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you chilled about three thousand cops."
    I hopped down from the bunk to greet my inquiring friend face-to-face.
    "Obviously not all of us... and not quite three thousand cops." The lies came to my lips with an ease I found surprising. The fear was quickly turning to excitement. I would have no trouble winning this gullible oaf's confidence. "I'm Jimmy," I said as I extended my hand. No need for last names.
    "My friends call me Dog."
    "Okay, Dog, good to meet ya. Looks like we'll be sharing this house."
    "Not for long, my man. I'll be getting out of this hole in two weeks. Then I'm gonna grab my old lady and ride for two days. Only gonna stop to eat, drink, and fuck. How long you got?"
    "Already put in fifteen of a sixteen-month clip. They pulled me from Sacramento 'cause we were 'bout to get it on with the niggers there in a big way. They must have figured if they transferred out the gang leaders from both sides, the rumble wouldn't take place. The shit's gonna blow there no matter what they do." Again the lies flowed easily, and Fen-way bought it all the way. He didn't comment, just nodded as if he'd heard it all before. After about thirty seconds of silence he added, "When you get out, man, look us up. I ride with The Henchmen." He rolled up his sleeve and showed me The Henchmen insignia tattooed on his right forearm. "You can prospect for me if you want."
    "Dr. Death doesn't fucking prospect for nobody," I asserted abruptly. Fenway smiled. My instincts had served me well. An outlaw like Randall would never lower himself to prospect status. Fenway's eyes widened. "Dr. Fucking Death! Holy shit! You come look up me and my friends. I'll hook you up."
    "House check!" shouted an inmate from about three cells away.
    "Here we go again," said Fenway.
    "How often do they toss you here?" I asked.
    "Depends. Sometimes once a week. More, if somebody gets shivved in the yard."
    A guard walked into our cell and ordered, "Okay, you know the routine, turn around." Fenway was facing the back of the cell. I could see the guard from the corner of my eye as he searched under the mattress of the top bunk. The guard abruptly turned toward me. "Hey, Mack, wise up! You face the fucking wall during house check! Got it?" The guard smiled slightly, pulled a homemade knife from his pants pocket, and proceeded to slip it under Fen-way's mattress.
    This was it. I was supposed to say something and get in tight with the biker by exposing the guard's attempt to plant the blade. My mind was screaming No , no , you stupid idiot , we don't need to do this ! I'm in ! I'm in tight already ! but there was nothing I could do. I felt I had to proceed with what had been planned lest they try something too obvious and screw me up completely.
    I turned toward the guard and shouted, "Hey, hack, you pulled that shit from your pocket! No fucking way, man!"
    Fenway turned around in time to see the guard holding the mattress up with one hand, the blade in the other.
    "Shut the fuck up, asshole!" the guard ordered as he drove his club into my gut, just hard enough to look authentic. He turned toward Fenway.
    "Don't move, motherfucker!" he ordered. I had doubled over, as if the blow to my stomach had been effective, but I could still see two more guards come rushing into the cell. My head exploded in pain. Darkness. Silence.
     
    I woke up about four hours later in the prison infirmary. As I opened my eyes I recognized Dalton Leverick standing at the foot of the bed. He was dressed as a doctor—white coat, stethoscope, the whole bit.
    "Oh shit, I died and went to hell," I said with some irritation in my voice.
    "How are you, Martin?" Dalton asked with concern.
    "Great. Just great. I had it made with the guy. He bought everything I had to say. He practically invited me to join the goddamn club. There was no reason to pull that house-check bullshit. What the hell went wrong, anyway?"
    "When two of the other guards heard the commotion they thought you and Fenway were attacking