the gruel he brought me into my mouth in about three angry bites. I can’t tell if it’s oatmeal or grits or regurgitated fucking Cream of Wheat, and I don’t really give a shit. I have eighteen hours to con, fight, or fucking dig my way out of here.