Eight years in the Marine Corps
and you learn to sleep anywhere, under any conditions. This was different. In here, any time he began to drift off at night,
his mind began working and reworking the same questions that consumed his waking hours. Keeping him awake and further feeding
the anger that bubbled awayat a steady boil just beneath the surface. But Bishop liked that anger. It kept him sharp and
motivated. It had been a constant companion for the last two years and eight months, and he’d be taking it with him when he
left. That was for damn sure.
Still, at least Falstaff had come through like he promised. Bishop reached under his collar, letting his fingersbrush across
the thick black band around his neck until they found the smooth, polished surface of the onyx totem hanging underneath.
He let the insults being thrown across the court wash over him as he rubbed the Buddha icon, visualizing a beer in one hand
and two hours to waste at the Giants Stadium watching the Red Bulls slaughter the visitors. Yeah, thesmall pleasures definitely
took on greater significance when they were taken away from you.
But now wasn’t the time to let his guard down. Especially not with the all-important delivery tomorrow.
Exercise time was almost over. Pushing away from the wall, he moved back inside F Block before everyone else got called in,
his senses on high alertas he began the long trek back to the cell. He passed small groups of cons of varying ethnic denominations,
most of whom avoided him like the plague, and managed to keep a minimum of three feet between himself and the rest of the
human race as he moved amongst them.
He entered the main section and looked up at the three tiers of cells. The incessant din oftwo hundred prisoners packed closely
together filled the air like smoke. More would join once they blew the whistle in the yard. Cons walked in and out of cells,
playing cards, boiling noodles, making deals and avoiding eyes. Some would be in the TV room on the second tier, catching
up on the soaps. Most faces turned from him as he passed. Word had gotten around he wasn’tlong for this world and nobody
wanted to be seen talking to a dead man.
Bishop climbed the stairs and at the top tier turned left on the catwalkwith his hand on the rail. As he walked towards his two-man cell, he noticed all the other cells between the stairs and his
were empty. And he didn’t see any movement in the ones beyond, either.
He came to a stop outside the cubicle he’d called home for the last three years and stared at the two large men waiting for
him inside.
EIGHT
For whatever reason, a con involved in a conflict with a fellow inmate might find himself unable or unwilling to tackle the
problem on his own, and that’s usually where the Three Bears came in. Big Bear, Bigger Bear and Biggest Bear. For a price,
they would transfer any load onto their large shoulders and bring a natural end to the conflict.
Once the Three Bears were hired, the client received three guarantees. One: the job would be completed exactly to his specifications.
Two: only hands would be used. And three: it would be expensive. In a climate where few could be trusted, the Three Bears
prided themselves on their professionalism, their success rate and the almost surgical precision withwhich they could inflict
injury on a person’s body. Sometimes to within an inch of that person’s life. Occasionally beyond, if the rumours were true.
Two of them were currently occupying Bishop’s cell.
‘Meatloaf day today,’ said Bigger Bear, the more effusive brother. His black hair was cropped close to the skull and he had
intricate tattoosfrom the neck down. He lay on Bishop’s lower bunk reading one of Jorge’s long letters from his ex-wife.
‘How was it?’
Bishop leaned against the cell door, his expression neutral, his mind refusing to let his body respond to the danger the brothers
represented. First rule in
and you learn to sleep anywhere, under any conditions. This was different. In here, any time he began to drift off at night,
his mind began working and reworking the same questions that consumed his waking hours. Keeping him awake and further feeding
the anger that bubbled awayat a steady boil just beneath the surface. But Bishop liked that anger. It kept him sharp and
motivated. It had been a constant companion for the last two years and eight months, and he’d be taking it with him when he
left. That was for damn sure.
Still, at least Falstaff had come through like he promised. Bishop reached under his collar, letting his fingersbrush across
the thick black band around his neck until they found the smooth, polished surface of the onyx totem hanging underneath.
He let the insults being thrown across the court wash over him as he rubbed the Buddha icon, visualizing a beer in one hand
and two hours to waste at the Giants Stadium watching the Red Bulls slaughter the visitors. Yeah, thesmall pleasures definitely
took on greater significance when they were taken away from you.
But now wasn’t the time to let his guard down. Especially not with the all-important delivery tomorrow.
Exercise time was almost over. Pushing away from the wall, he moved back inside F Block before everyone else got called in,
his senses on high alertas he began the long trek back to the cell. He passed small groups of cons of varying ethnic denominations,
most of whom avoided him like the plague, and managed to keep a minimum of three feet between himself and the rest of the
human race as he moved amongst them.
He entered the main section and looked up at the three tiers of cells. The incessant din oftwo hundred prisoners packed closely
together filled the air like smoke. More would join once they blew the whistle in the yard. Cons walked in and out of cells,
playing cards, boiling noodles, making deals and avoiding eyes. Some would be in the TV room on the second tier, catching
up on the soaps. Most faces turned from him as he passed. Word had gotten around he wasn’tlong for this world and nobody
wanted to be seen talking to a dead man.
Bishop climbed the stairs and at the top tier turned left on the catwalkwith his hand on the rail. As he walked towards his two-man cell, he noticed all the other cells between the stairs and his
were empty. And he didn’t see any movement in the ones beyond, either.
He came to a stop outside the cubicle he’d called home for the last three years and stared at the two large men waiting for
him inside.
EIGHT
For whatever reason, a con involved in a conflict with a fellow inmate might find himself unable or unwilling to tackle the
problem on his own, and that’s usually where the Three Bears came in. Big Bear, Bigger Bear and Biggest Bear. For a price,
they would transfer any load onto their large shoulders and bring a natural end to the conflict.
Once the Three Bears were hired, the client received three guarantees. One: the job would be completed exactly to his specifications.
Two: only hands would be used. And three: it would be expensive. In a climate where few could be trusted, the Three Bears
prided themselves on their professionalism, their success rate and the almost surgical precision withwhich they could inflict
injury on a person’s body. Sometimes to within an inch of that person’s life. Occasionally beyond, if the rumours were true.
Two of them were currently occupying Bishop’s cell.
‘Meatloaf day today,’ said Bigger Bear, the more effusive brother. His black hair was cropped close to the skull and he had
intricate tattoosfrom the neck down. He lay on Bishop’s lower bunk reading one of Jorge’s long letters from his ex-wife.
‘How was it?’
Bishop leaned against the cell door, his expression neutral, his mind refusing to let his body respond to the danger the brothers
represented. First rule in
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