"I've seen the inside of a prison before. But this seems strange to me, too."
Bolan was already making plans. If Cristobal was accommodating, there might be a way to obtain the tools necessary to stage a breakout. Comfortable as this was, for a prison, Bolan had no intention of remaining here any longer than was strictly necessary.
"What are you in for?"
"Not yet, not yet. We'll be together for a very long time. There's plenty of time to get personal and exchange stories in the future. But not too soon. The best friendships are forged slowly and crawl together at a snail's pace. I'll be here for another twelve years. You?"
"Life."
Stone gave a low whistle. "You must be a bad character, although you don't look it. I wonder if I'll be safe in my bed with you around." Stone laughed to take away any possible sting. "Come along and I'll show you around. But wait, wait. Do you have any money?"
Bolan drew out the fifty. He didn't imagine for an instant that Stone would be the sort of man to steal it. Although in prison, Stone had a wise and educated air that made it impossible for the warrior to consider him a hardened criminal. Bolan expected that Stone, who obviously knew the ropes, might be a valuable ally and would take pains not to offend him.
Again Stone whistled, this time sounding a note of amazement. "You're as rich as a bloody prince! You're worth a Peru, as they used to say. That will keep you for almost a year in this place. Cristobal only gets a quarter a week, and that's your main expense. Let me show you my former cell mate's hideout."
Stone drew the curtain and moved the dresser a foot from the irregular stone and mortar wall. He pulled a small rock from near the base of the wall, revealing a depression about six inches deep. At his direction, Bolan placed the fifty in the hiding hole. With the small stone back in place, a very careful scrutiny would have been required to detect the treasure trove.
"It will be safe now. You really don't have to worry about the other prisoners. Stealing is one of the things that can get you killed. Looking inside a cell when someone has the curtain drawn is another, since you might find someone hiding their stash. This is mostly to keep it hidden from Cristobal and the others. As it is, one member of a cell usually is pretty close by at all times, or you carry your valuables with you."
"What else can get you killed in here?" Bolan had to adapt as quickly as possible so that he could devote his attention to getting out, not to avoiding being killed.
"Do you like men?"
"Not to date," he replied dryly.
"Good. Looking at someone's queen the wrong way may get you carved up pretty badly. Some people here like men quite a lot. Apart from that, don't give the guards a hard time, especially the ones with guns. But they won't shoot you unless you try to make a break."
Stone drew back the curtain and took Bolan on a short tour. A washroom lay a little farther down the hall, with a grinning Cristobal in attendance, engrossed in a girlie magazine.
Water for showers was available on Wednesday and Saturday. Food was delivered three times a day, but it was only bread, cheese and water, serving to encourage the prisoners to patronize the services of the guards.
The main gathering place of the prison was the courtyard, which was the exercise area, conversation pit, soccer field, outdoor barbecue center in short, the focus of prison life. About two hundred prisoners crowded the yard, singly and in small groups. Two soccer teams occupied the central portion, with an interested group of supporters cheering both sides.
The only jarring note was the ring of guard towers around the high wall enclosing the yard, each manned by two men with long-barreled rifles equipped with sniper scopes.
Complacency was the word that sprang to Bolan's mind to describe his surroundings. As long as the prisoners and guards all played by the rules, life was as easy and profitable as it ever could be in this environment. He suspected that most of the prisoners were here for long terms and were intent on doing their time as comfortably as possible.
Bolan could never live that way. Echoing New Hampshire's motto, he believed in the words Live Free or Die. Spending one dreary day after another within four prison walls was bare existence. He would break through these forbidding concrete walls or die trying.
11
Bolan and Stone stood near a wall of the prison yard. Stone continued to chatter, explaining the intricacies of life in Lurigancho.
Cigarettes were the standard medium of exchange, except for certain of the guards who demanded cash on a regular basis. There was a set fee for various services within the prison, from laundry to sexual favors. Food, clothing, furniture, even prostitutes could be obtained from the outside for a small amount of hard currency.
"It's livable, Blanski, as long as you keep your wits and can get hold of a little cash. The guards will beat you badly if you can't afford to pay off. I've seen prisoners beaten to death, the rifle butts rising and falling as though the guards were pounding corn. The corruption goes right to the top, so no one lifts a finger. Of course, there are rats among the prisoners here like anywhere else. Not real ones. Those are considered quite a delicacy when lightly fried, so you don't see too many, barring a few in breeding colonies that some prisoners keep. I mean the two-legged kind. And it looks like we're going to get a visit from King Rat right now."
Five men were ambling along the edge of the yard in their direction. The prisoners lining the wall and soccer field moved to let the group pass freely.
Anyone who was a little slow was shoved aside by two toughs who were the point men for the small party.
"That's Raimondo," Stone explained. "He controls the drug trade within the prison, and as such he's rich and powerful among our little community. Don't try to interfere with his operations. That's another way to get killed in here. A couple of other cons have been knifed or had their necks broken this year, either because they were dealing themselves, or just because Raimondo didn't like them. People try to stay on his good side."
"Don't the prison guards maintain any sort of control?"
Stone snorted his contempt. "Violence and kickbacks are the way of life here. Sure, you can have whatever comforts you can pay for, but only the strong survive to enjoy them. If madness doesn't get you, disease or violence will. As for the guards, as long as they get their payments, they don't care if we beat or kill one another right under their noses. They seem to regard us as a separate species, not really human at all. If you get into trouble, you'll get no help from them. If you cause trouble with another prisoner, they won't intervene, either." Bolan stored away the data for later use.
Stone was proving to be a gold mine of information, just as he had hoped. Some of that information might prove handy right now.
The advancing party bore down on Bolan.
Three of the men were clearly the muscle, mottled with scars and broken teeth that showed long histories of hand-to-hand combat. The leader was dressed in a freshly washed and pressed prison uniform, with a silver cigarette case protruding from the shirt pocket. Gold flashed from wrist and throat.