Bolton was the CO watching the showers, but he kept his distance. There were two other COs in sight, too, which was weird, but Tayvon figured after what went down in the yard, everyone was a little squirrelly.
Tayvon grabbed the soap and lathered himself up. It had been a long night stuck in the dorms, which weren't air-conditioned, and the COs decided to be assholes and keep the fans off, too. Tayvon spent the whole night sweating like a mother.
Of course, the water was practically ice cold and the pressure was down. Tayvon figured that was on purpose, too. Damn hacks, always messing with them.
"Yo, Bolton," somebody yelled, "what's with the damn water?"
"Is it wet?" Bolton asked.
"Well, yeah, but-"
"Then shut the hell up."
Even dribbly cold water felt good after sleeping in an oven all night, so Tayvon enjoyed it while he waited for the right moment.
After yelling at the guy who mouthed off, Bolton turned away from the showers, shaking his head in annoyance.
Tayvon took advantage of this opportunity to move closer to Melendez. It wasn't hard-ever since he and Malik got into it, nobody'd been all that fond of Melendez. Hakim had accused him of being a carpetbagging Muslim. Tayvon didn't know what that meant, but it didn't sound very good.
Then Tayvon looked around until he caught Hakim's eye. At his nod, several other people moved so they were standing in Bolton's line of sight. Even if Bolton turned around, all he'd see would be a dozen wet bodies, and not Tayvon beating the holy crap out of Jorge Melendez.
First Tayvon closed his eyes, slowing his breathing down. That was something they taught him in martial arts school back when he was a kid, which was where he got started doing the push-ups on his knuckles. Hurt like hell, but it was worth it. Sometimes, Tayvon thought he should've stuck with martial arts, but at the time, he liked cocaine more.
Once his breathing was nice and regular, he placed one of his massive hands on top of Melendez's head. Tayvon was almost a full head taller than Melendez, so it was like grabbing a golf ball on a tee and turning it around.
Rearing back with his other hand, he punched Melendez in the solar plexus.
While Tayvon remembered very little of the specifics of his martial arts training, he did remember a few things. One was how useful it was to do push-ups on your knuckles in order to toughen your fists and make your punches more effective. In a life spent beating people up, both as a bouncer in legit bars and strip clubs and working for slingers and bangers, that lesson had stuck real good.
The other one was a Japanese word. He'd studied shotokan, and he'd had to learn all kinds of Japanese words, but the only one he really remembered was suigetsu. It meant "solar plexus," but that wasn't why Tayvon remembered it. The literal translation of the word was "moon on the water." According to the old guy who ran the school, there was an old story about a monkey who would see the moon reflected on the water and try to grab the moon, but he couldn't because it was just a reflection, and monkeys were stupid.
The solar plexus was called suigetsu because trying to catch your breath after being punched there was like that monkey trying to grab the moon.
In Tayvon's line of work, it was good for your first punch to be one that kept the guy you were beating up from making any noise. That was especially handy in the echo chamber of a prison shower. Even with the water going-and that wasn't as useful a masking sound, as the pressure was down today-if Melendez started screaming, it would all be over.
Instead, Melendez was kneeling on the wet floor of the shower, cold water dripping down his face, eyes wide, mouth open, trying to catch his breath like the stupid monkey in the story.
Next Tayvon grabbed his head a second time, yanked his head up by his hair, and brought his knee up into Melendez's jaw.
Bone on bone was always risky, but it would hurt Melendez a lot worse than it would Tayvon, and that was what mattered. Besides, if he broke the jaw, Melendez couldn't talk.
Several of Hakim's people started milling around, closing the circle so that no one outside would see what was going on.
Tayvon got a few more punches in, including one to the ribs that resulted in at least a couple of broken bones.
Then he heard Bolton's voice. "Hey!"
As soon as he heard that, Tayvon disappeared into the crowd. Several people moved aside to let him blend in.
Bolton started wading into the shower, bellowing, "Kill the water, now!" As soon as he got to Melendez, who was now curled up in a fetal position on the wet floor, bleeding from his mouth and nose, Bolton said, "Ah, shit!" He pulled out his radio and called for medical.
Tayvon smiled. He got to throw down on the asshole who killed Malik. And Hakim had said that Tayvon wouldn't have to worry about any heat.
After over a year inside, Tayvon hadn't gotten to beat anyone up. He'd forgotten how much fun it was.
Of course, beating people up was what got him in here in the first place, but whatever. Putting a beat-down on some fool who deserved it-there wasn't anything better in the world.
15
MAC TAYLOR HAD SPENT last night alone.
There was a time when that wouldn't have been unusual. Since September 2001, after the loss of his wife, Claire, and so many others, he'd had to adjust to sleeping alone, on those rare occasions when he could sleep.
After five years, though, he found himself at last able to take someone else to his bed. Peyton Driscoll was someone he'd always liked and admired back when she had served as ME, and when she returned to the job a year ago, Mac had found that he liked and admired her even more. And then he found out that the feeling was mutual.
It had been a difficult road for Mac-and for Peyton, who had gone into the relationship knowing that she had competition from a ghost. Plus it seemed that the only feelings Mac had been able to tap into these days were negative ones: anger, frustration, vindictiveness. Others-humor, tenderness, affection, and yes, love-those were harder to come by.
When Stella had been attacked by her ex-boyfriend and forced to shoot him, Mac had been there for her as best he could. He had worked the scene, and he had taken her home. But he hadn't been able to be there for her emotionally-that had fallen to Flack. Mac couldn't even be there for himself emotionally, so how could he help Stella? The answer was by doing his job and letting Flack, who was better equipped to handle emotional breakdowns, be the shoulder to cry on.
Peyton was slowly reminding him how to do that. That didn't mean he didn't occasionally roll over expecting to see Claire there, and it didn't mean that he had gotten rid of the one item of hers he had kept (a beach ball she'd blown up, because it still held her breath), and it didn't mean he could fly over lower Manhattan (as he'd done on the way back from Staten Island yesterday) without a cold, icy hole opening in his stomach.
But he was getting there.
However, last night, Peyton had begged off their date because she wanted to make sure that the Barker autopsy was done properly. She anticipated exhaustion upon completion, so she went home, leaving Mac to sleep alone.
Or, at least, lie awake alone.
His first thought when he sees the report on channel 5 that a plane hit one of the WTC buildings is fear. Claire works in World Trade, and after a horrible accident like that, evacuating would be difficult. Still, after the bombing in 1993, the occupants of the Twin Towers had evac plans in place. Mac tries to call Claire, but he can't get through at her office or on her cell. The towers and phone lines are probably overloaded. Besides, it's just an accident, nothing to worry about.