March 1978
By the morning of his thirtieth birthday, Vernon Schillinger
had come to grips with the fact that he was one of those unfortunate
fuckers who was doomed to an early middle age.
Nobody was ever going to hang the tag 'surprisingly
youthful' on ol' Vern, that was for sure. There was too much hair gone
already. Too many lines in his face, set too deeply. Too much softness
beginning to settle around his midsection now, the flesh starting to
bunch into rounded accordion folds when he rolled himself up from his
bunk every morning for count.
No, his thirtieth birthday would pass as unremarkably
and uncelebrated as his twenty-ninth had. And his twenty-eighth, before
that. Which was, frankly, not all that big a deal. Not like his birthday
was the important anniversary in Vern's life, anyway. The day for celebration,
the only one that counted, was still a year, one month, and fourteen
days off in an irreconcilable future.
"Hey, Vern-o!"
Vern's hand slipped in mid-shave. Before he could recover
and steady his stroke, the razor had already dipped at enough of an
angle to snag on the underside of his left nostril, slicing open a small
but stinging nick.
Mercer. Great.
Willfully ignoring the overly familiar tone, the detested
nickname, Vern pressed his lips into a thin greeting smile as he met
Mercer's lantern-jawed mug in the shower room mirror.
"Larry," he acknowledged with what passed
in Vern's facial vocabulary for a pleasant nod.
"Cut yourself, there."
Mercer leaned past Vern's shoulder to jab at the reflection,
where the base of Vern's nose was now showing a short dash of crimson.
"Thank you, I see that," Vern replied dryly,
comforted for the briefest of moments by a flash-vision of himself turning
suddenly and lashing out at Mercer with a much larger razor than the
sadly ineffectual orange plastic Bic disposable he currently held in
his hand.
A gleaming four-inch cutthroat would do the trick nicely.
A blindingly swift lunge, because hell, while he was fantasizing, Vern
would be a sleek weapon too -- twisting effortlessly into and out of
Mercer's range with the avenging grace of a chop-socky movie martial
artist.
Yeah, boy, the stark-yet-dingy shower room tile splashed
with Mercer's blood, spurting out in a four-foot radius from the vicious
energy of Vern's attack...
He suppressed a chuckle. Oh, Lordy...
"New guys comin' in from processing this afternoon.
John says there's maybe a couple of ours on the bus," Mercer continued,
rudely jolting Vern back to reality.
Vern picked up Mercer's movements again in the mirror,
watching surreptitiously as he unbuttoned his sloppily tucked, grease-and-sweat-stained
work shirt. Now that was just a fucking disgrace. Leader of the Aryans
running around like that, looking like a gas station attendant, for
chrissakes.
Where was the example? Where was the pride?
"We could use some new blood," Vern replied
as neutrally as he could manage, monitoring Mercer's reflection carefully
for a reaction.
Mercer did pause for a moment, ridiculously enough,
in a wobbly one-footed, mid-pants-shedding crouch. But as much of an
idiot as Mercer could be, it wasn't likely he'd be goaded into that
easy a reveal.
"Yeah." Mercer gave his wadded up pants-shorts-socks
combination-unit an unceremonious kick into the same corner he'd discarded
his shirt before straightening, pulling his deceptively cherubic form
to full six-foot height -- as if in reminder -- or warning.
He wasn't all that big, really, but Mercer did
have the hale Brownshirt build -- a kind of old-time Bund beer hall
burliness that had managed to carry him into his early fifties still
able to more or less fend for himself.
More or less. For now.
Meathead.
"If there's new guys coming, we oughta have a meeting,"
Mercer shouted back over his shoulder at Vern, competing with the noise
of the shower. "Get it set up, huh? Organization Man."
Vern seethed silently, half turning and cocking his
hip against the hard ledge of the sink. Get it set up. Like he was Mercer's
goddamned secretary, or something. But not only did Mercer not wait
for Vern to reply, he immediately stepped into the shower and blasted
the spray hard and loud enough to preclude any further conversation.
Dis-missed.
Vern aimed a deadly glare at Mercer's glistening wet
back. Get it set up. Certainly. Of course. Anything you say, massah-suh.
Asswipe.
Vern turned back to the mirror. He blotted the remaining
scraps of shave cream from his face, packed up his kit, and strode back
to the block, grumbling the whole way. 'We oughta have a meeting', he
mimicked savagely under his breath, jutting out his jaw to caricature
Mercer's oversized chin.
No wonder the fucking wops were gaining the upper hand
in Lardner these days. At least the greaseballs understood how to run
an operation. Mercer was nothing but a joke; Bobcat Allan would be turning
over in his grave if he saw things now.
Oh yeah, Mercer could bust skulls, all right. But any
stupid ape could do that -- just ask Tutweiler and the niggers down
the hall...
###
Ordinarily, Vern wouldn't have thought much about the
sounds of commotion on the other side of the unit. Stupid shit was always
going on at the dark end of town -- Tutweiler, or one of his hench-gorillas
shaking down some other dumb 'bunny for money, drugs, disgusting nigger-faggotry.
Once in a while the spectacle of violence would rise to the level of
genuine entertainment, but real shank duels, or well-matched knock-down
brawls, those were pretty rare. For the most part, the white inmates
at Vern's end of the corridor would just lean out of their cells, peer
down the way to make sure they weren't missing anything really good,
and shout a few choice suggestions for the combatants to shut the fuck
up already.
But when John Ahrens came running up and grabbed his arm hard enough
to hurt, Vern knew something unusual was going on.
"What's happening?" Vern asked between panting breaths as
he followed Ahrens at a brisk trot. Inmates beginning to spill out of
their cells milled aimlessly into Vern's path, cutting off his ability
to hear Ahrens' reply. He did manage to make out a spat reference to
'Tutweiler', though, and really, that was enough.
As they neared the back of the unit, the noise suddenly increased, shouted
curses: fuck off motherfucker! and a clangy metallic crash.
Holy shit, what the hell was going on in there?
Shouts and jeers rang off the walls:
"Yo, Tutty! Fuck that sweet white ass!"
"Get that boy, man!"
White
The word burned in Vern's ears, and something automatic,
primal seemed to kick into gear. New busload of inmates, and Tutweiler
was trying to take another white prag. He'd had a string of 'em in F-block
and now he was trying to do it here? Right under the nose of the Brotherhood?
Not in Vern's goddamned unit. Not while he was still alive to
do something about it.
Blood pumping, roaring in his head, Vern bulled his
way through the startled crowd beginning to gather around Tutweiler's
cell. Before any of Tutweiler's buddies could react, Vern had already
burst through the doorway, Ahrens following in his wake.
"Get your fucking hands off that boy!"
Vern's voice sounded huge and furious, even to himself.
It took a moment to register the fact that it really was a boy
struggling to breathe past Tutweiler's monstrous strangling hands.
"...kill this fucking little bitch!" Tutweiler yelled -- a
strange, high, crazed note in his voice very different from his usual,
cool 'hey-my-brother' bullshit mellow.
"Tutweiler!" Vern bellowed again, this time stepping in, stepping
up, and reaching prying fingers in to ease back Tutweiler's vise-grip
on the boy's throat. Ahrens jumped in too -- once Vern had led the way,
of course -- surprising Tutweiler with a two-handed, laced-fingered
smash to the upper back.
When Tutweiler twisted around to look for the source
of the clubbing, Vern managed to land a blow to his jaw with one hand,
while continuing to tug on that iron-fisted stranglehold with the other.
"...kill you too, Schillinger!"
The kid let out an audible gasp: fuck, and suddenly broke loose.
Tutweiler's buddies had had time to react by now though, and in what
seemed like an eyeblink, the tiny cell was filled with hot, angry bodies,
roiling in ancient hatreds and generalized rage.
Jostled and tossed in the melee, Vern felt an odd peace,
dizzily elated in the luxurious wash of violence. He tasted blood in
his mouth and lost track of the scot-free damage he was inflicting,
how many times he'd lashed out, making hard, random contact with his
fists and his feet.
"Break it up! Break it up!"
The shouts, billyclubs, and blue-jacketed elbows of
the hacks moving in finally managed to penetrate Vern's awareness. He
was hauled in mid-swing off some nameless 'spic who'd wandered into
the mix. Rough Irish, cop-reject hands shoved him to the far side of
the cell with the other white faces, all held at bay by a wall of braced
uniformed arms.
Vern blinked and found himself standing again -- panting,
humming with energy -- next to the boy whose life he'd likely just saved.
He turned slightly to try and get a better look at the unknown beneficiary
of his own foul mood that morning. Not that it really mattered. Nothing
personal, here. Vern had just been sparing the Brotherhood an indignity,
after all... He could admit a slight curiosity though, as to what it
was about this kid that had pissed off Tutweiler that badly.
But before Vern could even manage a good look, more
hack arms were in his face, more hack hands grabbing and pushing, bored
hack voices yelling: "Show's over! Back to your fucking cells!"
And Vern was about-faced and shoved into a shuffling
double-time, close enough behind Ahrens to breathe the hot scent of
his sweat. Together, the small gang of white inmates were herded away
from Tutweiler's cell and back down the corridor. Up at the front of
the line, Vern spotted the fuzzy tips of Mercer's gray-blond brushcut.
Nice of you to stop by, fuckhead. Last in, first out.
Way to stand up for the race.
Once he had come down a little more from his adrenaline-smug
high though, Vern couldn't help wondering what the hell he had been
thinking, jumping in blind like that. He might have just put his timely
release from this hellhole in jeopardy with that little stunt.
At least the hacks didn't seem inclined to make a big
paperwork-generating mess out of the altercation, thank God. And for
once, Vern was actually grateful for derelict government employees doing
as little work as possible on the taxpayer dole.
The entire Brotherhood was buzzing with excitement at
the other end of the hall. Without particularly trying, Vern tuned in
tidbits of conversation:
"Seventeen fucking years old, that kid."
"And they sent him here? You on the bus
with him? He talk?"
"Yeah, but no, kept to himself."
Seventeen, Jesus. Vern knew the state was starting to
sentence some juveniles as adults now, but in the three years he'd been
at Lardner, he hadn't seen one yet. Guess there had to be a first time
for everything.
"Where'd he go?" Vern was mildly surprised
to hear his own voice speaking.
"Who? Keller? Hack took him to the infirmary, see
if his head's gonna stay on," Ahrens replied. "Think you got
there just in time, Vern."
"He even one of ours?" Vern asked with a resigned
sigh, knowing in his gut the answer was going to be 'no'.
"Nah. Seems like a loner," piped in a guy
Vern had never met before. One of the new Brothers, presumably.
"He's still a white kid," Ahrens said quietly.
"We oughta get him moved down this end. You saw Tutweiler, that
ain't just gonna pass."
Everyone was silent for a moment as the implication
of that sank in. And it was true, if Tutweiler had set his sights on
the boy, for whatever reason, it would be a major loss of face if he
failed.
"You got nobody in with you now," Mercer spoke
up suddenly, nodding in Vern's direction. "Why don't you take him
for a while?"
"What? Larry..." Vern started to protest,
but it died in his throat under the dismissive shift of Mercer's eyes
back towards Ahrens, and the impromptu AB meeting Vern had managed to
set up without even meaning to. The continuing conversation drifted
around, while Vern's main attention settled in for a good mental bitch'n'moan
at this latest insult to his fast-waning dignity.
Fate had it in for him, Vern didn't know what other
explanation to credit or blame at this point, because he had already
been stuck, over the past three years, with the worst succession
of cellmates imaginable.
For the first interminable 18 months, it had been Eyre
-- the loudmouth. From lights up to lights out, Eyre had jabbered non-stop,
voicing his moronic opinions on every fucking thing that happened every
fucking day. It was like being stuck in hell with play by play from
Howard Cosell. And of course since Eyre had been a personal pal of Mercer's
from a previous stint, Vern couldn't even beat the jackass to shut him
up. The day Eyre had been released early on good behavior, Vern'd felt
like he was the one paroled.
Then there had been Forrest. Oh, Christ. Snivelly old
guy with the nervous stomach and lingering odor of flop sweat and vomit
hovering around him like a noxious cloud. Fortunately, Forrest's condition
had turned out to be some kind of horrible gastric cancer and he didn't
last too long.
Caswell snored like a buzzsaw. Hafker was a disgusting
slob. Watson stuttered so badly Vern just wanted to shake him.
In fact, the only halfway human cellmate Vern had had
in the whole fucking time he'd been here, was Herbert Nestor. And he'd
turned out to be a kike -- so, not halfway human after all.
But finally, finally! For the last six weeks after Nestor'd
been transferred out, there'd been no one.
Blissful privacy, blessed quiet.
And now Mercer was going to stick him with this... teenager?
Vern didn't like teenagers. Shiftless, disrespectful,
spoiled. Congregating in bored, unsupervised gangs in parking lots and
on stoops. 'Hanging out' -- as though that were an ambition.
Playing that godawful music too loud. Wearing their godawful hair too
long. Bringing in drugs. Drinking. Leaving broken glass and shit everywhere
they went. Some future of America. Fucking kids were bad as niggers
for a neighborhood of hard working people.
And now Mercer wanted him to live with one. Well wasn't
that just great. Go up to the office and offer to take in some good-for-nothing
piece of juvie trash who hadn't been here two hours without getting
himself into trouble.
But what was Vern going to do? Refuse? Risk open mutiny?
Shit.
###
Hack dropped Keller off with all his crap less than
two hours later. Vern gave his new cellmate the eyeball. There had been
so much confusion with the whole Tutweiler thing, Vern hadn't really
gotten much of a sense of who or what this boy even was. Some
kind of mutt Vern figured, although what kind, lord only knew. Doubtful
Keller had any idea himself. At least he looked pretty white.
Tall enough, closing in on six feet. Past the really
gawky phase of adolescence already, but he obviously still had some
filling out to do. Hard little street punk face, dead blue eyes. Oh,
a regular tough guy.
Please.
They'd stuck a butterfly bandage over a gash on his
eyebrow in the infirmary, the bright white of the dressing peeking out
from under fashionably shaggy dark hair. Mottled bruises were beginning
to form around his throat, and a few other marks looked like they'd
be darkening shortly. Yeah, Keller was a little banged up from the scuffle
with Tutweiler -- but all in all, he'd been pretty lucky.
Vern noticed one of those Saint Someone-or-other medals
on a thin silver chain around Keller's neck...so, Catholic. Which was
a shame, but at least the kid hadn't started running around mumbling
Hail Mary's or any of those other voodoo chants. And at least he wasn't
a fucking Jew.
At any rate, their first order of business was clear.
Vern had picked up a passing reference to possession as one of the charges
Keller was in on. Nobody seemed to know quite the whole story: assault,
B&E maybe, someone had said something about grand theft auto --
but it was the mention of possession that stuck. Even if Keller wasn't
AB, Vern was not about to put up with any drug bullshit. That little
chat was going to take place straight away.
"You do drugs?" Vern asked, indicating with
a pointed finger that Keller was to take the lower bunk. Vern had slept
there before, back when this had been a private cell. Now he'd be moving
upstairs, thank you.
"Some." Keller shrugged, face composed, eyes
carefully blank.
"Some? Like what?"
"I dunno, nothing serious. I get high sometimes."
"On?" Vern demanded, starting to lose patience.
Another shrug. "Whatever's around." Then a
small, wry smile. "Why, you a hack, or something?"
"Not hardly," Vern snorted, momentarily distracted
by the crack, and surprised at his own amused reaction. But this wasn't
funny. This was business.
Refusing to be charmed, Vern recovered quickly, calling
up his best don't-fuck-with-me glare. "You listen up, boy. No drugs,
got that? Not so long as you're living with me. You want to do that
shit, you can go find yourself someplace else to stay."
"Not a problem," Keller said, straightening
up. His face and voice had both gone so respectfully solemn, Vern wasn't
sure he hadn't imagined the earlier smirk.
"Well, see that it isn't."
Keller continued to stand there, expectantly, and Vern
suddenly realized he was awaiting the rest of the conditions.
Conditions... and Vern suppressed a savage smile as
it dawned on him that this kid was really completely at his mercy. Of
all his cellmates, with the exception of Nestor, who'd just had to leave
pronto that had never really been the case before.
It certainly hadn't been true for the loudmouth, Eyre
-- Mercer's prized poodle. And Forrest, before he croaked, had been
somewhat of a Brotherhood elder statesman, besides playing the invalid
card. Watson, the stutterer, also had a bench press of three hundred
pounds - which seemed like a pretty good indication that he'd been given
shit for that little problem one too many times in the past.
Caswell and Hafker were both pretty popular in the Brotherhood -- easy
enough for the rest of them who didn't have to live with either the
snoring or the vermin.
But this kid? He was a zero. He wasn't even AB. He didn't
count for shit in anybody's book.
So...yes. Conditions...
Vern quickly warmed to his task. Mentally reviewing
the unbearable traits of cellmates' past, he began ticking off items
of import on his fingers.
"I don't want to hear too much talking out of you.
If I tell you to shut up, just shut the fuck up. Also, you keep this
place clean. I don't want to catch you smuggling any food back
here. No rats or roaches in my cell.
"You get sick? Crawl off and die in the wall or
something, but stay the hell away from me. Oh yeah, and one more thing.
No snoring. Swear to God, I'll smother you in your sleep if you fucking
snore."
Keller seemed to consider the list for a moment before
he gave an agreeable nod. "Okay."
Hmm. Okay. Easy enough. But what now?
An uncomfortable silence followed as Vern folded his
arms across his chest, eyes sweeping around the cell for something else
to make a point of. He couldn't help feeling like he ought to hassle
the kid a little more, just on principle.
Giving Keller the once-over again, Vern's eyes fixed
on the Saint-Whoozawhatsit medal.
"What's with the necklace?"
Keller glanced down at his chest, as though to check
that the small charm were still there. "Ah, 's from my mom. Supposed
to protect me or some shit."
Vern arched an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem to be working
very well, now does it?"
"I'm still alive." Keller shrugged. Then his
face lit up with a smile, disarmingly handsome in spite of the bruise
beginning to purple high on his left cheekbone. "Anyway, chicks
like it."
Vern blinked and glanced away, self-consciously aware
he'd been staring.
"Do you, uh, have a girlfriend?" Vern asked
to cover his discomfort, forcing a casually conversational tone as he
busied himself smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the chest pocket
of his impeccably pressed work shirt.
"A few."
And when Vern looked back up, Keller was leaning against
the bunk, the smile settling into a conspiratorial grin.
Well...
Suddenly, Vern hoped to hell he wasn't visibly blushing.
How fucking pathetic. He was going to come across like some kind of
goddamned prude. What the hell had gotten into him?
Of course these kids today were all screwing each other's
brains out left and right. Not like when Vern was growing up. The only
ones cashing in on the whole 'free love' thing back then were those
degenerate, Marxist, artsy fartsy guys. Or college brats, banging stoned,
stringy-haired hippie co-eds.
Not being artsy or a college brat, Vern hadn't
managed to get it wet until he was nearly twenty, grunting out his massed
frustrations into a mousy but serviceable cousin of Bobcat Allan's who'd
always seemed to be hanging around.
"You can fuck her if you want, you know,"
Bobcat'd said to him one night after everyone else had gone home. "It's
okay, all of us have."
Vern shook himself back to the present. It was neither
here nor there, since there weren't any women at all in this
fucking place. Not unless you counted shriveled up old Mrs. Exley, the
warden's secretary -- and Vern didn't.
"Well, I hope you're not planning on hanging any
rosaries or anything up here," Vern muttered, still pissed at having
to think about any of this shit at all.
"Nah, I'm, uh, not real religious or nothing,"
Keller said quietly. "And...I know this isn't what you wanted.
You saved my life today, man. I owe you. I'll try to keep out of your
way."
There was an appealing reasonableness in the tone of
that softly spoken voice. It managed to penetrate Vern's burst of temper,
and he felt a little silly for having reacted so strongly. It wasn't
really Keller's fault, after all. He hadn't asked to be put in here,
that was Mercer's doing.
"Ah," Vern let out a huff of breath. "Let's
just see how it goes."
###
But as it turned out, living with Keller wasn't too
bad. After a couple of days, Vern was even willing to admit that it
was better than being solo. That had become, ultimately -- honestly
-- kind of lonely. Because sure, Vern was a hell of a lot smarter than
most of the stupid fucks in the joint, but it's not like he was a goddamned
bookworm, or anything. He was a social creature at heart, provided the
company was good.
And this kid was... good. Good company. An amusing companion.
He was mostly quiet in the group, careful so far not
to tick anyone off. And considering that most of the Brothers seemed
to have adopted Mercer's conviction that Vern wasn't exactly a barrel
of laughs, there was something, well, gratifying about the fact
that Keller seemed to save his sly sense of humor for Vern's ears alone.
He was quick on the uptake too, even though school clearly
hadn't been in the picture very long. And he had a good memory. Which
was fucking nice, frankly, because it was a royal pain to have to keep
explaining the rules of each new flavor of poker over and over again
to some of these jackasses. Forget about anything more complicated,
like chess. But Keller seemed to be able to hang back, watch a few rounds
of just about any kind of game, and grasp the basic strategy and objective.
At that, he was a natural.
If Vern had any real complaint, it was that Keller could
be kind of lazy. Maybe a little too accustomed to being able to slide
by on his wits and charm. That might play in the outside world, but
it didn't wash with Vern.
He stood in the doorway after work detail, arms akimbo,
looking around the cell. It wasn't terrible, just some scattered clothes
and stuff. But Vern didn't have to put up with terrible anymore. Hell,
he didn't have to accept anything less than perfection according to
the rules of his new arrangement.
Keller seemed oblivious to Vern's presence, stretched
out bonelessly in the lower bunk, half-drowsing, half-reading an old
motorcycle magazine picked up from one of the bikers. He looked like
any aimless teenager hanging out in his bedroom, not a con doing hard
time in a state pen.
Well, except for the bars.
And, as was his habit while kicking back and relaxing
in his bunk before supper, Keller had one hand shoved down the front
of his pants -- not really actively jerking off -- just kind of idly
stroking himself.
Vern blinked when he realized how long he'd been standing
there already. "I thought we agreed you were going to keep after
this place," he barked, irritation suddenly rising again.
Keller glanced up, expression unreadable for a moment.
Probably just startled, Vern figured, because he looked appropriately
contrite now, chucking the magazine aside. He rolled out of the bunk
with a languid, big cat stretch.
"Sorry."
"Sorry's not getting all your crap picked up,"
Vern sniffed, folding his arms across his chest.
"Yeah." And still Keller hesitated, looking
around as though taking measure of what needed to be done -- but not
making a move to do anything about it yet.
"You waiting for an engraved invitation?" Vern pressed, heart
rate picking up minutely at the whiff of defiance. He dropped his arms
to his sides, ready to take a step in if necessary.
"Nah," Keller muttered, finally getting into
gear. "I... just fuckin' hate laundry." He kicked at a t-shirt
before grabbing it to stuff into the pillowcase he was using to gather
his clothes.
Vern detected a surprising degree of authentic venom.
"Cleanliness is next to godliness," he teased, mock avuncular,
probing.
"It's no big deal." Keller looked down at
his feet. Caught in a moment of honest expression, he suddenly seemed
exceedingly interested in something on the floor.
"Chris?" Vern asked, but it wasn't a question.
"My stepfather," Keller started, then paused,
looking up at Vern as though hoping that alone might suffice for an
explanation. But when Vern crossed his arms across his chest again and
raised a: 'Yes, go on...' eyebrow, Keller sighed and leaned back against
the cell wall.
"We had problems." Anger flashed in
eyes that almost never gave anything away. "And when he made me
do his laundry -- which he did all the fucking time, fucking slob --
I kind of couldn't help but think about our problems."
"Bad association."
"Yeah, you could say," Keller grumbled under
his breath, moving towards the bunks. He hesitated when he neared Vern,
then reached out to rest his hand against Vern's shoulder. "I,
uh, think there's more stuff under here..."
Vern stared down at Keller's hand for a moment before
realizing that the kid just wanted to get by him. He fought a strange
flush of embarrassment as he took a quick step back.
"Sorry," Keller said with an apologetic smile,
brushing past and dropping to his hands and knees to dig a few more
socks out from under the bed.
"Yo, Tutty! Fuck that sweet white ass!"
Vern started in surprise as the voice popped into his
head -- whatsisname with the really big teeth -- egging on Tutweiler
right before the brawl. In the heat of the moment, the word 'white'
had been all that registered. Not...
Sweet.
Vern found his eyes drawn to the bent form on the floor
beside the bunks. Yeah, Christopher Keller was one damned healthy
looking young man, that was for sure.
And looking down over Keller, noting his effortless
grace even doing something stupid like fishing for dirty socks under
a bed, Vern swallowed down a lump in his throat he was sure was nothing
but envy.
###
"Vern-o! Hey, where's your shadow?"
"My what?"
"The kid."
"I don't know. Gym or something, probably."
Vern focused his eyes straight ahead into the mirror, hoping Mercer
would get the message that he wasn't really in the mood for bullshit
idle chitchat.
No such luck.
"Think he's got kind of a crush on you," Mercer
chuckled, leaning against the sink next to Vern. "You bein' his
big hero and all."
"Oh, stop," Vern muttered, fighting a flush.
"I dunno," Mercer said with a snicker, "hope
you're at least getting a couple blowjobs out of it."
Vern turned to look at Mercer. What was this, some kind
of trap?
"What?" Mercer held up his hands feigning
protest, and laughed with that annoying chuckle again. "C'mon Vern-o,
there's women you marry and women you fuck."
And with that, Mercer -- still laughing -- picked up
his towel, and headed for the shower.
What the hell? Vern set down his razor and shook his
head. Why would Mercer even joke about shit like that? Faggoty stuff.
Vern turned to look over his shoulder at Mercer, now ducking his bristly
head under the force of the shower spray. Brothers weren't perverts
like Tutweiler and the rest of the cretins in this place. They weren't
all...
Mercer didn't really... did he? With who?
Vern felt his ears burning as he mentally ran the list
of possibilities, guiltily astonished at his ability to conjure at will
an image of just about any guy in Lardner on his knees without even
really trying.
Jesus.
Vern shook his head again, suddenly as sure as he had
been when he was closing in on twenty with no viable pussy prospects
in sight, that everybody and his brother was getting their rocks off
on a regular basis, except him.
Except... no.
Oh, no. Mercer was playing head games with him. This
was all part of some kind of plan. It had to be. Because Vern was no
faggot. And Keller was a normal kid, damn it, with a quickly acquired
stash of already wavy-paged porno mags to prove it.
So yeah, sure, Tutweiler wanted that 'sweet white ass'.
And Vern pictured Keller again, like he'd been the other day, on the
floor by the bunks: that young, tight body. Shit, Tutweiler was still
staring daggers at the boy every night across the mess.
But... Vern's eyes narrowed into a squint as he watched
Mercer scrubbing down in the shower. But, Christ, what, now he was going
to have to keep an eye out on Mercer too?
Fucking hell. This was not what he had signed on for.
###
At least one night a week, Vern made a point of eating
supper with John Ahrens. It wasn't solely out of friendship, although
Ahrens was generally pretty tolerable. Far more vital, was the information
pipeline: Ahrens knew more gossip than a washerwoman's convention, and
his sources were unusually good.
For whatever reason, maybe because his jaw was already
working, the mess seemed to be the easiest place to get Ahrens to spill.
Vern would have taken even more frequent meals with the guy if not for
his unfortunate habit of chewing with his mouth open. But for one evening
a week? Definitely a worthwhile sacrifice.
"Looks like some housekeeping changes on the way,"
Ahrens started as they took their seats. He was already chomping noisily
around a too-large bite of sogogy dinner roll.
"How so?" Vern asked, giving a dubious eye
to the stiff puddle of reconstituted potatoes which had been thwapped
onto the center of his tray.
Ahrens visibly warmed to his subject, wriggling down
into an excited hunch. "Didn't you hear? Eyre got caught with a
truckload of guns. Sentencing's next week. Dollars to doughnuts, he's
coming back to Lardner."
"Eyre?" Vern blinked, looking up.
He desperately hoped he'd heard the name wrong, mangled
among Ahrens' smacking chews. Like warped calliope music, the memory
of Eyre's nonstop chatter began its demented play loop in some deep
channel of Vern's brain.
"Yeah, your old roomie. Thought he was buying this
stash off some busted up militia, but it was a sting." Ahrens paused
to gulp down his mouthful of bread. "Anyway, I'm sure Larry's gonna
try and get him back in with us."
"Us?" Vern didn't even make an attempt to
keep the angry suspicion out of his voice.
"Well... you," Ahrens corrected with a weak
smile, doughy residue smearing his teeth. He tore off another chunk
of the roll, hesitating before wadding it into his mouth. "Hey,
you're the only one who doesn't already have someone AB in with him,
Vern. You can't really expect Larry to keep protecting your little stray
puppy there, not when his buddy's on the line."
"Larry isn't protecting my..." Vern
broke off when Ahrens suddenly swallowed again and awkwardly shifted
his eyes to a far corner of the room. Before he'd had the chance to
turn and look over his shoulder, Vern felt the movement beside him,
and was surprised to realize how already familiar he'd become with the
presence, scent, shape, settling in at his left.
"Vern. John."
"Hey kid," Ahrens mumbled softly, still carrying
that watery-stupid look in his eyes.
Vern glanced over, trying to discern how much had been
overheard, but Keller was looking down at his tray, face showing only
the universal Lardner inmate's expression of terminal culinary disappointment.
Flicking his gaze back across the table at Ahrens, Vern
tried to communicate, 'stop looking so fucking squirrelly,' with his
eyes, but Ahrens just barked out a hopelessly artificial sounding cough
instead, and rose quickly to his feet.
"I'm, uh, I've got to..." He made a gesture
with his tray, as though it were tugging him towards some destination
across the mess.
"See you, John," Vern muttered, waving Ahrens
away before he bungled the exit even more badly by trying to invent
an excuse.
They sat in silence for a moment after Ahrens had gone.
"I'm pretty much dead meat, huh?"
The question was asked in such a quiet voice, Vern wasn't
sure at first whether he'd merely thought he heard it. He looked over
again. Keller hadn't moved, but Vern could sense the tension radiating
from him.
And indeed, Keller was in mighty deep shit if Mercer
booted him out of the relatively cloistered AB fold. He didn't have
any obvious ethnic enclave to slip into, no other affiliation Vern was
aware of. And there was still one large, angry, gang-leading nigger
who would just love to get reacquainted with the boy.
Now Vern was beginning to feel something that was edging
uncomfortably close to the neighborhood of guilt. And that triggered
automatic irritation. Because what the hell, not Vern's fault. Not Vern's
problem.
He decided very deliberately to ignore Keller's question,
and set to the grim task of supper. But an annoying interior voice kept
intruding as he chased wrinkled, tasteless peas around the contoured
plastic walls of his tray's veggie compartment with a dull-tined fork.
It wasn't his conscience, because, well... nah.
But... just as a matter of logic, of fact, Keller was a preferable living
companion to Eyre. Granted, almost anybody was better than Eyre, but
Keller was...
...your little stray puppy...
Oh, for God's sake.
Vern let out an exasperated sigh and pushed his tray
aside.
"Look, far as I know, this is still just a rumor.
Nothing's been decided yet," he said in a low voice, glancing around
quickly to make sure none of the other Brothers were close enough to
overhear. Discussing inside information with Ahrens was one thing, talking
to the kid was officially verboten.
Keller leaned subtly closer, inclining his head towards
Vern's. His voice dropped to a rough whisper that left a warm ghost
tickling at Vern's ear.
"There anything I can do?"
Vern shifted in his seat and drew in a long breath through
his nostrils.
"Let me think on it."
###
Of course, trying to "sneak" Keller into the
Brotherhood proper at this point was a longshot at best. He'd never
shown any inclination, or expressed any interest before, for one thing.
He was a fucking Catholic for another. But, it couldn't hurt to get
the kid grounded in some basics, at least. Help them make some
kind of case for keeping him around.
So, Vern did his best to remember the most fundamental
things his father had drilled relentlessly into him when he was young.
He dug fading rexographed sheets of Bobcat Allen's essays in The
Vigilant out of his footlocker, and read them to Keller during evening
lockdown.
"Control. Discipline. Order. These are the foundations
of..." Vern's lecture voice trailed off as his eye was drawn, distracted
by the sight of Keller lounging back further into his bunk and digging
unselfconsciously at the waistband of his jeans.
He watched, involuntarily rapt, every movement of those
strong-fingered hands -- following their progress as they dipped below
denim to yank free the tucked-in hem of one of those too-small-by-a-size-now
t-shirts.
Too small by at least a size, the knee-jerk proper
sector of Vern's brain clucked in correction.
White cotton stretching thin across broadening shoulders,
outlining thickening pecs... nipples. Keller had been hitting the gym
with a vengeance since he landed at Lardner, packing on muscle rapidly.
Certainly not a bad idea, all things considered, though Vern was vaguely
glad that he was still bigger than the boy. Sheer mass-wise at least,
for now.
Keller continued to tug at the shirt, fabric rucking
up as he absently scratched and stroked at his stomach and chest. The
casual show of all that taut skin, flat planes of muscle, sent a surprising
curl of heat down into Vern's own belly.
"Stop that!"
"What?" Keller sat up abruptly. "C'mon,
I'm listening!"
"Stop..." Vern spluttered, caught, "...touching
yourself! Don't you realize what that..."
But, of course he didn't realize. Couldn't possibly
realize.
Dumbass kid.
"Haven't you had enough trouble, Keller? Huh?"
Vern jerked his thumb back over his shoulder emphatically towards the
barred fourth wall of the cell, gesturing out towards the rest of the
unit. "You just waiting for another one of these horny assholes
out here to catch you alone? What if I can't save you this time, then
what?"
For half a crazy second, Vern thought the twitch of
Keller's lips was a fought off smirk. But no... hell, the boy was just
embarrassed, lowering his gaze to the floor, dropping both hands almost
demurely into his lap.
"Sorry, man. You're right," came the mumbled
apology. "I, uh, I do really appreciate you looking out for me,
Vern. I mean, I know you don't have to, or nothin', and... it's really
cool of you."
"Oh, well..." Vern straightened his back,
suddenly at a loss. "That's all right, Chris." He offered
a stiff-armed pat to Keller's shoulder. "Let's just keep your nose
clean, okay?"
"Control, discipline, order, huh?" Keller
looked back up at Vern, and this time there was a smirk, a definite
one, and Vern struggled against an impulsive desire to just give into
the tease.
"Don't be a smartass," he grumbled instead.
###
Things were more or less quiet over the next couple
of days, thank God. But Vern was growing increasingly concerned about
the attention Keller was receiving from other inmates.
That conversation in the bathroom with Mercer had been
a real eye-opener. He could see it clearly now: in the unit, in the
mess, in the rec room. Roving, raking, hungry eyes, and where they were
going. Some tried to hide it, tried to be subtle, but Vern had learned
how to spot the sneaky ones too.
And Keller's continuing obliviousness didn't help matters
any. Or else he wouldn't sit that way, goddamn it. That easy,
long, open-legged slouch... boy might as well be putting himself on
display in a showroom window.
Vern started purposefully towards Keller's table, reproachful
lecture percolating at the ready, but he stopped short when he realized
Keller was talking to someone. And not just talking, but fully engaged,
leaning across the table, turning on the brights with one of those quick-flash
grins. Who the hell was... Fishbein? What on earth could Keller possibly
have to discuss with Harold Fishbein?
And Fishbein was... Christ, that was disgusting. Glaze-eyed,
slack-jawed jizzball was practically panting. Probably had a
big ol' boner just from Keller talking to him. In mid-stride, the verbal
invective brewing in Vern's brain took an immediate turn in Harold Fishbein's
direction. Because if that dirty old fucking kike thought he was gonna...
What the HELL are you doing?
Vern forced himself to stop walking, fists clenching
spasmodically at his sides. What was he thinking? What was he going
to do, march over to Keller's table and what, exactly? Make some
big scene, go after Fishbein loudly and in public for...
And Vern glanced over at the table again, where Keller
and Fishbein sat at opposite ends, the tableau appearing suddenly almost
preposterously innocuous.
Talking.
Jesus. What in God's name was wrong with him? Acting
like some kind of jealous...
Face burning, pulse beating in his ears, Vern turned
sharply and walked with as much speed as he could towards the bathroom
without actually breaking into a trot. Thankfully alone, he turned on
the tap, ran cool water into his cupped hands and splashed his surprisingly
sweaty face.
Goddamnit.
It was this place, was what it was. What prison did
to a man, it wasn't natural.
The pressures, the boredom, the bullshit. Endless cycles
of time-wasting, pride-squashing, kow-towing, CRAP. All this stuff
just bottled inside him with nowhere to go.
Vern pounded his fist against the sink. The minute he
got out of here, away from this filthy stinking rathole, he was gonna
get himself a wife. Find some sturdy horse of a woman, and make some
fucking sons and do his goddamned part for the propagation of the race
and all that shit.
But now, right now, it was that asshole Mercer's grinning
mug looming up in his brain:
C'mon Vern-o, there's women you marry and women you
fuck.
Fuck.
And that was just it. It'd been too fucking long without
any fucking... and now...
God damn it!
###
During lockdown that night, in their cell, Vern did
his best not to watch Keller get ready for bed. Not to see him peel
off his t-shirt, strip down to briefs. Not notice the graceful play
of muscles in his back, or what beautiful skin he had, clear and firm,
and smooth.
Order. Discipline. Control.
He forced himself to look away, continue with his own
normal bedtime routine. Yes, routine was crucial. He bent his head down,
and concentrated on unlacing his boots. So, it came as a surprise to
him when he heard words growling roughly from his mouth:
"What were you doing today with Harold Fishbein?"
A brief pause let Vern know Keller was weighing his
answer.
"'M gonna let him teach me how to play chess."
Vern looked up from unlacing his boots to see if that
had been delivered with a straight face. Did Keller really think he
was a complete moron?
"You already know how to play chess," Vern
said with slow deliberation.
"Well...yeah," Keller laughed. "But Fishbein
don't know that."
Vern let his boot drop to the floor with a thunk.
"What are you up to?" He did his best to sound
conspiratorial, merely interested. Not suspicious. Not anything... else.
Keller stretched into his bunk, a long arc of limbs.
He fixed Vern with a pursed-lipped expression, almost teasing: I-know-something-you-don't.
But he was obviously too pleased with himself to drag it out for long.
"Know what Fishbein did before he got sent up here?"
"Fuck do I care?" Vern rumbled, instinctively
annoyed at the suggestion he might waste the time or brain function.
"Owned a couple of dry cleaning stores," Keller
continued, settling back against his pillow with a satisfied grin and
folding his arms behind his head. "Did everything: regular dry
cleaning, rugs and shit, fur storage, bulk..."
"Laundry," Vern cut in, shaking his head.
"Unbelievable. You're gonna hustle that stupid fuck into doing
your laundry for you."
The grin widened. "It's worth a shot."
And Vern wasn't even sure what it was that left him
grinding his teeth. Seething. What did he care, really? What difference
did it make if the kid practiced his moves on some dumbass hymie? What
difference did it make, except...
Except it wasn't just going to be chess, was
it?
Not with Keller. Hell, no. The boy couldn't seem to
help himself.
No, Chris Keller was all eyelashes, and "shy"
smiles. He'd be pretending to listen to the crazy old idiot's stories,
laughing at his jokes. Sitting just that little bit too close, all that
young, restless energy in his legs, always banging his knee, brushing
his thigh against...
Yours.
Red-filtered rage propelled Vern the few steps across
the cell. Grabbing the bunk post, he swung into Keller's space, looming
over that easy, sprawled out form, throwing that smug face into shadow.
"You're gonna do your own fucking laundry, Keller."
The grin disappeared, replaced by a petulant scowl.
"What?! Why? Come on, Vern!" He tried to sit
up, but Vern was quicker, planting a meaty hand on Keller's chest and
pushing him back down.
"You shut up!" Anger living through his veins,
Vern leaned in harder until he was practically on top of Keller, spittle
flying from fury-wet lips. "You're going to do your own fucking
laundry. Not only that, you're going to start doing mine!"
"The fuck I am!" Keller shoved at Vern, giving
him just the resistance he'd been waiting for.
"Fuck you are, is right." Vern suppressed
a savage smile as he lunged forward, knocking Keller's arms aside and
pinning them down with his own weight. Keller tried to twist away, but
Vern pushed the rest of the way into the bunk on top of him, crushing
his bulk down over Keller's mostly naked body.
God, it felt good. Vern was accustomed to the heady
adrenal rush of battle, but this... This was something else entirely,
a whole new experience of power. Vern felt a raging, aching awareness
of the body wriggling and struggling beneath him. He was growing harder
by the second, every movement a rub of delicious friction. He shoved
his face down into the hollow of Keller's neck, breathing deep to drag
in the hot, sweet tang of skin, and sweat, and arousal.
"Get offa me, man," Keller panted. His heavy
breath and husky voice puffed moistly into Vern's ear, well close enough
to sounds that Vern had been missing for far too long. "Get off
of me."
"Oh, I don't think so," Vern grunted, pleased
at the excuse this new burst of defiance gave him to grind down harder
against Keller's body. "I think perhaps you need a lesson or two
about respect."
"Fuck that," Keller spat. "Fuck you!"
And with that, he made one big surge, a wrenching twist of his torso
that caught Vern off guard, dislodging him momentarily.
But Vern recovered quickly, and for all of Keller's
rangy strength, he was no match for Vern's full-grown density -- not
to mention Vern's two-plus years of intimate experience with the precise
geometry of a Lardner bunkbed.
It was a gratifying scuffle, though, and Vern managed
to lever Keller over onto his stomach, bringing that tight round ass,
clad now only in sweat-soaked briefs, right into range. Vern silently
cursed the layers of his own constraining underwear and pants as he
brought his weight back down against Keller's back, humping his hips
hard, grinding in mindless pleasure as he felt his cock instinctively
lining up right where it belonged.
"Lights are going out any second now, Chris. I'll
leave it up to you whether we do this the easy way or the hard way,"
Vern hissed into Keller's ear. "You don't move, and I'll go get
something to make it easier. All right?"
A sniff and barely perceptible nod of acquiescence let
Vern know Keller would stay put. Which was good. Smart boy, easier on
both of them this way. Vern didn't really want to have to hurt
the kid, after all. Not in a way that needed doctors and questions and
pointless crap like that. He really rather liked Keller. He just wanted...
well, he just wanted, was all. And now he was going to have.
Vern made a quick scan of the tiny cell, then jumped
up just long enough to snag a bottle of cream rinse from Keller's toiletry
kit. The boy remained still, and silent, waiting.
The call for lights-out came, plunging the cell block
into the security-bulb pierced gloom that passed for nighttime in Lardner.
Vern quickly stripped off his clothes, pausing a moment to listen for
any telltale sounds of a hack on rounds. Satisfied that there was no
impending interruption on the horizon, Vern stroked his cock with a
gob of the cream rinse and snugged himself back into position between
Keller's legs.
He shoved in, then deeper. No crying, thank God, but
then, Keller was a pretty tough kid. It was going to take a lot to break
him. He pushed harder, the boy's groans, "Vern...come on. Please,"
enflaming him even further. Only the dimmest part of Vern's brain registered
the whispered, harder to hear, "don't."
But all this was Keller's own damned fault, anyway.
It wasn't Vern's, it couldn't be -- this body arched beneath him was
too knowing. It was sinful. Wrong. Bad, bad, bad. (God,
so fucking good!) Stupid, uppity, (beautiful) boy. It was just what
he deserved.
Vern thrust harder, punishment pouring out of him. It
was all pounding: in his head, in his veins, thrumming through his body
more gloriously than any beating he'd ever delivered before. Driving
harder still, each slap of skin another lash coming down. A lesson or
two about respect, all right, because Vern demanded respect.
Orgasm ripped through him with righteous violence. He
shot and shot until his balls ached, and tried to keep his wits enough
to force the growls and moans pouring from his mouth to quiet into a
vein-popping expulsion of air.
After a moment of savoring release, Vern pulled out
to survey the devastation. He sat straddled over Keller's hips, heaving
hitching, gasping breaths as the flood tide slowly receded and the familiar
surroundings of his cell became recognizable once again. He wasn't sure
how much time had actually passed before a labored groan emerged from
the limp body below, muffled down into the foam of a state-issue pillow:
"Fuck."
A feral grin rose to Vern's lips. God, where had this
feeling been his whole life? How had he never known this before?
Yeah, fuck. Fuck is right. Think you're so smart now?
Another groan, low, complaining noise.
"Vern--" That cocky voice gone soft, hoarse.
Yeah.
Keller paused to swallow, clear his throat, but Vern
doubted it'd do much good. Hoped it wouldn't, because defeat sounded
so much sweeter in a whisper. Hips, legs, beneath him, shifting now
as Keller tried to roll off of his stomach and onto his side.
Vern eased his weight back just enough to allow the
move, but maintained his perch. He could admit it to himself now: he
wanted to see. He wanted to look down into that face and enjoy the fear.
Wanted a good view of his conquest.
It took a moment to register what he was seeing as Keller
rolled over -- mouth even lusher than usual now, bruised and welling.
That split-lipped pout breaking into a slow, crooked grin, flashing
bloodstained teeth. Laughing in a soft rasp:
"Gonna make me fold it for you, too?"
Vern was caught too stunned to know whether to lay down
a pounding fist, or... He swooped in hard, fast, twisting and pinning
Keller onto his back this time. He crushed a brutal kiss onto abraded
lips and reveled in the taste of Keller's blood in his mouth. He just
couldn't seem to muster the...whatever it would take to actually be
all that angry right at the moment.
Not after coming his brains out like that. Not after
feeling like that. He was too drained, too exultant.
Too relieved.
Of course he couldn't let Keller get away totally free...
"Fold it for you too, sir," Vern growled,
breaking off the kiss. "Damn straight I want it folded." Then
he reached around to give Keller a hard rub behind the ear. "And
it's time you got a goddamned haircut, you hear me? I'm sick of this
fucking mop."
"Yes, sir." Keller nodded, composing his features
with beautifully faked sincerity.
"You are some piece of work." Vern shook his
head and finally let loose a smile. He patted Keller's ass. "Now,
be a good boy and go get me a towel."
###
Vern sipped at his wretched coffee and let his gaze
wander over the assembled faces of the Brotherhood sitting spread over
the greater part of two long tables in the mess. Granted, breakfast
wasn't the most forgiving time of day, but man, what a sorry looking
bunch of motherfuckers this group had turned out to be. Bleary-eyed,
unkempt. A total disgrace. They needed a leader, and what they'd had
was Mercer. Good to drink with, good with his fists. Not exactly a visionary.
Vern let out a sigh. So much wasted time.
And where had he been? Just slogging through day, after
day, after stinking day. Grumbling and grousing about Mercer, the state
of the Brotherhood, and his crappy, stupid cellmates. But he hadn't
done anything to change his circumstances. An unforgivable lapse on
his own part.
Yes, he'd been dejected over his incarceration. And
deeply embittered at being ripped away from his home, his community,
his carefully guarded way of life, by a bullshit government more interested
in protecting niggers and immigrants than its own real citizens. But
explanations weren't excuses. And there was no excuse for accepting
his current state of mediocrity. For going along to get along. It was
like spitting on everything Dad and Bobcat Allen had ever taught him.
He'd just been going about this whole prison thing all
wrong.
Well, things were certainly looking up now. The last
few days had been revelatory, the sleep finally rubbed from his eyes.
He felt sharp, alert, more clear than he had in years. That was good.
And he had the boy, who was also good. Well, except
for when he was bad. Vern suppressed a private smile as he glanced
across the table.
The haircut helped Keller fit in better. Short-clipped
now, lying dark and sleek against his strongly sculpted head. Set off
the clean, athletic lines of his neck and shoulders too. Much better.
Yep. Things were definitely looking up.
But when Vern returned from work detail that afternoon,
he found Mercer standing, arms folded and officious-looking, at the
door to his cell.
"Larry, what's..." And Vern did a double-take
as he looked past Mercer's shoulder to where Keller sat on the floor,
footlocker open, slowly and morosely stuffing his things into a pillowcase.
"What the hell is going on in here?" Vern demanded, brushing
past Mercer into the tiny room. "Chris?"
"Larry said the Brotherhood needs the space,"
Keller started quietly. "That you're going to the office today
to ask for..."
"Put your stuff back," Vern snarled, "you're
not going anywhere." Vern pivoted sharply to face Mercer. "Forget
it, Larry."
Mercer let out an aggravated sigh. "Don't be stupid,
Vern-o. You know Eyre's gonna be..."
"I don't give a flying fuck about Eyre," Vern
snapped. "You love that shit-for-brains motormouth so much? You
live with him."
He and Mercer were standing squarely in a face-off now.
"Are you actually refusing to request this transfer?"
Let's see, Vern thought, wishing he dared say
it out loud: Keller's hot, silky mouth wrapped around my cock? Or,
Eyre's 482nd boring and stupid retelling of the time he went fishing
for speckled trout? Hmm, decisions, decisions...
"The boy stays with me."
"Vern!"
Mercer looked livid. Understandable, considering what
a cooperative sort Vern had generally been in the past. But that was
then.
"Sorry, Larry." Vern patted Mercer's tensed
shoulder. "I'm sure you'll figure something else out."
"You are making one big mistake, Schillinger."
And Mercer stormed out.
After he'd gone, Vern turned and let out a deep breath.
Well! That had been unexpected and rash. Good work there, too. Always
made sound, rational, policy decisions thinking with his dick.
Christ.
He looked over at Keller who was still sitting on the
floor, a satisfied grin on his face as he offered a sarcastic little
'see-ya' wave at Mercer's retreating back.
"Oh, don't think I don't know what little game
you've been playing," Vern muttered as the cascading ramifications
of the stand-down with Mercer began to tumble in his brain.
"Mmm..." Keller slid himself up from the floor
to his bunk, the sinuous movement pulling Vern by the balls back to
the present. "You mind?"
Vern almost laughed. "You're still here."
"I'm very grateful." That bullshit smile.
"Trust me, son. I plan on taking full advantage
of that."
###
By suppertime, it was obvious that word of Vern's refusal
to let Eyre move back in with him had reached the ears of the entire
Brotherhood. John Ahrens looked worn out but pleased, like he'd just
had a good fuck. Gossip this choice -- dissention in the ranks -- didn't
come along all that often, after all.
Vern was well aware of the eyes turning in his direction
as he took his seat, and he could admit to a degree of apprehension.
How would the events of that afternoon play among the others? Would
they see it as a move against Mercer? A personal objection to Eyre himself?
Or, as a slap in the face to the entire Brotherhood -- turning away
one of their own to satisfy Vern's selfish indulgence?
Well, there was no way of knowing, except to find out.
Vern looked up from his tray, and slowly surveyed the group. They were
all still looking at him, faces revealing a nearly even split between
sly smiles and disapproving frowns.
Interesting.
The meal resumed, but there was definitely a heightened
sense of tension in the air. Most of the frowns had been clumped at
the other table. Mercer's inner circle -- men who'd known Larry a long
time, grown old and stale together. And Vern's table, he noticed for
the first time in a really concrete way, was mostly filled by younger
guys, newer guys. Brothers who hadn't found themselves a clear spot
in Mercer's regime.
Freddy Pearson, a muscle-bound college football jock
who'd murdered his girlfriend, came over with his tray from the chow
line and sat next to Keller. It seemed to Vern like a conspicuously
deliberate show of support. Then Vern picked up snatches of their conversation
-- weight lifting, basketball -- and realized Keller and Pearson were
becoming buddies from the gym.
Very interesting.
Of course, John Ahrens was the most important piece
of the puzzle. He occupied the middle ground. He knew everything,
and everybody wanted to stay on his good side lest they get cut out
of the information loop. Ahrens liked Vern, but well enough? Vern looked
down towards where Ahrens sat, technically at Mercer's table, but all
the way at the end. If he slid his ass over twelve inches to the right,
he'd be sitting at Vern's table.
It was an ambiguous position, but not discouraging.
That ass could slide.
Vern was still mulling over the scene at supper when
they returned to their cell for evening lockdown. Keller climbed into
his bunk on his belly, leaning over the edge to rummage around the pile
of magazines on the floor below. He emerged with a battered favorite
and began leafing through the pages.
"Mercer's scared shitless of you," he mused,
flipping open the centerfold.
Vern startled momentarily, alarmed that Keller could
read his thoughts.
"You think?" His voice was tight with unrealized
anticipation as he waited for the answer, for the confirmation he needed
to hear.
"Mmmhmm," Keller hummed softly under his breath,
angling his head back to be able to scope out all four pages of stapled,
airbrushed slut.
Vern strode over and snatched the magazine away. "Focus."
"I was trying to," Keller groused mildly,
propping himself up on one elbow before fixing Vern with a more serious
expression. "Of course you're a threat to him, Vern. You're younger,
stronger, obviously smarter."
And Vern couldn't help but preen a little at that, even
as he began to feel the knot of tension spinning larger in his chest.
"He's losing 'em, man. Old Larry-boy's got to know
it's just a matter of time before you're running the Brotherhood."
Keller shrugged as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
And then the floodgates opened. Because it was, wasn't
it? The most natural thing in the world. Survival of the fittest. That
was part of their credo, a big part. And of the AB here at Lardner,
Vern was the fittest. Evidently -- and not just in his own mind,
either, if it was that clear to a seventeen-year-old.
The prospect of action, engagement, the inevitability
of triumph, set Vern's mouth watering. And yes, there it was, that vital
heat he now craved, rising powerfully, spreading out until it was coursing
freely through his veins. Was this what destiny felt like?
"Yes." Vern nodded, grinning, nearly giddy,
as he moved to sit on the edge of Keller's bunk. Keller shot him a quizzical
look, but slid back towards the wall to make room.
Vern let out a sigh and reached almost without thinking
to run his fingers through Keller's freshly shorn hair. Keller startled
at the initial touch, but soon responded to the petting with a little
hum in his throat. Almost a purr, Vern thought indulgently, continuing
the motion.
"I think it should be soon," Vern mused. He
paused to absently scritch behind a tantalizingly vulnerable looking
ear. "Don't you?"