“What’s up, man?” Tall and skinny, with long greasy hair, Cooley wore an MMA T-shirt with tight rocker jeans and Vans on his feet. He looked more like a skater dude than a gangbanger. He had the usual tats, of course, but tats were so common these days they no longer signified anything. Too many wannabes inked up. Cooley strove for a tough image, talked like he’d spent a few years in prison, but John knew the truth. He was just a foot soldier, recruited by Weston Jager, his older brother.
“What the hell took you so long?” John growled, relieved when the car door slammed, muting the discordant music.
Cooley shot him a dark look. “That’s the first thing you say to me? What’s your problem, dude?”
What did he think? John risked a lot coming out here. If he was caught doing business with the Hells Fury he’d go to prison himself. “Nothing. Just give me what you owe me so I can be on my way.”
Cooley dangled a thick envelope in front of him, but when John tried to take it, he yanked it out of reach. “My brother’s got another job for you. If you’re man enough to handle it.”
“I was man enough to handle the last one, wasn’t I?” They’d wanted Bentley Riggs and he’d delivered him. He’d even kicked the bastard when the presence of other C.O.s forced him to break off the attack before Weston was finished.
Cooley made a tsking sound. “I heard you got yourself in trouble with that one.”
“See the risks I take?”
“That shouldn’t have been a risk. You didn’t sell it right. Westy said you came in late.”
Because he’d almost chickened out. “All’s well that ends well,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “That’s a happy ending?” Cooley cracked a smile.
“He was sent to the infirmary with a broken skull, wasn’t he?”
“I’m talking about what’s happening to you, man.”
John didn’t want to go into it. It was too upsetting. But curiosity compelled him to find out what the Hells Fury had to say about him. They thought they were so tough, but he was the one who’d done the bulk of the damage that day. “How do you know what’s happening to me?”
“Word has it you’re gonna be suspended.”
News traveled fast in prison, especially bad news.
“And that’s just for jumping in at the end,” Cooley added. “If they knew it was because of you Westy got to that faggot in the first place, they’d fire your ass.”
“They’re not going to fire me. I’ll get through this.”
“Too bad you have to worry about it. That’s what’s wrong with the system. We’re only trying to take out the trash, you know? Cleanse the world. Creeps like Bentley Riggs don’t deserve to live.”
John heard that all day, every day. If the Hells Fury weren’t pressuring him to smuggle cell phones, cigarettes or crank into the prison, or to provide privileges they didn’t deserve, they were asking him to serve up chomos—or child molesters—so they could exact retribution on behalf of the innocent victims who’d been harmed. Which was pretty damn ironic considering all the innocent victims they’d harmed. But John didn’t mind the irony. He hated chomos as much as they did. “We can’t snuff them all out. And I’m done doing favors for your brother. At least for a while.”
Cooley pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. “What do you mean by that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been written up. I need to lie low.”
With a wave of his hand he suggested John was too concerned. “Stop worrying. My brother’s got your back.”
John wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously. “There’s nothing Weston can do. ISU has already given me notice. My suspension got the rubber stamp from everyone, all the way up to the chief deputy warden.” Who should’ve shown more loyalty…
“That chief deputy…shee-it.” Drawing out the word, he punctuated it with a whistle. “She’s a mighty fine piece of ass, isn’t she?” Peyton was attractive. No denying that. In the beginning John had liked her. When he’d first started having problems in his marriage, he’d even harbored some hope that Peyton might like him in return. That if he lost Marguerite, he’d take a step up. But he didn’t care for her anymore. He preferred women who acted like women, not some ballbuster ice queen like Adams. She made him feel…inadequate. “She’s okay, I guess.”
“She’s more than okay, dude. She’s hot! What my brother wouldn’t pay for five minutes alone with her…” He made a thrusting motion with his hips. “I might even be willing to serve a nickel for some of that action, you hear what I’m sayin’?”
John backed away. “Listen, if that’s what Weston has in mind, tell him to forget it. I might need a few aces here and there to cover expenses, but I’m not crazy.”
“Chill out. You think we’re stupid? That would bring down the whole place, which would interfere with business. There’s no need for that.”
Detric Whitehead, the leader of the Hells Fury, would probably kill them both if they did.
“Westy has a message he wants you to deliver, that’s all,” Cooley said as he exhaled a fresh stream of smoke.
Communication work paid well and was the safest way to augment his income. Even if he was caught passing a written message, what convicts called a “kite,” he could claim he’d confiscated it. But right now…he was too concerned about the added scrutiny he was under.
“I’d do it, but I’m already in enough shit. I need to stay aboveboard for a while.”
“I told you, my bro’s handling your problem.”
“There’s nothing he can do.”
“Where’s your faith, man? We run the place. You know that.”
His arrogance annoyed John. The war wasn’t over yet. Peyton and the warden were doing all they could to weed out dirty C.O.s. They had Rosenburg working overtime, investigating anything that smelled remotely suspicious. But with so many inmates wanting so many things, there were simply too many ways to earn a buck and too many ways to spend the extra dough. He wasn’t the only one to sell out.
“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.” John was pretty sure the administration had won this battle. It was too late for anyone to fix, even Weston Jager. Or Detric Whitehead himself. “You going to give me the money or not?”
As soon as Cooley handed over the envelope, John counted through the stack of money. It was all there—two thousand bucks for making sure Bentley got his ass kicked and for smuggling in a cell phone. It would’ve been a nice financial boost if he hadn’t gotten busted. As it was, he’d lose more than that due to the suspension.
“We’re even,” he muttered, and turned away.
Cooley remained where he was. “That’s it, then?” he called after him. “I should tell Westy it’s a no? Deech won’t like that.”
“Deech” was Detric Whitehead’s nickname. They all had one. Even the general. “I can’t,” John said, but he was already calculating up his financial obligations, knew he’d be broke again in a few days. How would he survive the coming weeks?
He’d figure out what was going on with Rick Wallace and that stranger, that was how. News of what they were doing had to be worth more than the petty amounts he’d earned in the past—maybe even enough to finally get him out of the red.
He’d climbed into his truck when he waved to let Cooley know he had more to say. It might take a while to learn Wallace and Peyton’s secret; he could use a few bucks to keep him going in the meantime.