City of Red | Part 1

Chapter 8 | The not so Great Gatsby

Alfonso put his book down then pulled a long stiff wire out from under the top mattress and jabbed it inside his cast.

Thanks to Cristina, Alfonso had started reading books he would have never read otherwise. Wuthering Heights, The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby; today he was reading Moby Dick.

Alfonso's shattered hand provided reason to visit the med-bay almost every day. There were more than a few times when Cristina manipulated the schedules of inmates and the other nurses so they could be alone. It was during those rare moments when they became intimate, and while the guilt of everything that happened in Cold Harbor City weighed heavily on Alfonso, Cristina became a bright spark in an otherwise dark existence.

"Gatsby, ye boy." Ricky spoke with a thick Irish accent as if he were taken right from one of the northern counties of Ireland.

As if his accent wasn't jarring enough, Ricky's gaunt cheeks and red hair made the Irishman stand out even more. Not older than twenty-two, the young man was skinny as a stick, which always made his clothes look too baggy.

"Remember that fella you've been goin' on about? The one that kicked the shite out ya?"

"Yeah, why?" Alfonso returned the stiff to its hiding place under the top bunk.

"He's comin'."

"Right now?"

"Yeah, right now. Follow me, Gatsby."

Alfonso followed Ricky towards the north side of the cell block along the second level walkway. The path was littered with inmates hanging around, chatting or simply enjoying their own solitude.

"Word is, the bloke's made a name for himself across the way. Fellas over there say he loves a good fookin throw down."

"They're not wrong." Alfonso replied, remembering their scuffle during orientation.

"I see that look in your eye. Ya better be careful, Gatsby."

"I don't plan on letting that happen again."

"What's our plan? I hope you don't expect my ginger arse to jump in and save ya."

They posted up along the horizontal safety railing and watched as Charlie Facone was escorted into their block.

Charlie was shackled around his neck, connecting to his wrists, waist, and ankles along with a five guard escort, each one equipped with an electric prod in hand.

"Word is," Ricky said. "He laid a guard up for two whole months, and it took three guards zappin' him to get tha guy under control."

"Which cell is his?"

"One twelve. That was Cyder's pad until he took a shiv from the gay lad. Willie King's been enjoying the whole cell to himself ever since. His black arse is gonna be pissed when that guy shows up. He'll go from all the room to no room, just like that." Ricky snapped his fingers. "What're you thinking?"

"I'm thinking he's gonna need some friends."

"Friends? You mean us? That's some shite if I ever heard it. I'd steer clear of him."

"Charlie Facone lives here now. Either he's a friend or a problem. I know guys like him. I am him. Was him. We come from the same world."

"Who are the Facone's, anyway?"

"It's a family out of New York. You ever heard of the Commission? Charlie's uncle is a part of that."

"If his family's so powerful," Ricky said, "how the hell did one of their own end up in a place like this?"