Fostering Death (17 page)

At least I should be prepared for the worst and take care of the errands that would eat up my limited free time. Like getting my laundry done.

The Laundromat was a few blocks down the street, at the end of a block-long building that also housed a few now-closed stores, Mickey’s bar which was frequented by a lot of the workers from Quality Steel Fabrications, and a bunch of apartments on the second floor.

At nine o’clock on a weekday night, the Laundromat was a peaceful place, unlike Mickey’s. In here, the music, shouts, and laughter were muted. Two washing machines whirred toward the final rinse cycle. One held my clothes and the other my bedding and towels. I knew all about separating whites from colored clothes, but since the only whites I had were my underwear, and I didn’t care what color they came out, I just shoved all my clothes in together.

I stood by with my bottle of fabric softener, waiting for the final rinse.

Fabric softener was a wonderful invention. I’d never even heard of it before I’d been assigned to a job in the prison laundry, washing sheets, blankets, and clothes. The pay was a dollar a day, but it was something to do, and it sure beat being locked on the housing unit all day. Of course we had nothing but cheap powdered detergent. The only way to get the dank odor out of clothes was to get some bleach from the CO on duty. To do that, he had to go to a locked cabinet, get the bleach, take it to the washing machine, and dump it in himself since we weren’t permitted to handle anything that caustic. And the bleach was in limited supply, so even if he was cooperative, there was no guarantee there’d be any actually in the cabinet.

One of the old heads, who’d worked in a commercial laundry before he was locked up, spoke longingly of fabric softener. Not only did the clothes come out softer, but also they smelled good. Very few things in the prison smelled good.

The first time I went to buy supplies to do my own laundry after I’d been released, I read the labels and got a bottle of fabric softener. The results it produced were even better than I’d expected. It was pure luxury to drift off to sleep under soft sheets that smelled of fabric softener. It was an artificial, chemical scent, but I didn’t care. It was a luxury I could afford.

The front door to the street chimed as it opened. I turned to see who else was doing laundry this time of the evening.

Aaron strode in, followed by Clay, Ramon, and Marcus. They weren’t carrying any laundry baskets or bottles of detergent.

This couldn’t be good.

And why wasn’t Ramon at work?

I glanced toward the surveillance camera, mounted next to the door right by the change machine, and wondered if anyone was monitoring it. Unlikely.

The washers reached their final rinse cycle. I poured the measured capful of the fragrant blue liquid into one machine, then the other, watching the four of them out of the corner of my eye.

Clay spit on the floor and rubbed the palm of his hand on his stubbly cheek.

“My supplier got busted,” Marcus said. “But I guess you already knew that. Didn’t you, snitch?”

We weren’t at work—no foreman to fire anyone for fighting. We all knew that. If the cops came, they’d get a slap on the wrist. And I’d get sent back to prison.

Turning to face them, I narrowed my eyes into a stare and said, “I
know
you ain’t talking to me.”

The arrogant smirk faded from Aaron’s face, and he backed up uneasily. The others were looking at each other and laughing.

“Get his wallet,” Aaron said. “I bet he’s got some oxys or something in there. And a lot of money.”

Marcus stepped around the folding table in one direction, and Clay went around the other end.

They outweighed me by at least fifty pounds each.

I set the bottle on the table and backed up against the dryer.

Marcus slammed a beefy fist into my gut, but not before I managed to tighten my stomach muscles to minimize the effects of the blow. Although it knocked the breath out of me and I hunched forward, I kept my feet under me.

Clay grabbed me from behind, hooking his hands in my elbows and pulling my arms back. He jerked me around to face Marcus.

Grinning evilly, Marcus raised a clenched fist and held it next to his face. As he moved closer to me, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes washed over me. “Thought we’d just let it go, did you, snitch?”

I forced myself to relax, and Clay loosened his grip. If he knew what he was doing, he would be keeping a tight hold and forcing my arms up at a painful angle behind my back. Then I’d be pretty much helpless. Obviously he’d never had any training in physical restraint, and over the years I’d been restrained by the best.

Marcus leaned close and pulled his fist back.

Moving suddenly, I leaned back, shoving Clay against the washing machine. His hands closed clumsily on my arms. Supporting myself on his bulky chest and arms, I lifted my right foot in its steel-toed boot and drove up between Marcus’s legs, connecting solidly.

Despite his entire body folding into an agonized curl, Marcus got the punch off, hard. It caught me in the throat. I couldn’t breathe for a few seconds.

Clay regained his footing and leaned forward on my back, slamming my face into the flimsy table in front of me. The table collapsed, taking me down with it. As I fell, I tucked my head under and heaved upward with my butt. If Clay hadn’t been so heavy, he would have gone somersaulting over my shoulders. As it was, he tumbled off to one side, losing his grip on my arms.

Pain shot through me as I came down on my left knee and the side of my right foot, but I ignored it, scrambling to my feet. My breath came in jagged gasps.

Ramon froze as his eyes opened wide in shock.

Aaron cowered back. He looked at me, rubbing his nose with the side of his hand. “Man, somebody’s gonna get hurt,” he whined.

As if nobody’d already been hurt.

He wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans. “You better watch it. You’re gonna get in trouble.”

I leveled my gaze at him and grinned. After the blow to my throat, I wasn’t sure I could actually form words, but I tried, and it worked. “I’m looking at a new homicide charge, and I already got one murder conviction. You think I’m worried about adding another one? Or four?”

Aaron blinked rapidly. “We was just trying…”

I kicked him in the balls, but only got in a glancing blow. “I don’t care what you was trying to do. It didn’t work.”

He turned his face away from me as he slid to the floor and moaned, his hands clutching at his crotch.

Ramon roused himself and stepped toward me.

Taking my eyes off Clay had been a mistake. Rolling onto his side, he reached out and grabbed my foot, yanking hard. I fell into Ramon, who landed on another folding table, collapsing to the floor along with it.

Clay struggled to get to his feet. He glared at Aaron. “Come on, you wimp. Kick him in the head or something.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aaron approach. He was still holding his crotch with one hand, but he was balling his other hand into a fist, trying to look menacing.

The bottle of fabric softener lay next to me, its contents dribbling out on the floor. I snatched it up and, as Aaron bent down to deliver what would have been at best a feeble punch, I jerked it toward his face. Enough of the thick blue liquid was left to splash into his eyes.

He issued a startled cry and backed off, wiping his eyes.

Clay, now on his feet, gave him a disgusted glance and raised his boot over my hand. I dropped the bottle, rolled onto my back and reached for his foot. Seizing it, I twisted sideways. He tumbled over, his head catching a corner of the end dryer as he fell to the floor. Blood gushed out of a gash on his forehead, and he lay still.

Sharp pains cut through my ankle as I clambered back to my feet. Aaron, still crying and wiping his eyes with one hand, threw his shoulders back and drew his other fist back.

I grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him off his feet. Although he was taller than me, he felt almost weightless. Not surprising, I guess, in a meth freak. And I had plenty of adrenalin flowing. I tossed him toward the door. He landed on the change machine and his head hit the surveillance camera, knocking it to the floor. It bounced onto the floor, narrowly missing Clay’s still form.

Something stirred behind me. I whirled around to see Marcus lumbering to a standing position, fury in his eyes. “You bastard,” he hissed, lunging toward me with his arms outstretched to grab me.

Dumb. If these guys didn’t know how to handle themselves in a scrap, they had no business going around picking fights.

Sidestepping him, I brought my fist up hard under his chin. His teeth met with a resounding crunch and blood spurted from his mouth. He tumbled back to the floor.

Without getting up, Aaron skittered across the floor and sat, leaning back against a dryer and whimpering.

Ramon was trying to untangle himself from the overturned table and the legs that had broken free from it. I grabbed one of the table legs and swung it at the side of his head. He let out a cry and held his hand to his ear. Blood trickled from between his fingers. He covered his face with his other hand.

Clay still hadn’t moved.

Marcus sat up, fingering his chin. Blood dribbled onto his shirt. “You broke my jaw,” he said. He was having as much trouble talking as I was. He lurched yet again to his feet and approached me.

This time I hit him in the gut. He doubled over and retched.

His wallet, attached by a chain to his belt, swung next to his leg.

They had been planning to take my wallet. Turnabout should be fair play, if I cared about fair. In my experience, fair play didn’t usually enter into it.

I reached down and snatched it. A quick yank broke the chain. I stuffed the wallet in my pocket and took hold of him by the shirt collar and the seat of his pants.

He was too heavy for me to lift, so I dragged him across the floor to the door, shoved it open with my foot, and maneuvered him outside. My ankle protested, but I ignored it. He landed face down on the sidewalk and tried to get to his feet. All he managed was to get to his knees. He retched again and threw up on the pavement. And all over his shirt.

Ramon turned away from me when I stepped up to him. I pulled the bits of broken table off him and put my hands under his armpits. “Stand up,” I ordered.

With my assistance, and at great expense to my ankle, he rose unsteadily to his feet. I reached into his pockets, transferring whatever I found there to my own, and then propelled him out the door. I shoved him up against the outside wall. He leaned against it and slid down to a sitting position. Still holding his head.

I went back inside and stood in front of where Aaron cowered against the dryer. His bleary eyes opened wide, and he tried to edge backwards, but he was already pressed up against the dryer.

“Hey, Jesse.” His voice came out high pitched and squeaky. “Can’t you take a joke, man?”

“Some joke.” I stepped by him and stood over Clay. Was he still alive? I didn’t really care. Although if he were dead, there would be a serious investigation. It would be hard to hide my part in this fight. And I’d hate to have to get rid of a body. I’d heard lots of tales of killers who would have gotten away with murder if they had figured out how to get rid of the body effectively. Bodies tripped people up all the time.

Bending down, I ran my hands over his pockets, pulling out keys, a few small items and some cigarettes. I took his wallet, also on a chain, from his back pocket. I yanked on it, but the chain didn’t break. I reached down and unclipped it from his belt.

As I stood over Clay, he stirred. So he wasn’t dead. But he was a dead weight. I grabbed his legs and pulled him toward the door. His arms sprawled out behind him, and his head banged against table legs. And he left a trail of blood behind him.

Headlights moved out on the street. I stopped at the doorway, looking out. The headlights picked up Marcus, who was on his knees by the curb, clutching a fire hydrant. He was leaning over, puking his guts out.

The car pulled in and parked. Its lights winked out.

I stood still, the door half open. I could do without any additional witnesses. The bright lights from the Laundromat were at my back, so my face was in shadow and my body blocked any view of the interior, which was pretty banged up.

A woman got out of the car, keys in her hand, and looked at Marcus, wrinkling her nose. “Disgusting,” she said. Then she caught a glimpse of Ramon, who had slid to a sitting position against the wall and was holding his head. She shook her head and headed to a poorly lit doorway a few yards down. She unlocked the door and slipped in.

I dragged Clay the rest of the way out and dumped him against the wall on the other side of the door from Ramon. Rain was beginning to fall. I hoped it would wash away the blood and vomit on the sidewalk.

Aaron was trying to get to his feet. Roughly, I helped him up.

He didn’t protest as I ran my hands over his pockets, taking his wallet, keys, cigarettes, and a few things I didn’t take the time to identify.

“You best be telling me what you been saying about me,” I said.

“Nothing, really,” he whined.