Page 21 of Capturing Hearts

“We were just leavin’,” Antonio says. “And don’t fuckin’ call me that.” He walks past the guy and the ghouls all share a look. I watch my doorway empty again, wondering how I’m going to kill a guy with my bare hands. I don’t want to do that. I’m not a murderer. I’m a thief. Yeah, I shot my ex-friend, but we’re all capable of everything given the right circumstances. It’s not like I walk around thinking of ways to take people’s lives. Their belongings, yeah. Their lives? No.

Before I have a chance to soak in exactly how screwed I really am, my doorway fills with a guard’s surly glare.

“You’ve got a visitor, Pretty Boy.” The second he says that nickname, I realize he's working with Antonio, and the sense of foreboding deepens. A frown involuntarily appears and I try to hide it before he sees he’s gotten a rise out of me, but I fail. Ignoring his slimy, victorious smile, I walk out and he follows me, headed toward Visiting. As we pass Dinon’s cage, I glance over and lock eyes with him. We’re on okay terms, which means only that we don’t want to rip each other’s throats out. He just stares back at me, not showing any sign of his thoughts.

The guard barks, “What are you staring at, Washington?”

Dinon looks away, and witnessing it, a part of me dies inside. We’re all just trained dogs.

In Visiting, I pick up the phone and watch my cousin pick up his on the other end of a bulletproof, fingerprint splotched, thick plastic window. He’s the only one who visits me ever since I spilled the beans to reduce my sentence for the shooting as my little fuck you to my father, the sonofabitch. With what the detectives found during the search of their home, it forced both of my parents to go deep into hiding. Over two hundred robberies have now been linked to us, and even more stolen property recovered that was thieved by my ancestors, dating all the way back to 1582.

The place was gutted.

I wasn’t a complete traitor with my testimony. I didn’t rat out Bruce or Uncle Paul, for Bruce’s sake. The way I see it, my cousin and I were born into this life and we couldn’t help that. They taught us young. But I gave my folks a chance to run, warning Bruce I was going to rat them out, so he could warn them. He’s our go-between. Otherwise they never would have escaped. Now they’re on the run, and that I’m fine with. Serves them right for doing this to me. It’s their fault I am the way I am. Why should they live a normal life when I’m stuck in here? Yeah, not gonna happen.

“How’s it going, Brucie?”

His brown eyes harden, but then he sees my smile. “Don’t be like him. It’s not funny,” he grumbles.

“Well, you should know better than to come in here wearing that pink scarf.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “It’s magenta.”

“Right,” I chuckle.

He waits for me to get serious. “How are you?”

I hit him with a stone-cold sober stare. “Seriously?” He shrugs, which irritates me to no end, forcing me to launch into him. “It’s two days to Christmas and they don’t exactly decorate in here. And this morning I got a visit from a guy who is offering friendship if I do something I don’t wanna do.” Off his look, I correct him, “No, not that. Worse.”

Bruce’s eyebrows knit together. “Yikes.”

“Yeah. So do me a favor and never ask me how I’m doing again? If you don’t have something good to tell me, then let’s just keep to the chitchat we normally have. I need the distraction. Alright?”

Bruce nods, but his attention leaves the subject as he shiftily glances to the crying lady next to him who’s flanked by two little kids, plus a baby on her lap. Then he glances to the guard standing by the entrance. The familiar gleam in his eyes when he looks back to me sparks my blood. But I don’t betray my curiosity. Neither of us wants the guards paying attention. “I’ve got really good news.”

Without inflection, I ask, “Yeah, what?”

Bruce casually mutters, “Do you know a Rita Sanchez?”

I make a noise. Everyone knows Rita in here. It’s hard to miss a five-feet tall Mexican transsexual with a crew of six fake-blonde fairy-dust blowers always at his/her side. “Yeah. I know him. Or her…or whatever. Why?”

“Ever see a little movie about hope?” Bruce asks, one of his eyebrows starting to twitch nervously.

Shawshank Redemption–that’s what he means, the prison movie we’ve both seen a million times. Scenes from it flash before my eyes: The hole Andy dug in the wall with a rock hammer over twenty, long years. Him coming out the other end a free man, holding his arms up to a thunder-filled sky, pellets of rain hitting the joy on his face. Morgan Freeman’s last words as he took a chance and escaped his parole, searching for a life free from the branding of having been a criminal: I hope.

The power of my cousin’s question ricochets through my veins as I stare at him, understanding what he means to do, and that somehow Rita Sanchez is involved. This I’ve gotta see. My eyes tell him I know exactly which movie he means, and this ain’t it: “Serendipity?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s the one.” He looks down at his hand and glances casually to the guard to make sure the guy hasn’t moved. He hasn’t. Bruce turns to me. “Well, I’ve found my guy just like how Kate Beckinsale did in that movie. Isn’t that great? Rita knows the guy, that’s why I bring her up. You never thought I’d find love,” he says, knowing full well I’ve said no such thing, ever. “See, there is hope. So you just keep praying and as soon as the appeal date comes, you know I’ll be there, sending you luck.”

I feel like I’m an arrow stretched tight on a bow. “Oh yeah? You found someone? Well, I’ll have to catch up with Rita and hear all about him…” I stop as the phone goes dead. Our time is up. Bruce’s eyes slide up to the guard who’s walked up to take me back to my cell. Bruce gives him a tight-lipped polite smile and we both get up, exchanging one last glance with each other.

Before he turns to go, Bruce mouths, “Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas, indeed. Walking back to my cell, it’s a lot easier to ignore the guard’s ribbing me about my cousin being gay. “You and your boyfriend have a nice chat?” I don’t even blink, my mind on the seed Bruce just planted.

If I get out of here alive, I know exactly what my present is going to be to myself. I’m going to pay a visit to an old friend.

Our family plans how to escape from places for a living. After we rob them, anyway. Can it be done? From a place as locked down as San Quentin is?

I can’t wait to find out.

---