Free Damascus Road by Charlie Cole Page B

me with malicious intent. If they had cause to pummel me, they would,
ready for any sign that would vindicate their intent. I did not give them the
satisfaction.
    The officers pushed me into the car and I let myself fold
in, settled onto the hard plastic seat. I did not look out the window. I
ignored the staring eyes of the party-goers. I closed my eyes and waited until
the car moved.
    Eventually, the vehicle pulled out, and I let the city wash
over me. Without thought or insight or mental process, I looked out the window.
The cop tried to talk to me, saying that if I would cooperate and tell my side
of the story, then I could help myself. I ignored him and invoked my right to
remain silent without saying a word.
    Intake at the jail was everything I remembered it to be.
Cops and questions, but the tone was more reserved there. It was a forgone
conclusion you were staying, so why fight it?
    I went through fingerprinting without struggle. While the
desk sergeant chattered away about my knife, how nice it was, where did I get
it, had I killed anyone with it, had I, hmm? I ignored him and watched the
inmates. Some were pups, stupid and slow suburban men too foolish to stay out
of jail. I ignored them immediately.
    What did catch my attention were the inmates who had been
there before. Hard-looking men with fierce glares in their eyes. They had not seen
the inside of a gym since their last stay in prison, but lived by a regime of
knife fights, shootings, fisticuffs and running from the police. These were the
ones I was looking for.
    I was led to a holding cell and found a seat away from the
other men. They kept their distance from one another, each wary of sitting too
close or standing within someone’s immediate area, let alone their reach-all
secretly afraid to “disrespect” the other, but outwardly giving no sign of
anything other than feral behavior. I watched them as they evaluated each
other, trying to find the weak link, ready to pounce on anyone who appeared to
be less than an alpha dog.
    Hector was the pit bull of the crew. His neck was thick and
tattooed above a blue shirt buttoned at the collar. His hair was buzzed short
except for a goatee that he wore long. He paced with a low, shuffling gate.
    Two other men were in the cell. One was tall and lean with a
sallow-looking face. He had been good-looking once, but now had been battered
by the street life and looked worn out. He reminded me of the snake that slept
under the front porch. Not aggressive until you wandered too close. I dubbed
him Slick.
    The third man was a boxer. I could tell by his regularly
broken nose and catcher’s mitt face. His arms were abnormally long, nearly
hanging to his knees. His hands were scarred, the knuckles rough and calloused.
Like any other palooka, I named him Joe.
    Joe and Slick stayed to their own sides, while Hector
prowled the center of the cell. I stayed in the back, never looking at any of
them directly. Instead I rubbed at the fingerprint black on my fingers with
disinterest. I was plotting, waiting for the right moment. I was unknown to
them, obviously had been inside before, a wildcard.
    “Alright, gentlemen,” I said. My voice was loud, unwavering,
a bold opening move. Slick turned and looked at me. Joe stopped facing me,
fists clenched. Hector was watching my reflection in the glass.
    I hopped to my feet and tossed my coat behind me. Unhurried,
I rolled up my sleeves.
    “I’ve got someplace I need to be,” I said, locking eyes with
each of them. “And you boys are going to help me get there.”
    The room was dead silent. Hector looked at Slick, who looked
at Joe, then back again.
    “What are you talking about?” Hector said. “You planning on
breaking out of here?”
    I laughed.
    “Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve got a little trip ahead of me.
And I need your help to get there.”
    “You think you’re breaking out of here alone?” This from
Joe.
    They weren’t getting it. I couldn’t blame them. I