Chapter 1
Trinidad Correctional Facility, Model CO
A man with banded wrists and chained ankles shuffles in front of a beefy prison guard. Few completely understand the stale grin the convict holds; the same exaggerated face that Sylvester the Cat frequently offered before inhaling Tweety Bird.
The lead guard stops and turns his head the inmate’s way.
“Con. Keep your trap shut, unless you’re asked to respond.”
William Fuller looks at the guard, while offering a weathered poker face. Wesley pops into the con’s mind, having evolved from a helpless baby to a preteen with no linear context, who has no barometer for gauging his screwed-up old man. Bill’s changed. But the gruff man knows a decade in the can has a way of changing anyone.
Melissa has her doubts whether Bill learned any lesson; but she still shows to pick him up, because several men on the outside showed her alcoholism, abuse, and had demons of their own.
Confidently, the man jumps into the woman’s SUV. Immediately, the con finds the woman’s scent invigorating and memorable. She’s a little more mature, but still sexy as Hell. The kind of seductress that can make an hour-glass out of blue jeans; or better yet, a goddess in silk panties. Several strands of glistening hair bob, which makes the woman innocently appealing, taking Bill back to another era—once when ribbons held them.
“Thanks for coming, babe.”
Melissa holds the steering wheel steady, while keeping her blue eyes locked on the road.
“They’re going to track you… You’re under house arrest.”
Her passenger raises up a baggy pant-leg.
“Is that what this blasted thing’s for?”
The driver’s head spins and her eyes discover Bill’s ankle bracelet.
“They told me they will re-set the device from the local jail. Any deviation from that act, and there will be an all-out manhunt for you.”
“We’ll see.” The man’s face reflects something sinks home.
“An APB? Why…I’m flattered.”
“I’m paying rent, but we could use a house. You can work and help with that venture. Wesley will be glad to have you around.”
“I’m sorry I screwed things up! Can I bum a cigarette?”
The woman pulls out a pack of Smooths, with a motion that indicates she knew what he’d ask for.
Leaning over the seat, Melissa’s attractive locks catch in wafting breeze supplied by an open window.
“Henry’s been asking for you at the bar. I told him give you some time to get settled.”
“That’s probably best.”
The mature woman turns up the radio and lip-sinks the words.
Bill tilts his head her way. “Do you think they can monitor when we Fuck?”
Giggles bubble to the surface of the woman's ruby red lips. She pictures an episode on the television and begins to sing.
“Bad boys…Bad boys. What you gonna’ do? What you gonna’ do when I come for you!”
Man’s incarcerated face indicates ‘I’m such a lucky guy’.
A shadow suddenly falls over the couple. The woman’s face changes.
“He hit you, didn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
The passenger reaches up and touches the woman’s soft cheek with the back of his hand, gently, producing a light blush.
“No one ever treated me like a lady. Except for you.”
“No one’s perfect.”
“Just don’t mess things up—this time.”
Billy sighs. He thinks of them becoming a family again. He wonders. How can I clean underneath the bracelet?
"Is this apartment big?"
“Do I look wealthy?”
“They’ve lined up a job. All I have to pass is forklift training.”
The woman pictures Wild Bill working in a warehouse. She knows it beats hauling trash; and coming home smelling like ten-day old tuna fish on rye.
A child works his way inside of a few pleated curtains. A woman in her late fifties places a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Are they coming?”
“Don’t be nervous Wesley…Your dad will be awfully glad to see you.”
“Why was he in prison?”
“He was young and stupid. I guess.”
Wesley keeps his fingers occupied with a super hero fidget spinner; the kind proudly made in China.
Will he even recognize me? The boy wonders.
"Come away from the window, Wesley. I'll make us some cookies."
“What kind?”
“Oatmeal Chocolate Chip.”
The child lets go of the drape, and it drops back into place.
“Can I help, Nana?”
The boy follows his grandmother into the kitchen. Forthright… Wesley plops his tush onto a bar stool, as if he’d rather watch his grandma set up shop—in a way as to indicate who really runs the show—and to keep an eye peeled for his missing old man.
“You think dad will take me to Comicfun, Nana?”
The woman looks up from a pack of eggs she extracted from the fridge.
“I don’t know if your father is into that sort of thing. Besides he can’t go anywhere but work, until they take off the ankle bracelet.”
“Why does he have an ankle bracelet?”
“It’s part of his parole. It allows him to come home.”
Wesley looks up at his grandmother. “Will he have to wear it forever?”
The old woman squints, before she replies, “Until he proves himself worthy.”
“I saw a dude on True Tube that had one. He attempted to remove it. Cops showed up at the door and hauled him off to the slammer.”
The woman stops stirring batter in a large mixing bowl. She shakes out of a bag several semisweet chocolate chips, in a way that makes her boobs bounce, unaware that the boy’s eyes track both jangling nubs.
“Your grandpa drove eighteen wheelers. He had his pick of floozies at every truck stop between here and Albuquerque. But he always came home with his tail between his legs, money lining his pockets, begging me to forgive him. Bought me a new car. Before I knew it, he was gone. Probably took up with a waitress he met on the side of the road. Only I knew it was his thingy that always did him in.”
The boy looks confused.
“What thingy?”
Nana giggles, before she replies, “Never mind.”
Bill forgot what it was like to sleep in a normal bed with female scent lingering—nearby. It gets him to thinking, fully awake, with several hours until daylight. I will wait until this stupid ankle device is removed, bide my time, make them believe.
He gets up, and saunters to the refrigerator in saggy briefs.
Mumbles, “How about a cold one!”
His eyes settle on a pack of wine coolers.
“You’ll have to do.”
Several tattoos offer a rough glimpse of his stint in the pen. Raw neck exposes Asian obscenities, as well as is rich in voodoo-like skulls. Nonetheless… The alcohol slides down Bill’s throat calming him, releasing his troubled mind from any guilt, as if he knows more than most incarcerated suckers.
“Exotic Berry.” He chuckles. “I’d rather have Exotic Cherry!”
Whispers, “I need to get me a prepaid phone. I got to make some calls. Slowly… I need to gather the troops. Forklifting is for chumps! Chumps that are in the market for good cover.”
He empties the stubby glass and tosses the bottle into the trash. He shuffles back to the alluring scent of decent perfume.
Inside a doorway, Bill stops. Long forgotten, he thinks just how perky Melissa’s tit-ties are, especially in predawn light lost in a state of slumber.
The woman smiles as her lover teases her treats with slightly ruffled mustache. Melissa wraps her arms around Bill, again, after having plunged down the dating rabbit-hole.
The scantily clad woman snuggles in closer to get musky scent mixed with alcohol. The cuddled man drifts off to sleep.
Billy is eight. He watches out the window for his own father.
What will he come home like, tonight?
The boy had planned his escape. If his old man came home ten sheets to the wind, Billy would hide in the overloaded closet—push himself back behind coats, sweaters, and various garments the family gathered over time—and he’d wait. If the Cocksucker didn’t come home, Billy would open the fridge and enjoy a frozen ice cream cone in a box.
Last time his mother had called the police. Afterwards, through paper-thin walls, his father threatened to kill her. Billy crept out of the closet, because he was afraid authorities would compromise his hiding place.
Some head guy asked him a boat load of questions, and he had only shaken his noggin’ Yes or No. It was an era when threats to women weren’t taken as seriously, especially from a husband inebriated to the point of psychosis.
Billy often wished his father would just leave. Never come home. In the back of the closet he would listen to his mother crying and hear her being smacked around. All he could do was plug his ears and close hauntingly troubled eyes.
Then…that day came. And in the span of thirty-five minutes, Billy became an orphan.
His mother had enough, a psychologist told him. The distressed woman took up a knife and gutted the old loser, letting him bleed out before she reached to dial 9-1-1.
