cranked up to full. He locked his Sig in the jail’s gun-locker, then stood outside the pre-hold and waited for the guards to buzz him in. They did, and he walked right through to the front desk. The jail guard was one he’d never seen before, a young black guy with huge glasses and a weary expression on his face.
‘Got a prisoner in the wagon,’ Striker told him. ‘Keep him in there.’
‘Sure thing, Detective.’
Striker went alone. Felicia had gone over to Headquarters at 312 Main to do some more searching on the Debate Club lead, and Striker was thankful for it. They needed more information, and he needed some space. Especially here and now.
Some tactics worked better old school.
He walked through the jail. In the thirty years it had been open, not much had changed. There were new policies and procedures, new forms and safety checks, but the essence of the jail remained untouched. It was a bad place. An unforgiving place. The walls were dark and dreary, the lighting was poor, and the place stank of piss and puke and shit and bleach.
Cologne of the Skids.
Striker went over his plan. He picked Cell Block 2 because there was a psychological advantage to having an inmate walk down the stairs, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the jail. And he chose Cell 9 because it had been recently revamped into a temporary holding cell for high traffic times. Being revamped meant it had once been a search room for recently booked prisoners, and being a search room meant it was one of the few places in the jail that had no cameras.
The cell door was open. Striker stepped inside. The small ten-by-ten room contained two bunk beds and two fluorescent bulbs. It was too bright for his liking, so Striker climbed up on the top bunk and removed one of the bulbs, making the cell even darker.
‘You owe us big for this,’ a voice behind him said.
Striker turned and spotted Constable Chris Pemberton and Detective Pinkerton Morningstar — two of the biggest men on the force. Each man was at least six foot six and over three hundred pounds. Dressed in white, paper-like prisoner gear, Pemberton looked like a square-faced enforcer from the Aryan Nation, and Morningstar looked like the meanest blackest motherfucker ever to grace these prison walls.
They were perfect for the part.
Striker looked at Morningstar. ‘I pissed in the cell so it feels real for you.’
Pemberton chuckled, Morningstar did not. ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ he said.
Striker couldn’t have agreed more. Time was everything.
Pemberton and Morningstar stepped inside the cell, Striker shut the door on them, and then he went back upstairs and got to work. Within ten minutes, he had Chinese Tony run through the search bay and dressed in his prisoner digs. The man talked big and strutted around, giving everyone the gangster show Striker had seen a thousand times over. Striker walked Chinese Tony down the north stairway, gave him a smile, and said, ‘Dead Man Walking.’
Chinese Tony didn’t react.
When they reached Cell Block 2, Tony beelined for Cell 6. Before he got there, Striker grabbed his arm.
‘Slight change of plans.’
‘What the-’
Striker shoved him along the narrow grey corridor until they reached Cell 9, where Pemberton and Morningstar were waiting inside. A steel hatch covered a small pane of rectangular viewing glass, inset in the green steel door. With a quick flick of his finger, Striker opened it to reveal the two thugs inside.
‘How’s it going, ladies?’ he said. ‘Can I interrupt this Mary Kay meeting?’
Morningstar kicked the door. ‘Fuck you!’
Pemberton just stood there and looked menacing.
Striker grinned. ‘You getting all acquainted with one another in there?’ He looked at Pemberton and laughed mockingly. ‘Is it true what they say — once you have black…’
‘Go fuck your mother,’ Pemberton said. ‘You lying prick, Striker! You said you owed us one. Said you’d look out for us. You’re a lying fuck!’ He stepped forward and kicked the door so hard it shook and the viewing hatch closed.
Chinese Tony reared back nervously.
Striker held him steady. He flipped the hatch back open and made eye-contact with the two men inside. ‘Don’t get your panties in a knot, ladies, I brought you some fresh meat here. Now you can have a menage-a-trois — Hotel Skid-style.’
A nervous whimper escaped Tony’s lips and his entire body tightened. ‘No fuckin’ way I’m going in there.’
Striker just smiled at him. ‘Hope you smuggled in some lube.’
‘I’m gonna tell my lawyer!’
‘Go ahead and tell him whatever you want. But he won’t get down here for at least three hours after the call is made. Plenty of time for some good old-fashioned lovin’.’
Chinese Tony’s face hardened. ‘Stop fuckin’ round, Striker.’
‘You should really consider your words better when you’re about to go in the can, Tony. You see the big black dude in there,’ he pointed through the glass window at Morningstar, ‘there’s a reason I picked him to be in your cell. And the white wacko, too. See, they were both victims as kids. Sexual molestation cases. Anal rape — real bad stuff. They’ve suppressed most of it, but I bet they’ll remember it all when I tell them your dirty little secret.’
Tony’s face paled. ‘I ain’t got no secrets.’
‘You’re a skinner, Tony.’
‘Fuck you, I am.’
‘Like the little boys.’
‘This is bullshit.’
‘Every cop knows it — and they’re just waiting for the information to nail your tight little ass to the wall.’ Striker pointed into the cell. ‘And soon they will, too. Unless we talk. Up to you really. You wanna talk to me — or you wanna take your chances in there with Ebony and Ivory?’
Tony’s chest was heaving and sweat dappled his skin, as if the Cell Block 2 was suddenly too hot.
‘Go fuck your mother.’
Striker didn’t hesitate. He opened the door, shoved Tony inside, and Tony let out a terrified croak.
‘Striker!’
‘I told you, Tony, I got dead kids on my hands and a crazed gunman out there. I’m willing to break all the rules on this one. And a piece of shit like you means nothing to me.’ Striker grabbed the edge of the door, looked at Morningstar and Pemberton, and smiled. ‘I told you guys I’d look out for you, and that I’d owe you one. Well, here it is. The name of your new cellmate here is Chinese Tony. He’s a skinner. Have fun with him.’
Striker slammed the door shut and the harsh metallic sound echoed throughout the halls. Not a second later, Chinese Tony let out a horrible cry and started pounding frantically on the door.
‘I’ll talk, I’ll talk, I’LL FUCKING TALK!’
Striker opened up the door, saw Chinese Tony on his stomach, trembling, crying, his prisoner clothing already half-ripped from the lower part of his thin white body. His ass was hanging out. In behind him, Pemberton and Morningstar stood with strips of Tony’s prison clothes in their hands. Striker turned his eyes down to Tony.
‘You’ll tell me everything?’ he said.
‘Everything, Striker, everything. I swear!’
‘Good. Because you shut me out again and you’ll be right back here — and next time, this door won’t open back up.’
Sixty-Two
Ten minutes later, Striker sat across from Chinese Tony in one of the interview rooms located behind the main booking area. The air was cooler and much more comfortable here, and the lighting was brighter. The room
