Familiar Faces in Strange Places
Once Jack was properly processed, showered, de-loused, and x-rayed, he taken to a room where he was informed he was to be fitted for an electronic collar. He refused and was promptly sedated and adorned with one anyway. Half groggy, he was escorted to the living unit called North 1. Rollins hadn’t been kidding about the Pit’s new modernized systems. Every aspect of the move was compartmentalized and monitored.
Unlike the rest of the jail with its tiers of long ranges and bar faced cells, North 1 was entirely closed in in. Twelve cells in a row with bright green solid metal security doors equipped with a long vertical mesh glass window and a metal drop slots.
Once he was placed in his little 7X10 cement cubicle, the restraints were removed and he was regaining a sense of his bearing. Inside the cell, there was a metal cot bolted to the floor, a table, also bolted down, and a sink/toilet combo unit. Sitting on the cot was thin black and white stripped mattress, new as evidenced by the lack of discoloration and staining on it, and on that a set of sheets, a knit blue blanket, one pillow case on a thin pillow, two towels, another jumpsuit, and a perforated clear plastic bag containing one plastic fork, a round Melmac coffee mug, a short toothbrush, toothpaste, a small clear bottle of shampoo, a single bladed blue disposable razor, a bar of hand soap, and a black comb. Moving the stuff onto the table, he set about making his bed.
“That you Smiling Jack Taylor?” he heard a voice call from another one of the cells.
Tucking his blanket in, he stood up straight, “Who wants to know?” he replied, moving to the door and peering through the narrow strip of wired glass.
“Russell Thomas,” replied the voice.
A slow smile spread across Jack’s scarred face. “Been a lot of years,” he replied. Russell had been one of his mates in Stonehaven before the scatter years back. Russell had gone on to establish himself as a force to be reckoned with in his own right during the years between.
Russell laughed, “Fuck yeah,” he responded emphatically.
“You faggots done getting reacquainted then dummy the fuck up,” called another voice angrily from somewhere down the range.
“Why don’t you shut your fucking face pussy,” Russell retorted. “That yappy little fuck is Cornelius Hall, but you can call him corn hole,” he stated.
“Fuck you,” Cornelius replied.
Leaning his forearm above the window in his door, Jack closed his eyes and nodded slowly, “I know your name, ATK out of Lachlan,” he said. ATK was the name of the gang, ‘Armed to Kill’ they called themselves, others said it meant “All the Kooks’ because any wingnut could and often did get it.
“Represent,” replied the other man.
“What’s the deal with the collar?” Jack asked, trying to slip a finger under the uncomfortable metal band.
“We all got one,” Russell replied. “We think it’s like a Running Man kind of deal, but who knows? GPS maybe?”
Tipping his head back and opening his eyes, “Who else we got up in this house?” Jack asked out loud.
“Marcellus Tate,” came a deep bass voice. Another name Jack knew. A man who used to be very well connected, former founder and leader of the Westcoast Warriors where he singlehandedly consolidated two bitter rivals into one monster gang.
Marcellus was old school and still held to the notion of honor among thieves despite the shift in modern thinking toward get all you can while you can and fuck the consequences. As a result, he was set up and contracted by members of his own gang who were more aggressive and less scrupulous than him. He planted a half dozen of his own before they took him down.
“You and I got some catching up to do you one eyed fuck,” snarled another voice from Jack’s past.
“Darryl Hodge,” Jack said, frowning. Former member of the Red Hand and New Order. A physical specimen to be sure. Jack had stabbed him a dozen times, the man should have died, but he was a stubborn son of a bitch.
“Fucking A right punk,” Hodge cracked back, chuckling.
“Punk? You’re the fucking punk. You better pray they don’t crack us all at once, fucking buster!” hollered Russell, slamming his hands against his door.
“Fuck you. After I dummy your boyfriend, I’m going lay you out and fuck you in the ass bitch,” Hodge threatened.
“Listen up,” Jack growled, “What’s done is done and what happened in Stonehaven years back is over with. There’s no way to undo that, but if you let it go, I’ll let it go and we move forward,” he stated calmly.
“So what? You begging for a free pass now after plugging me full of holes? Fuck that.”
“No, you get to keep breathing and I don’t finish what I started back in Stonehaven,” Jack warned. “You got my word.”
There was a silence, hanging heavy in the air.
“A man’s only as good as his word and One Eye’s is golden bro,” interjected a Latin accented voice.
“Hector?” Jack asked, recognizing the man’s voice. They had done some mutual time together and while not officially affiliated, Hector had been the artist responsible for the majority Jack’s tattoo work.
“Odele vato,” replied the other man.
“How long has everyone been here?” Jack asked.
“Everybody in the last day or two, I think,” supplied Russell.
“Who else is here?”
“John Smith,” answered another con in a baritone voice. Jack nodded, yet another name he was familiar with, spend enough time within the system and soon you know just about everybody’s name and their beef. Two confirmed kills on the outside for Mr. Smith, double that inside. He was a very dangerous man.
Silenced followed.
“Seven of us?” Jack asked, breaking the lengthy stretch of quiet. “I saw twelve cages.”
“Nah man, with you here it makes nine. Unless my eyes deceived me, late last night they brought in Mordred Pallor,” supplied Cornelius.
“The Night Raver?” Jack asked. Word was Mordred seriously believed he was an undead vampire, requiring human blood for sustenance. Inside, outside, didn’t matter, he bled his victims dry, and of course, he was totally insane. Jack was kind of surprised he was here in the Pit in this company of rogues as opposed to some loony ward or puzzle factory.
“Count Von Blood Count himself,” Russell answered.
“And who else?”
“Maynard White,” answered the last voice, tone haughty. Jack frowned. A man he had never met, but a name everyone knew. White was medical doctor addicted to scrips who, while high, negligently killed the daughter of a very powerful politician. In return, the good doctor was given a very lengthy sentence. The first life he took was by accident, the next three were premeditated. Doctor Death made nine.