The man nodded. “Okay then, Danny. Name’s John Wilkins.”
“Tracy Banner,” the man next to him said. Banner was older as well, maybe in his early fifties, but much taller, with dark hair and a thick scar on his right cheek. Probably a lifer like his friend.
“Yo, dat took some balls, doin’ what you done last night,” Kearney said. “You lost it, huh?” His accent wasn’t as much southern as hackneyed, part everything with some street thrown in.
Danny took a sip from his cup.
“You a real priest?”
“No.”
“You were?” the scarred Banner asked.
“I was.”
“I said yo last night,” Kearney said.
“You did. Appreciate it.”
“I went down for manslaughter. Got bump’t in the taillight at a stop by a Toyoter truck. Buddy ’n’ I went on a joy ride ’n’ chased it down. Never had even no ticket up till then.”
“Nineteen,” Godfrey said.
Kearney glanced at him. “Nine years ’go. Truck went clean off the road and hit a tree. Passenger was preg and lost ’er baby. Made me sick. Never did no drugs, no tickets, no nothin’ and then—bam—I’m in the big house. My bad. None else.”
But manslaughter wouldn’t bring a life sentence, and Kearney wasn’t a fish. “Why are you still here?”
“Got shanked by a southerner in Lancaster back when it was the way, you hear me? Said no baby-killer deserved to breathe. Next time I was goin’ down, so when he come at me ’gin I lost it. Got twenty for killin’ him.”
“Tough.” He wasn’t a lifer, but Danny understood why he’d made it into Basal. Kearney wasn’t a killer at heart.
He took a bite of eggs and nodded at the oldest of the three, Wilkins. “I’m guessing you’re a lifer?”
“Like most in here. Murder. A lifetime ago when I was young and stupid.”
“Same,” Tracy said. “Shot a man I caught with my wife.”
They ate in silence for a minute. Danny’s mind turned to his request to meet with the warden. He still had no idea if, how, or when it would happen. Even less if he could do Peter any good.
“Godfrey says you help’t someone see the light,” Kearney said. “That your ticket?”
“One way to look at it. The foolish idealism of an imperfect man.”
“Word to the wise, Priest,” the round-faced Wilkins said quietly. “You might think you can shed a little of your light in here, but don’t kid yourself. God knows half of us would like nothing better, but the only light in here is the warden’s light, you hear?”
Danny gave him a nod.
“You seem like a standup guy,” said Banner. “Most of us are old cons who know how to do smooth time. Basal’s not the place to do hard time, trust me. He’ll put your balls in a vise and make you wish you were dead. I don’t care what kind of wiseacre stories other cons’ll tell you about this prison or that segregation unit. Nothing comes close to Pape’s hell. Drink the Kool-Aid, keep your mouth shut, and smile along with the rest of us, you hear?”
“Believe me, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“What he’s saying,” Wilkins said, “is that neither’s anyone else, knuckleheads included. You haven’t seen what the warden’s capable of, and you don’t want to. Upset him and everyone pays. Consider the knuckleheads on his payroll ’n’ part of the program. Enforcers. Helps him keep his hands clean, but they only do what he allows them to do, if you catch my drift.”
“Like I said, no trouble.”
“Not to say what you did last night wasn’t a trip,” Kearney cut in. “A priest, huh?”
Danny shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”
“You think we didn’t want to flush that sick jocker’s head down the sewer where it belongs?” Wilkins said. He cast a sideways look at Peter, who sat hunched over, keeping his eyes elsewhere.
He lowered his voice. “Makes me want to puke, but you gotta remember where we are. This is hell. We don’t need anyone turning up the flames. Godfrey should have told you that.”
“I did,” Godfrey said. And then after a pause, “But everyone has their limits.”
“And everyone can just stretch their limits.”
“Easy,” Kearney said. “Some lowlife tried to hurt his daughter.”
Godfrey’s eyes shifted and held on Danny for a moment. “And that lowlife no longer walks the earth,” he finally said.
“Neither do you,” Wilkins said. “You walk in Basal.”
The room suddenly grew quiet. Next to Danny, Peter stiffened. One look at the boy’s pale face betrayed his terror. The surest cause would be Slane or Randell.
But when Danny followed Peter’s stare to the cafeteria’s entrance he saw that he was wrong. It was neither Slane nor Randell. It was the warden. Marshall Pape was gracing them with his presence.
The immaculately dressed custodian walked into the silent cafeteria, slowly scanning the long tables. His black suit was pressed and his white shirt was starched. He looked in no way evil or monstrous, only immaculate and sure of his place. A good marshal come to keep the peace in a town of misfits. There was no gun faster than his, no word so firm, no foot so sure.
His patent-leather shoes clacked on the concrete as he walked into the room. The captain, the first-watch lieutenant, and three correctional officers spread out along the walls adjacent their superior.
Pape nodded. “Gentlemen.” When his bright blue eyes reached Danny, he stopped and held his gaze. Somewhere, someone cleared his throat. For a long moment it was the only sound.
Danny understood immediately.
“I hear that there was an incident in the west wing last evening,” the man said. “A request was made for a conference with me.” He smiled and spread his hands. “Well, I’m a simple enough man. Here I am. So tell me, what would the priest like for me to clarify? Surely, if such an educated man of the cloth is confused, the entire flock must be courting similar confusion. Why not shed the light on the whole bunch at once?”
Danny kept his eyes on Pape, aware that the man had placed him in an impossible situation. What was said for all to hear wouldn’t bring any good unless it was accepted by both sides. The members were Danny’s potential enemies as much as the warden was. Perhaps more so.
The warden lowered his hands. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we play fair? Ask me any question you like. Voice any concern or doubt you have. I give you my full blessing. If I am unable to satisfactorily answer your concern, then I will acknowledge my oversight and grant either you or anyone of your choosing quarters in the privileged wing.”
Danny could hear Peter’s heavy breathing beside him.
“But if your concern proves to be misguided, then I will send Peter deep. After all, I believe it was the boy who started the ruckus last night. Fair enough?”
Deep? Someplace other than meditation. Peter’s comment earlier, that he didn’t want to go down there, returned to Danny.
He had no ambition to confront the warden in public. But he also knew that it would prove valuable for Peter to see someone standing up for him, regardless of the consequences.
“What do you say, Danny?” Pape asked, wearing a good-natured smile. “Be a good sport. Stand up and be heard. Please, I insist.”
Danny pushed himself back from the table, calmly stood, and faced the man. Only now, standing, did he see Randell at a table across the room with Slane and several other knuckleheads. Smirking.
“Speak up, Danny. Tell me what’s so confusing to you.”
He turned his eyes back to the warden and spoke with stoic resolve and calculation.
“It’s my understanding of deviant behavior that’s unclear,” Danny said.
“Oh? How so?”
He couldn’t implicate Slane directly without snitching and thereby violating the strict convict code. Rat on one, you’ll rat on us all, it was said.