“Are you telling me Handy and Jesus aren’t crazy?”
“I said most,” admitted Cuts, “not all. Even them, though, they got the sense to stay out of the way. Mostly.”
“How did you end up in here?” asked Bunny.
Cuts leaned back. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Well, you’re the one dishing out advice. I just want to know what makes you so wise.”
“I didn’t say I was wise. I’m the dumbest son of a bitch in here.”
“We all make mistakes,” said Bunny.
“That’s exactly my point,” said Cuts. “You can’t afford to make a mistake. You’re in the most dangerous position in this whole damned place. All I want is a quiet life. Well, that and my own movie screening room, but I’m realistic. That’s what you have to be, man. Realistic. You haven’t got the luxury of being anything but.” He lowered his voice further still. “You’re sharing a cell with the Quiet Man. He’s been here three years and nobody speaks to him. Nobody.”
“Why?” asked Bunny.
“See? You got to stop asking questions, man. The answers are going to get you killed. You just don’t – that’s the answer. The warden has me handing him a note every week, asking if he needs anything. He writes me a list, I give it to the guards. That’s it. A couple of evenings a week he gets taken down to walk the empty yard alone. The guards don’t even speak to him, other than basic directions. Every day, I bring him his meals. He sits in there, reads comic books and watches TV. That’s it. You need to ignore him and keep yourself to yourself. Draw no attention.”
Bunny held up his hands. “Alright. I’ll keep a low profile. I’m not going looking for trouble.”
The pair looked up as a large shadow blocked out the light from outside the cell. Two massive men stood on the landing, staring in. One had a neck tattoo that looked in danger of strangling him, and the other’s beard was big enough that he might have hidden weapons or the body of Jimmy Hoffa in it. “Boss wants to see you.”
Bunny glanced at Cuts, who was shaking his head in despair.
“I didn’t say trouble wouldn’t come looking for me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Bunny was escorted to the fourth floor. With one of the man-mountains walking in front of him and the other behind, the view was limited – as was the chat. Bunny’s attempts to strike up conversation were met with hostile grunts. The lads didn’t seem to have any thoughts on the Great Biscuit Debate. Bunny was beginning to feel increasingly alone on that one, not unlike his situation on the fourth floor.
As he walked by the cells, eyes looked out at him. Large groups of inmates fell silent as they passed. Bunny was trying not to think of the dead-man-walking scene from The Green Mile. In hindsight, his decision to watch every prison movie he could get hold of before embarking on this escapade had been a mistake.
It was an odd thing to think, given some of their content, but Bunny was starting to feel that the movies of Stephen King’s various incarceration stories, while excellent, gave an overly optimistic view of the penal system. He’d only been here for a day, but so far there’d been no miraculous mice, and it was beginning to look as if a miracle were needed.
The mountain in front stopped, and Bunny walked into the back of him, getting a face full of sweat-stained vest for his trouble. The man looked down at him and pointed into the cell. Bunny stepped inside, where a man of maybe fifty years, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, sat reading a book. He placed a bookmark on the page, closed the book and gave Bunny a warm smile.
“Señor Rourke, thank you for coming to see me.”
“I didn’t get the impression that attendance was optional.”
This raised a laugh. “True. Still, we can treat each other with respect until it is shown that such respect is not deserved, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” said Bunny.
“Good. How are you enjoying your stay in Longhurst?”
“Well, I keep missing meals and someone has attacked me already. So, y’know, ’tis a mixed bag.”
“Yes, I heard about that. Did you turn down an offer to join the Aryan Brotherhood?”
“I never got one. The gobshite just went off like a feckin’ skyrocket.”
The man crinkled his eyes and tilted his head.
“I mean, the fella – he just attacked me.”
“I see. Well, these things happen. Some inmates view the unaffiliated as a cheap way of earning themselves a reputation. If they were to attack one of my associates from Vatos Locos, well – there would be repercussions.”
“You’d kill him.”
The man shook his head and smiled. “No. In all likelihood his own people would. It would be easier for them in the long run. The Aryans don’t want trouble with Vatos Locos. There are arrangements.”
“Oh, right,” said Bunny. “I thought their whole mission statement was a bit – what’s the word I’m looking for? – emphatic, in terms of who they deal with.”
The man shrugged. “There is rhetoric, and there is business. In my experience, one trumps the other.”
The man picked up a cup of tea from the desk beside him and took a sip.
Bunny felt himself start to salivate. “I don’t suppose there’s a spare one of them going?”
The man looked at the cup and then back at Bunny. “No.”
“Fair enough.”
He put down the cup and turned his attention back to Bunny. “This is not a social visit, Mr Rourke. I need to make something clear to you. You’ve been placed somewhere you shouldn’t be. Now, as I understand it, the rules regarding a certain individual have been made clear to you. Let me similarly make the consequences of any infraction of those rules very clear to you. I am the boss, but
