Despite an abundance of tattoos, a series of devils with their tongues sticking out KISS-style, Buzz wasn’t particularly frightening. He wasn’t big and didn’t look very strong. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Virgil had learned long ago not to discount anyone, not until he knew what the guy was like on the inside. Vanquishing an enemy was largely a matter of determination and often depended on how far you were willing to go—whether or not you’d risk your own life to accomplish what you wanted. Some of the meanest men Virgil had ever fought were less than a hundred and eighty pounds. And some of the other guys, the bigger ones, weren’t worth a damn when it came to throwing punches.
“Let’s make it even simpler than that,” Virgil said. “You leave me alone or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t.” He wanted to start gathering information. Now that he was here, all he could think about was getting out, and he couldn’t get out until he had something for Wallace. The smell of this place, different and yet so similar to the other institutions he’d known, threatened to suffocate him. But until he built up some credibility with Buzz, any attempt to befriend him would be wasted. Worse than wasted. It would have the opposite effect.
First, he had to play his role, sell his image and do it well. In order to infiltrate the Hells Fury, he’d need a sponsor. He hoped his cell mate would take that on, but Buzz had to have some reason to trust him or admire him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be willing to stick his neck out. Virgil had been part of the criminal world long enough to understand that.
“So you’re a tough guy?” Buzz said.
Obviously he accepted nothing on faith. They had that in common.
“No need to take my word for it.” Virgil sat up to see if his cellie wanted to test him, but Buzz glanced away. He wasn’t going to be issuing any challenges. At least, not right now.
“I don’t want trouble,” he muttered. “I get out in less than a month. You screw that up and you’ll end up dancin’ on the blacktop no matter how tough you are. And that’s a promise.”
Dancing on the blacktop… Virgil hadn’t heard that phrase before, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out. Buzz was saying he’d be shanked in the yard.
“You’re the one getting in my face,” he said. “If you don’t want trouble, stop asking for it.”
“I’m just pissed,” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
Virgil propped his hands behind his head and spoke through a yawn. “With what?”
“With you, man.”
“Then don’t deal with me. I thought we just went over that.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, Buzz went back to staring into the tier, which held some concrete tables and a couple of telephones. Nineteen other cells opened onto it. They were allowed to play cards and socialize there when they weren’t on lockdown.
Virgil assumed their conversation was over, so he lay back and closed his eyes. After the week he’d spent in the real world, he was beyond tired. But Buzz was too agitated to shut up.
“What’d you do?” he asked. “What you in for?”
Virgil cracked open his eyelids. Where he came from it wasn’t polite to ask. “None of your damn business.”
“Let me see your papers.”
Buzz wanted to know if he had any gang affiliations. That was pretty standard. “No.”
“Fine. Tell me this much, then. Where’d you do time before here?”
“That’s none of your business, either.” Virgil knew that the less he said about himself, the less he’d have to remember and the harder it would be for anyone to prove he was lying.
“It’s gonna be a long month,” Buzz breathed.
Virgil couldn’t help laughing.
The way Buzz whirled on him told Virgil the man had a weapon hidden somewhere. Otherwise, considering their difference in size, he’d move with more caution. “What? What’s so damn funny?”
“Quit whining. At least you’re getting out.” In a show of contempt for any threat Buzz might pose, Virgil rolled over and presented his cell mate with his back.
“I could kill you in two seconds,” Buzz growled, obviously offended by Virgil’s lack of fear.
“You could try.” Virgil knew he was extending a challenge Buzz might not be able to resist. Parole pending or not, Buzz could lash out to save face, vent his anger and hatred or impress his Hells Fury pals. But Virgil had to establish superiority. And forcing him to fight or stand down from the very beginning was the fastest way to do it. That approach would also reveal certain aspects of Buzz’s personality—how volatile he was, whether he’d act with more than his mouth when cornered and exactly how far he was prepared to go to salvage his pride.
Hoping he’d have the chance to retaliate if he was shanked, Virgil listened for any movement that might alert him. But Buzz defused the tension instead.
“Those tattoos you got,” he said.
Virgil faced him again. “What about them?”
“You part of the Brand?”
“No.” Buzz was referring to the Aryan Brotherhood, the most dangerous of all prison gangs. Small but ruthless, they didn’t accept many new members. Virgil had heard that Tom Mills and Tyler Bingham—two of their most powerful leaders—were incarcerated at Pelican Bay. Probably in the SHU.
“You belong to another gang, then. I can tell.”
Virgil hadn’t tattooed any obvious Crew insignia on his body. He hadn’t been that indoctrinated. The gang was the best social network USP Tucson had to offer, and once Pretty Boy, Shady and a guy they called Tucker, who’d since died in a police shootout, became his brothers it was tough to let go. He still missed Pretty Boy and a couple of the others. But his tats weren’t the same quality you could get on the outside. Anyone who knew that would realize they signified some type of affiliation.
“What’s your point?” Virgil said.
“My point is you better clique up in here right quick.”
Virgil shrugged as if he’d heard it all before. Truth was, he had. “Why?”
“Something’s gonna come down.” He scowled. “I was hopin’ to get out of here first, but…I think it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later.”
So that was what had Buzz on edge. It wasn’t just getting a new cellie. “What is it? Trouble with the Nuestra Family?”