Julian glanced down at the hand resting on his shoulder. The forearm was emblazoned with a dark calligraphy tattoo of the word “Playboy.” Julian looked at the guy he’d be sharing a cell with. He saw how he got the nickname. One of those GQ model types that the women swooned over.
“Almost time for lunch. You should rinse off that blood. No use getting on the guards’ radar this soon, they’ll think you’ve been up to no good,” Playboy said.
Turning the faucet on, Julian winced as he allowed the ice-cold water to flow over his hands. Water tinted red with blood flowed over the stained basin and slipped down the rusted drain.
Playboy handed Julian a worn hand towel. Then reached under his mattress and pulled out a small pouch. Alcohol square. “Place is full of germs.”
Tearing the pouch open, Julian pressed the small square over the raw and scraped skin. Blood soaked through the towelette. The blaze of stinging pain was no match for the sharp ache of his throbbing knuckles.
“Thanks,” Julian mumbled. “Playboy.”
“Don’t start that shit. I get enough of it from the other fools in here. I’m Xander.”
“So, Xander, if you don’t like the nickname, why is it on your arm?” Julian asked.
“To make it clear to my female visitors that I’m not a one-woman kind of guy,” Xander explained.
Julian laughed under his breath.
“I’m serious, man. I get about a hundred letters a week from females I’ve never even met wanting to set up conjugal visits with me. Shit, I can only fuck so much. I have to be picky about the ones I accept.”
Julian slumped down onto the thin, hard mattress.
“Stop moping like your goddamn life is over. You won’t be in here for long,” Xander said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Cause you’re my cellmate. We are what they call Errado Boys, wrongly accused of crimes and expected not to be here for long. Except my ass been up here for almost a year now.”
“Who thinks I’ve been wrongly accused?”
“Well, some do and some don’t. One side says you tried to whack her, and she deserved it. The other side, which I’m on, says you’re an ex-Navy SEAL. If you wanted her dead, she would be. In the end, only one man’s opinion counts. He thinks you’re innocent, so you got put with me.”
“And who the fuck is this one man?” Julian asked, frowning.
“Josue Chartres. The one man in this place that you don’t want to piss off. A Vadaj. He executed people on the PC-5 death list, and he runs Tiverton,” Xander explained.
The gang influence within Tiverton didn’t surprise Julian. Many prisons had to deal with gang members who were just as powerful, or even more so, than they were on the outside. To keep the peace, prison wardens and guards kept a tight watch, limiting the interactions of rival gangs. No surprise that the PC-5 was a force to be reckoned with inside the maximum-security walls.
Julian said, “Guess rule number one is to always show respect to Chartres. What else do I need to know?”
“Josue expects prompt payment of a twenty percent protection fee on anything you buy or that gets sent to you while in here. Doesn’t matter what it is. You get a pack of chewing gum with five pieces, one of those needs to be sent to Josue. You get a notebook with a hundred pages in it, you better rip out twenty and give them to Josue. Being Errado Boy and staying current on your protection fees will ensure you’ll have no problems while you’re here.”
“Can’t imagine that everybody follows those rules,” Julian said.
Xander nodded. “Everybody don’t follow them. The fee don’t apply to motherfuckers on Death Row and it sure as hell don’t apply to the Fury. Sick bastard went on a rampage killing people and eating them decades ago. He’s in here somewhere, but his location is top-secret. I don’t know anyone who’s ever seen the hairy motherfucker, but it’s still creepy as fuck to know we’re locked up with someone like that.”
Julian had heard the Fury suffered from a disease that covered most of his body with fur-like hair. He was a blight on the Palmchat Islands, which took a hit in tourism when he was on his killing spree.
A loud bell rang, followed by the sound of cell doors banging open.
“Lunch time?” Julian asked.
“We’re up. We go by units. This is Epsilon Unit which houses all the Errado Boys plus some smaller gangs—Pandas out of Argentina, Ruffboys from Jamaica and Quattro. Got to watch out for Quattro. They’re ruthless and stupid, bucking the PC-5 and trying to make a name for themselves. Josue keeps them in check. He and his leadership team stay out of the cells for the entire lunch hours to collect his protection fees from the other inmates,” Xander said, then pushed open the inner door to their cell. “Come on, it’s burrito day.”
Julian walked side by side with Xander in the herd of inmates into the massive cafeteria in the basement of the prison. Guards toting assault rifles were stationed along the hallway and inside the dining area, keeping a close watch on the activities of the inmates. The plastic chairs and long rectangular tables were bolted to the concrete floor. Near the far left of the room, Julian saw a group of five men huddled over a table scattered with dominoes. Empty paper plates and cups lay littered toward the edge as they focused on their game.
“Which one is Josue Chartres?” Julian asked.
