Page 8 of Three-Inch Teeth

Winner said, “The Brothers in Arms and La Familia, they hate your fucking white-boy guts, don’t they? But I didn’t see all that much reaction from the Warrior Chiefs. Is it true you WOODS are allies with them now?”

The Brothers were Black, La Familia was Mexican, and the Warrior Chiefs were Native American. WOODS stood for “Whites Only One Day Soon.” Dallas Cates was their undisputed leader.

“When the cowboys and the Indians get together on the same side against the Blacks and the browns, that’s interesting, don’t you think?” Winner asked rhetorically. “Kind of like cats and dogs joining up, right? I guess this is the new Wild West, eh, bro?”

This was why they’d sent Winner, Cates was sure. To goad him, to try and get him to act out. To give the COs a reason to beat him and drag him back to a cell, claiming he’d assaulted them.

Winner was a rare CO, Cates knew. Unlike ninety percent of the other COs and five percent of the do-gooder social worker types, Winner seemed to enjoy the worst parts of his job, especially confrontations with inmates. There was nothing the man would rather do. He was the first to break up a fight, and the first to sucker punch anyone he thought disrespected his authority. He was known to leave a door unlocked when a convict “deserved” a beating from enforcers within the gen pop or the gangs. They had history, those two. Dallas Cates hated Winner, and Winner hated Dallas Cates.

Egleston was dark haired and stout, and her movements were hesitant. Cates thought she was trying too hard to fit in. It was clear she looked up to Winner.

“Give it up, Winner,” Cates said as Egleston swiped her card on the mechanism that opened the outtake room. “You can take all the shots you want. All you’ll get out of me today is warm feelings and happy talk. Do your best, but I’m loving life right now.”

Winner laughed.

*

INSIDE THE OUTTAKE room, Cates stripped off his orange jumpsuit and let it pool on the floor around his ankles. He now wore only dingy prison briefs. He stood there and let Winner and Egleston take him in. The room was spartan and consisted of slick tile walls and a steel table bolted to the floor.

When his clothes dropped away, Egleston said, “Shit. Look at this guy.” Her neck flushed red.

Cates had changed his body over his years in prison. He’d once had the wiry build of a world champion rodeo contestant, an athlete from Saddlestring who’d won both the bull-riding and saddle bronc events at the National Finals Rodeo in consecutive years after taking gold buckles at the Pendleton Round-Up, the Calgary Stampede, and Cheyenne Frontier Days. Since then, he’d added forty pounds of solid muscle on his frame. His thighs were as thick as trunks, his neck fanned out to the tops of his shoulders, his biceps like hams, and his chest a hard cask.

Ink covered his body. He’d only used the best prison tattoo artists, from the serpents that crawled up his thighs, to the bucking bulls across his six-pack, to the all-capitalized WOODS done in German Gothic font across his pecs, to the portrait of his mother, Brenda, on his shoulder. The undersides of both forearms and the back of his left hand were covered in newly minted red tattoos that Cates hid by keeping his hands down at his sides and turned inward.

“Let’s see your valuable treasure,” Winner said as he opened the pillowcase Cates had used to gather his belongings from his cell. The CO dumped the contents on the surface of the steel table.

Cates’s property consisted of several packs of ramen noodles, the stub of a pencil, three well-thumbed paperback books, and a two-inch-thick roll of cash.

“Jesus Christ on a biscuit,” Winner said. “How did you accumulate all this fucking money?” It was obvious from his sneer that he was personally offended.

“I saved it,” Cates said. “I’m frugal.”

There was no way he’d tell the CO that the cash came as a monthly tribute from WOODS members under his protection, or that other individuals and gangs paid Cates for leaving them alone or settling disputes. The roll amounted to over eighteen hundred dollars. The outside bills were fives and ones, and the larger denominations were in the middle of the roll.

“Don’t touch it,” Cates said, quickly retrieving the roll. He knew the CO would have taken it if he’d had any idea it existed before that moment.

Winner fanned through each book to make sure there was no contraband pressed inside. As he did, he said, “The Art of War. Interesting. And then we have the Holy Bible and Wilderness Evasion: A Guide to Hiding Out and Eluding Pursuit in Remote Areas.

“Naw,” he said, “you won’t be needing any of this shit.”

With that, Winner swept the items into a trash can near his feet.

Cates bristled at that. A minute before, Cates would have messed up anyone who touched his property. Now he looked at it for what it was: trash. He glared at Winner.

“Those WOODS-peckers of yours are gonna get the shit kicked out of ’em now,” Winner said.

“They can handle themselves,” Cates said. “But I don’t worry about that anymore. It’s all water under the bridge. I just want everyone to get along.”

“We talk about you,” Winner said. “My buddies and I take bets on how long it’ll be before we see you in here again. It’s your second visit, right?”

Cates said, “And my last.”

Winner snorted a laugh.

“I won’t be back. Bet on that.”

“Go get his street clothes,” Winner said to Egleston, who left the room.

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