Lights Out (25 page)

Marquez comes out of nowhere, planting a sharp kick in the guy’s ribs, dragging another scream out of him. He pauses to smooth back his hair with both hands. Then he crouches over Tito.

“Tell me, and try to be honest this time. Do you know why you’re here? See, I know you’re a stupid little bastard, but I can’t imagine you’re that big an idiot. It just doesn’t seem possible. So go ahead and tell me now. If you do, I’ll take the tape off your mouth. You can breathe a little easier that way.”

A nod, small and frightened.

“That’s good, Tito. Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.” He pinches the tape’s edge between two fingers and rips. Tito lets out a cry of pain as the tape takes skin and hair with it, but then he gulps air like it’s beer. Marquez listens, and he thinks he hears a soft chuckle between breaths, as if the air were the punchline to a bad joke. “You laughing?” he asks.

Tito’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Are you laughing? I thought I heard you. You’re not laughing, are you? I do not like it when people laugh at me. I can put the tape right back on, you stupid piece of shit.”

A lot of head shaking answers that one, along with a, “No! I got nothin’ to laugh about!”

“You got that one right. You don’t even have a giggle stored up. You got shit, Tito. Hear me? Shit.”

“Okay, Mr. Marquez. I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing.”

“Good. Now, you said you know why you’re here. I want you to tell me.”

Tito gasps, and a clicking sound escapes his throat.

Marquez drops a knee on the kid’s arm. Tito screams, and Omar answers by grinding down on the broken bones, putting every ounce of his weight into it. The kid squeals so much his voice cracks and disappears. A thin whistle of air replaces it, halted only by the occasional pained sob.

He grabs Tito’s chin, squeezing hard, and looks right into his eyes. “Don’t you play cute with me, goddammit! You tell me right now!
Tell me!”

“I hit her!”

The words explode from Tito’s mouth, and a shriek follows them. Marquez stands, letting the little bastard writhe on the floor for a long moment. He walks around the room, getting his breath back under control. When he looks up, he finds Garcia watching him, and he shakes his head. He’s okay, just getting started.

Omar steps to a nearby table, where the boys have already opened a bottle of Patrón and set out a glass. He knocks back a pair of shots and then pours a third. He carries it with him when he returns to Tito’s side.

“Like tequila?”

The boy shakes his head. “I’m fifteen. Not old enough.”

“So what? I was drinking this when I was your age, younger even. Besides, Jennifer says you were drunk when you punched her.”

“I didn’t punch her, I swear! I slapped her. Once.”

He glares down at the frightened kid.

“I heard a different story, Tito. I hear it every time I look at my daughter’s face. You know how many bruises you left on her? You have the slightest fucking idea?”

“I didn’t! I promise!”

He throws the liquor in Tito’s face, and a fresh set of cries fills the room as the alcohol burns into the fresh cuts there.

“The truth.”

Tito whimpers for a moment before managing to roll onto his side and then into a sitting position. He doesn’t look up at Marquez but past him, as if he might be watching the scene replay in his mind like a movie.

“It was beer. I can’t stand tequila; it tastes like shit. I’d had too much, and I punched her. She screamed, so I did it again and again, and I kept telling her to shut her mouth. I didn’t know what I was doing. I couldn’t even tell who I was.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve felt sick every minute since it happened. I don’t even know how to describe just how awful I feel. Mr. Marquez, I love Jennifer. I wouldn’t ever want to hurt her, not on purpose. You’ve got to know that. I’m sorry.”

Omar looks down at Tito, and he feels his lips curl into an angry sneer. The rage boils inside him, bubbling up his throat like bile. He’s known kids like Tito his entire life. He’s seen them brag about their cajones, talk about all the putas they’ve fucked. He knows how they think because he used to be one of them. He tucked all that shit away when he started taking over, though. That attitude doesn’t fly when you’re trying to run things. It’s a game for thugs only, for brainless chicos who won’t ever add up to shit.

The boy’s looking up at him with those round, wet eyes, and he wants to gouge them out. He’s torn the kid apart, stripped away the machismo to show the terrified little baby inside. That’s not enough, though. Not even close. He knows the boy will just come back harder. He’s seen it before. Little punks want to save face, prove themselves. The boy might go after Jennifer again, or he might go after some other man’s daughter, one he’ll treat even worse. And he knows what the boy might do to whatever target he chooses. He’s seen the girls with the scarred faces, and he knows how they got that way. Better to finish it now, get rid of the parts that want to act like a man.

Tito asks, “You believe me, right?” and Marquez answers by punching him in the mouth. The kid spits teeth, and Marquez plants another fist in his gut. Tito rolls around, groaning. Marquez looks up to Garcia.

“Get Rocha. Then come back here and hold this piece of shit still.”

The kid screams again, and he smirks.
If the kids singing now, just wait,
he thinks.
The boy doesn’t know the half of it.

Garcia returns with Rocha, and they don’t bother to say anything, just drop to their knees and grab the kid, Garcia getting the ankles and Rocha pinning the shoulders to the floor. Tito struggles, but he’s used most of his fight on the chair, and he’s in too much pain to protest much now.

Marquez stands over the little bastard, and he makes sure the kid notices the slow way that he pulls the switchblade from his pocket. He pops the blade, ignoring Tito’s reaction. It doesn’t matter anymore. He knows the kids paying good attention.

“You got one of these, Tito? I’ve had one since I was ten years old. It’s a good little instrument to have, keeps people from fucking with you, lets you fuck with them. It’s like a second dick. You can put it anywhere you want.”

He reaches down and yanks the boy’s pants and underwear to his knees. Tito shrieks.

“Well, chico, you might want to pick one up soon, because it’s the only dick you’re ever gonna have.”

Ignoring the sounds of terror coming from the kid’s mouth, Omar Marquez crouches over Tito and starts cutting.

***

“You can’t be serious, Omar. You’re jokin’, right?”

Marquez looked up from his place crouched beside the industrial dishwasher to where Rocha stood at the door to the deep freeze. His face was swollen, painted in shades of black and green. One eye was all but shut. Despite his injuries, the man wore a smirk that broadcasted annoyance and disbelief in equal amounts.

Marquez shook his head. “No, I’m not. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is my ass going in the freezer to look for monsters. How fucked up is that?”

“You saying you don’t believe what you saw last night?”

Rocha touched a hand to his face, winced. “I believe it, Omar. I just don’t wanna go freezing my ass off in a giant icebox because of it. Can’t I just peek in or something?”

“Goddammit, no. The hacks went over this place twice didn’t find shit. Now, we’re gonna go over it again, and we’re gonna check every-fucking-where until we find those bastards. Do I really think they’re camped out under the dishwasher? No. I’m checking it, though, so get your ass in there and look!”

He looked at Rocha long and hard, burrowing into him with his eyes. His lieutenant returned his gaze for a short moment before tossing him a shrug.

“Right, whatever. You got it, Omar.”

“Good. Get to it, man.”

Rocha flipped the collar on his grays up and stepped into the freezer like he’d been told.

Marquez shook his head and stood, listening to his knees pop. He wondered if Ribisi ever felt this old. He doubted it. The old goomba was probably going to outlive every other con in Burnham. The man seemed destined for it. He, on the other hand, hoped to serve his latest bit and get out, jump back on the streets where he belonged. Back with his family. Jennifer was 23 now, had two daughters of her own. He’d only seen them once, and that had been two years ago. The visit had ended horribly, with words of anger that had turned into screams of rage. Jennifer hadn’t called or written since, hadn’t answered any of his attempts to make contact. Maria, his wife, told him to let it go--that Jennifer would see him when she was ready--but waiting for his daughter was worse than waiting out his sentence, and he still had fifteen years on that.

He leaned against the dishwasher and closed his eyes, pictured his family in his mind. They looked happy, safe, and he wondered if that was really the case. His life had been anything but easy on them, and he knew it. There were nights he could convince himself it was no big thing, the cost of doing business. Most nights, however, he tossed and turned in his bunk and tried like hell to forget it all so he could go to sleep.

“Marquez.”

He opened his eyes to see two of his guys, Fed and Abel, round the corner. They looked frustrated, maybe a little bored.

“Yeah?”

“Not shit in the dry storage,” Fed reported through a mostly-closed mouth.

“You sure?”

“Looked everywhere, man. Even knocked on the walls looking for hollow spots, but there’s nothing there.”

“Fine.”

“Where now?”

“Help me finish the kitchen. We get that done, we’ll go see where else there is to look.”

The boys nodded and stooped to look under a row of shelves. Marquez moved away, approaching the bank of ovens and stoves. The kitchen sported four ovens and two gas stoves, all caked with soot and grease from years of usage. Like in every other prison where he’d had the honor of serving time, the Sicilians ran Burnham’s kitchen, and while they churned out food that was far better than the cold slop you’d expect from a prison meal, they never cleaned up like they should. You asked one of them why they left the place such a wreck, and you’d receive an answer of either, “Taste’s gotta come from somewhere,” or, “Get the fuck outta my face and mind your own goddamn business.” It depended on who you asked.

Omar stretched, and the muscles along his spine voiced their displeasure. He groaned.

“What is it, boss?” Abel asked.

“Nothing.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Y’know, when we find these motherfuckers.”

Omar thought about it before giving the kid a shrug. “Kill them before they kill all of us.”

“Well, how we gonna do that? Seriously. I don’t have no wooden stake in my hand, boss. One of those fucks comes at me, I got my fists and my cajones to fight it off with.”

“We got people working on stakes, man. The Padre’s making holy water, too.” He checked under the ovens, found a single dead rat, and motioned to the first of the stove tops. “Let’s keep going, okay?”

“Sure,” Abel answered as he grabbed the stove’s edge. He kept talking as he began to pull. “Yeah, it’s good we’re gonna have that shit, but what if none of it’s in
my
hands? No way are they carving up that many.”

“I know.”

“It’s just...Damn, boss. How many of us gonna die for this shit?”

Omar thought about the man’s question. He’d been trying to block the query from his own thoughts. Saying nobody would get hurt was bullshit, and he knew it. He had to keep his soldiers going, though. If they gave up, nobody would make it out alive.

“It won’t be that bad. We got the numbers by far.”

“So did those guards last night, but it didn’t keep ‘em alive. And when Chale showed up, I about lost it. World’ll be lucky if it don’t have two thousand vampires roaming around tomorrow.”

He hit the boy with a glare. “What you want to do? You want to give up, go hide in your cell like a bambino? Like a puta?”

Abel backed off, holding up a single hand in surrender. “I ain’t sayin’ that. I’m just sayin’ I’d feel a little better with some heavier shit on my side.”

“Well, I’m sorry. We don’t got any machine guns to bust out.”

“A machine gun? Fuck that, boss. I want a fuckin’ bomb.”

Omar’s hands froze on the stove. He looked down at the charred and greasy burners, at the shadows within them. Abel’s words repeated in his head, over and over again. A bomb. Slowly, an idea crept into his head. He took a step back, and he nodded to himself.

“What is it?” Abel asked.

He waved a hand at the stoves. “Finish this up, okay? I need to go talk to the Padre about something.”

The kid watched him with a dumb expression, not moving or saying a word.

“Finish it!”

Abel jumped. “Sure thing, boss. Sorry.” The man went back to tugging at the stove, working harder now that he’d been yelled at.

Omar wiped his hands off on his grays and left the kitchen. He walked through the cafeteria, his footsteps booming, and out into the hallway. He hoped he could find Father Albright quickly. The plan whirling through his mind was a risky one, and he had to tell the chaplain about it before he came to his senses.

Four

Timms stood outside Burnham, staring up at the high concrete walls and waiting for his cell phone to ring. The Governor had to have heard by now. It was only a matter of time before the phone rang, and when it did there would be a whole bunch of hell to pay.

Brass stood nearby, talking on the phone with the State Police. He kept nodding his head and saying, “Right...Right...Right.” Timms wanted to grab the phone out of his hands and throw it against the wall, maybe toss it on the pavement and stomp on it until nothing remained but plastic shards, anything to get the man to say something else. He had to let Brass talk though, had to keep those lines of communication open so they could work up a solution. But goddamn, it was an irritating process.

As if a tiny miracle had occurred, Brass said, “I’ll keep you informed. Thanks,” and snapped the cell phone shut.