Twelve minutes later, in the upstairs gym area. The giant was standing in front of the mirror. A one- hundred-pound dumbbell in each hand. Swaying slightly and rhythmically. Veins like worms along his arms. Biceps as big as soccer balls. Arnold Schwarzenegger-you can hit the showers.
The guy grunted. Growled. Groaned.
Counted lifts. Six, seven…
It was eleven-thirty at night. The gym was practically empty.
Mrado was standing by the reception desk, writing down the day’s workout in his notebook.
… eight, nine, ten…
Patrik came up. Talked to Mrado. Told him, “I’ll call you on Friday about the job. I think I’m in. That work?”
“Thanks, Patrik. You’re in. We can talk more when you call.”
… eleven, twelve. Pause. Rest a minute. But don’t let the muscles contract.
Mrado walked over to the giant. Stood next to him. Stared. Arms crossed.
The giant ignored him. Began the count over again.
One, two, three…
Mrado picked up a sixty-five-pound dumbbell. Did two lifts in time with the giant. Heavy on freshly worked biceps.
… four, five.
Dropped the dumbbell on the giant’s foot.
He screamed like a stuck pig. Dropped his dumbbells. Grabbed his foot. Jumped on one leg. Eyes teared up.
Mrado thought, Poor, stupid oaf. You should’ve taken a step back and raised your guard instead.
Mrado swung with full force at the guy’s other leg. Three hundred and thirty pounds hit the floor. Mrado over him. Unexpectedly quick. Careful to keep his back to the window. Pulled his gun. Smith amp; Wesson Sigma. 38. It was small but, according to Mrado, functional: It could easily be worn under a blazer without being seen.
People outside couldn’t see what was happening. To flash a live weapon-unusual for Mrado. Even more unusual at the gym.
The barrel pushed into the giant’s mouth.
Mrado released the safety. “Listen up, kiddo. My name is Mrado Slovovic. This is our club. Never so much as set foot here again. If you have any foot left, that is.”
The giant as passe as a reality TV celeb three months after the fact. Realized he’d lost face.
Maybe forever.
Maybe he was done for.
Mrado got up. Angled the gun down. Aimed at the giant. His back to the window. Important. The giant remained lying on the floor. Mrado stepped on his bad foot-265 pounds of Mrado on fresh-crushed toes.
The giant whimpered. Didn’t dare wriggle away.
Mrado took note: Was that a tear he saw in the corner of the guy’s eye?
He said, “Time to limp home, Tiny Tim.”
Curtain.
4
Life dr aaagged.
When you’re locked up from eight every p.m. to seven every a.m., there’s a lot of time to think in your cell. One year, three months, and, now, sixteen days on the inside. Escapeproof, they said. Forget that.
Jorge was walking on eggshells. Craved smokes. Slept like shit. Back and forth to the crapper. Drove the screws nuts. Had to unlock his cell every time.
Slow nights brought serious thoughts. Memories.
He thought about his sister, Paola. She was doing well in college. Had chosen a different kind of life. Suedi- style with security. He adored her. Prepared things to say to her when he was out, when he could see her for real. Not just stare at the photo he’d pinned up over his cot.
He thought about his mother.
He refused to think about Rodriguez.
He thought about different plans. He thought about the Plan. Most of all: He was working out more than anyone else.
Every day he ran twenty laps around the compound, along the inside of the walls. The total distance: five miles. Every other day: a session in the prison gym. Leg muscles were top priority. Front, back of thighs, and calves. He used the machines. Meticulously. Stretched like crazy after. People thought he’d lost it. The goal: 440 yards in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Could work, now that he’d cut back on smokes.
The area was well groomed. The grass well cut. The bushes low. No tall trees-the risk was too obvious. Gravel paths around the buildings. Good to train on. Big open lawns. Two soccer goals. A small basketball court. A couple of outdoor bench presses. Could’ve been a nice college campus. What sabotaged the collegiate snapshot: a twenty-three-foot wall.
Running: Jorge’s thing. His build was sinewy, like a guerrilla soldier’s. Not yolked, no extra fat. Veins protruding on his forearms. A nurse in junior high once said he was every blood bank’s dream. Jorge, young and stupid, told her to dream of someone else ’cause she was such a fucking dog. No checkup for him that time.
His hair was straight, dark brown, combed back. Eyes: light brown. Despite everything he’d been through in the asphalt jungle, there was an innocent look in his eye. Made it easier to sell snow when it came to that.
They slaved in the workshops during the weeks. Were allowed out twice a day: one hour for lunch and again between five o’clock and dinnertime at seven. After that: lockdown. Just you and your cell. They got more time on the weekends. Played ball. Hit the weights. The gangs shot the shit. Smoked, chatted, sneaked a roach when the COs weren’t watching. Jorge worked out.
He’d started studying for his GED. It was appreciated by the prison administration. Gave him believable reasons to be by himself. He would sit with the cell door open and read between five o’clock and dinnertime every night. The show worked. The screws nodded approvingly. Putos.
The cell was small: sixty-five square feet painted light brown. The five-square-foot window had three steel bars across it to prevent escape. They were painted white, with nine inches between them. But the king, Ioan Ursut, had done it. Dieted for three months and smeared himself with butter. Jorge thought about what would’ve been the hardest to get through, the head or the shoulders.
Spartan decoration. A cot with a thin foam mattress, a desk with two shelves above it and a wooden chair, a closet and another shelf for storage. Nowhere to hide anything. A wooden strip intended for posters ran around the length of the room. No tape was allowed directly on the wall-there was a risk that drugs or other stuff could be hidden behind whatever was put up. Jorge’d tacked up the photo of his sister and one poster. A black-and-white classic: Che with a tangled beard and beret.
The screws searched the cell at least twice a week. Looked for drugs, pruno, or larger metal objects. Man, they were pissing in the wind. The place was crawling with weed, hooch, and Subutex pills.
The environment made him claustrophobic. Other days, he was riding high-thoughts of the escape were like a supertrip. At times, he acted like a fucking tweak fiend. Avoided everything and everyone. Dangerous/unnecessary. Just one tiny suspicion and his plan could be shot to hell-snitching fags sucked CO cock.
He thought about his background. Slyly racist teachers in Sollentuna. Welfare whities, pussy profs, cocky cops. All the right circumstances for a kid from the projects to make all the predictable mistakes. They didn’t know shit about Life. Justice relegated to the rules of the streets. But Jorge never whined. Especially not now. Soon, he’d be out. He thought about trafficking blow. Collected ideas. Analyzed. Spun schemes. Learned from Rolando and the other guys.
Had strange dreams. Slept poorly. Tried to read. Jacked off. Listened to Eminem, the Latin Kings, and Santana. Thought about his training. Jacked off again.
Time cr aaaaawled.
