Free Ugly Girls: A Novel by Lindsay Hunter Page B

that. The buzzing echoed behind him in a long, retreating wail.
    Two hours into his shift, five minutes before Jim could take his break, he heard the muffled sounds of a quiet jump in one of the cells. It was the middle of the night, but that was when inmates were the most keyed up, too much silence, too much time to think. Men never screamed or called for help when they were being jumped; that was part of the code. At first he couldn’t tell if it was on the second tier, where he was when he heard it, or below him, or even if it was on the side he was supposed to be patrolling, but he could hear it clear as day: the unmistakable sound of fists and feet and elbows landing in the soft meat of a body, which meant the owner of the body had stopped fighting back.
    He couldn’t see O’Toole anywhere, so he shouted the man’s name. “I got it,” O’Toole answered from the far corner, where three other guards were pushing into a cell on O’Toole’s side. The guards and O’Toole started shouting for the men to get down, hands behind their heads, their voices guttural and angry, like rage had taken form and was all mouth.
    Some of the inmates on Jim’s side were getting loud, yelling across about what they could and couldn’t see. One of the guards pulled the downed man out by his arms. A blood bib on his sweatshirt, his face all smear. The inmates who could see cheered, the ones who couldn’t yelled, Who down? He dead? The rage was taking Jim now. Men cheering at the pulped man. He felt his nightstick in his hand, suddenly, and he beat the railing with it until his ears rang.
    Later, as they were clocking out together, Jim asked O’Toole what the fight was about. “Deck of playing cards,” was his answer. O’Toole wasn’t looking Jim in the face, still frosty over the scuffle they’d had clocking in, and he walked quickly to get ahead of Jim and out to the parking lot. Jim slowed, his legs tired, his whole self tired. He didn’t want to get in that truck and drive home, and he didn’t want to turn around and work another shift. He stood in the parking lot, the sky the pale blue and yellow of a child’s room, the day already warm. O’Toole drove by, didn’t return Jim’s wave. He knew he could have punched O’Toole till his brain was bent if he’d felt just a bit more provoked than he had. It occurred to Jim that it was in a man’s nature to fight, to wound. Playing cards sold for a dollar in the commissary. A single dollar.

 
    THE DENNY’S WAS A SHORT WALK from the trailer, just up one exit. Stay close to the guardrail and try not to look directly at the headlights coming fast, get off at the next exit.
    She wanted to see Travis, so she went to see him. Easy as pie , as Myra would say.
    It felt strange not to call and ask Baby Girl to drive her. But then again, what did she need Baby Girl for? In the past she’d used Baby Girl’s car to get closer to a boy, but she didn’t even know what she wanted to do with Travis yet. And he didn’t seem like the type to rush to the backseat anyway.
    And plus her face burned every time she thought of Baby Girl’s hand on her cheek, mashing her lips into her teeth. She knew Baby Girl was capable of shit like that, of course she knew. But she’d never had to deal with it coming back at her. If it happened again … if it happened again, what?
    Anyway , she told herself.
    The Denny’s smelled like syrup and bacon and bleach. The same waitress, Pam, moving from table to table. Perry sat at the counter.
    “What you got a taste for, hon?” Pam asked. It didn’t seem like she remembered Perry. It was likely people came in at all hours and gave her shit, their faces all blurred together, a tapestry of assholes. Perry felt grateful that she could drop her guard.
    “Coffee,” she said.
    “Mm-hmm, and?”
    “And that’s it,” Perry said.
    “You still got to tip at least fifteen percent,” Pam told her. “Sometimes you young kids don’t seem to know that.”