Magali opened her eyes at the sound of the piercing siren; the night’s terrors faded with the lighting of the luminescent lights of the block. She walked out onto the tier for the morning head count; Smoke gave her a secret smile and a wink to welcome her back. She nodded once in response. Her number was called out along with the other prisoners on the tier, and they began their day. She noticed the guard she had attacked wasn’t on call; she missed the weight of the rosary around her neck.

Breakfast was bland; work was as dirty as ever, if not as cold, but it gave her something to occupy herself with. Before she knew it, the end of the work day had come, and she was wandering around the yard with the other prisoners on her schedule. It was much too short of a trip after weeks of close quarters and, as she walked back into the confines of the prison, she inhaled one last deep breath.

Keeping in shape with push-ups and maintaining fitness by lifting weights were animals of two different kinds altogether. She pushed herself way beyond her limits just to prove to her audience that she was as formidable now as she had been before solitary. They had all heard of the misfortunate ‘accident’ that had broken her ribs, and weren’t expecting her to return with quite the same level of strength as when she had left. Smoke was nowhere in sight when she finished, and without the benefit of a towel Magali walked into the center hall of the block covered in a light sheen of sweat. Mail call had begun, and inmates crowded into the area with groundless hopes held high. She stayed out of the crush, remaining instead on its outskirts, pacing.

"Guerrerro! Inmate 0329, Guerrerro!"

Magali stopped her pacing and shook her head; she was almost convinced she was hearing things, when she heard her name yelled out once more. She craned her neck to get a better look at the soon-to-be-dead practical joker.

"Guerrerro, 0329, you got mail!"

"Hey, Zero, that’s you man! Shit, give me the letter; I’ll pass it to her." It was Smoke screaming from somewhere inside the mob, her short stature keeping her from being seen.

Magali watched the small white envelope make its way towards her from the edge of the horde, hand to hand, floating over a sea of human heads. She thought that possibly she was dreaming or, in her case, she would open the envelope and a load of flesh eating worms would drop on her lap. Unbelievably the unexpected prize appeared in her hand, passed to her by a triumphant Smoke-- who had pushed her way through the crowd to be the last to hold the treasure. Magali turned it over in her hand, not bothering yet to look at the inked letters; instead she held onto it, to make sure it was real. Smoke slapped her on the shoulder then vanished back into the mob, and Magali was left, with her letter, as alone as possible in a room filled with a hundred women. For her, the room was silent save for the pounding of her heart.

On the back, scribbled in purple ink, was a facsimile of Devi, a boot hanging out of her mouth. The corners were dotted with small purple flowers, all marked with the same sweeping gestures of the hand that had drawn them. Neat purple letters wrote out her name and number over the prison’s address; in the adjacent corner, small but ornate letters printed out her home address under the name Casey L. Bridges. Without looking up, she found the stairs leading up to her cell. She had trouble remembering if she had ever been as surprised by something so small before, and she was still thinking when a faint voice called to her from under the stairs.

Immediately she wanted to ignore the calling and continue up to her allocated space but, grimacing, she stuffed the letter into her back pocket and jumped back down the two steps to the ground floor. It was bad business to go behind the stairs, especially when all she really wanted was to go read Casey’s letter. She hadn’t yet begun to speculate on what Casey would write her about, and she didn’t want to start. She had a bad habit of always expecting the worst.

It was no wonder the underbelly of the staircase was the favored spot of many. The steel flight of stairs shaded the small area from the bland white lights of the prison and acted as a shield of sorts, creating a very private space, a clear architectural oversight. Pressed up against the rising flank of the stairs, half-hidden in its shadows, a small frail woman held her hand out, beckoning her to step further in. The woman moved nervously, as if she expected to be pounced on at any minute. Magali recognized her as the woman who had come in with her and had nearly driven her insane with her crying. That day she had her mind occupied with other things and hadn’t taken a second look at the woman, but still, she never forgot a face.

"Hi…umm…Zero…I…umm…I see you got a piece today; that’s really, ah…cool."

On close inspection, Magali didn’t see anything more than a very scared young woman. Her dark curly hair just barely touched her thin shoulders, and Magali could tell she had lost weight from the way the uniform hung on her frame. Under an ugly cut just starting to heal, a badly hidden shadow of fear lurked in her gray eyes. A bruise along her cheek was fading, and Magali noticed her wrists matched the color of it. The girl flinched when Magali raised her hand to take hold of her face.

"They’ll kill you if you don’t defend yourself." Repeating the words made Magali ill; she could almost hear her father’s voice flowing from her own lips.

"That’s what I wanted to…talk to you about." she said, stepping closer to the taller woman. Magali could feel the brush of her breasts against her stomach.

"I’m not for hire," she spat, and turned to walk away, but was halted by the girl’s pleading voice.

"No…that’s not…what I meant," the girl whispered gently, reaching for her with a cautious hand.

"Then what do you want?" The girl was near enough that she could smell her scent, soft and mild upon her freshly bathed skin. It tempted her while the bulge in her back pocket pinched.

"I’ve heard that…whoever you—claim…is safe, you know?" Magali felt the girl’s petite hands land lightly on her waist. The girl was getting closer; her body’s heat was seeping through the A-shirt she wore. Magali breathed, fighting the urge to have a satisfying, if transitory, moment of contact with human flesh.

"How old are you?" Magali questioned, knitting her brow.

"Nineteen. They call me Greenie." the girl uttered seductively.

"Greenie." Magali repeated the name in a throaty murmur; the girl’s arms had encircled her waist, and her warm breath skimmed the sweat-dampened skin of her bosom.

"They say my eyes look green when I’m…hurting." She mouthed the last word into Magali’s neck, grazing her with supple lips.

"Look, kid, you’ve got the wrong idea." It took all of her resolve to push the girl away as she spoke. "You need to fight your own battles. I’ll be out of here soon, and then what? I pass you off to a friend? Is that what you want?"

"Please, you don’t understand. I can’t take it anymore…I swear, I’ll do anything, anything you want me to do. Just…"

Magali pried at the fingers holding her shirt, but as the girl pleaded with her, harsher voices muttered her name. They were looking for her, and Greenie shrunk back into the darker shadows. When the first woman came around the bend, she walked straight into the brick-like wall of Magali standing guard over the girl.

"What the fuck you looking for?" Magali hissed and, as if on cue, Greenie slunk in behind her and threw her arms back around the toned waist.

"Ah, nothing, Bajo Zero, nothing. Eh, she wit’ you?" the woman asked, pointing at Greenie.

"What’s it look like, stupid?"

"My mistake," she admitted, throwing her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I didn’t know she was your bitch, Zero, I swear."

"Yeah, well now you know…and I don’t like what I’ve heard."

One single upper-cut from Magali, and the woman fell flat on her ass in. Her mouth spewed blood onto the floor along with a tooth, and she wiped at her red stained lips with the back of her hand. "Sorry," she managed to lisp out, scuttling away from Magali with her hands and feet, dragging her ass across the floor. Magali glared at her until she was out of her sight.

"That’s gonna cost you, kid," she stated flatly, turning to face the young woman.

"I told you, I’ll do anything…" Greenie purred as she ground against her.

"Uh-uh, you don’t get off that easy. Tomorrow, you meet me in the rec-room-- by the weights." This time Magali got away from her without difficulty; the girl was too stunned to speak.

Magali sat on the corner of the bunk, then stood and leaned against the bars. She paced out onto the tier and grabbed the gates barring the railing; she padded back into her cell and slumped against a tiny space of wall, her foot on the seat of the steel toilet. From a pack of smokes hidden under her pillow, she took out one of the cigarettes and dangled it from the corner of her mouth. She had a few matches left and lit the end of it with a deep pull; she had to fan some of the smoke away. Halfway through the cigarette she slumped back onto her bunk and leaned her back to the wall. She didn’t know whether to stand, sit or lay down, tear the envelope open or carefully pry the flap up. With a quick finger she ripped the flap of the envelope and plucked out the sheet of paper neatly folded within it.

Dear Gali,

Baby, I miss you so much I don’t know how to say it. Yeah, I just did, didn’t I?

Magali smiled. She could almost hear the woman’s voice in the first few words of the letter. Only Casey called her anything but Zee or Zero.

I know you and I didn’t leave off on the best of terms, and I think, I know, I owe you an explanation. It wasn’t you, Gali, the way I reacted, that was all me. Truthfully, sometimes I wish I had the gall to beat the crap out of Russell myself, but he’s got his own problems, and they’re mostly my fault too. I wish I could see you face to face and explain everything to you right now. I hate having to write this all out to you, it’d be much better if we spoke about it instead. But right now we don’t have that luxury, and from what I’ve heard, I won’t have enough time with you when I come up to visit. I was there a few weeks ago, and they told me I couldn’t see you. You don’t know how much I just wanted to slug that guard. Hey, maybe they would let me be your bunkmate if I did? Stop scowling. It was a joke. I really would love to be in your bunk right now; it’s lonely here without you.

Magali grinned; she had been scowling. A creeping warmth was filling her, and she was no longer trapped in her cell-- she was with her Saint. So, this is why everyone fiends for a letter everyday. Casey’s letter gave Magali an understanding of it she had not had the opportunity to have before. Simply put, the inmates were fiends for contact from the outside world; they yearned for it the way a drug addict yearned for a ‘fix’. She reread the last two sentences. Fuck the bunk, Baby, I want you in my bed. Damn, Magali looked at the return address printed on the envelope; she is sleeping in my bed…without me.

Anyway, before I met you, before I even moved to the city I was involved with someone. I don’t really want to go into all the details, but we used each other; it wasn’t pretty. Russell sort of got into the whole mix of things; he’s never let me live it down. I’m sorry, Gali. I didn’t think Christmas Day would turn out the way it did, I wish it hadn’t. I don’t know how you feel, or even what you are thinking right now. You could be tearing this letter up, for all I know. I tried to get to the courthouse to see you, but I didn’t make it on time. I did bump into your lawyer, and he told me what had happened. There are some things going on here that I need to tell you about, but I don’t think it wise to put them down on paper. I don’t know if they read your mail or not. I love you, Gali. I need you more than anything else, and I need you whole, here with me. Please keep thinking about that while you’re in there. Devi just told me to send you a lick for her; she has no idea. Jesse says hi, and sends her love. Hang in there, Baby. I’ll be up to see you soon. Promise.

Love always,

Casey

 

Magali read the letter over, taking note of each squiggle above each smaller case I, how each period seemed more of a dash than a dot. She rubbed the corner of the paper gently, thinking that the last hand to have touched it had been her Saint’s. Carefully she folded it back along its original folds, and placed it back into its envelope. She would save it to read again later, when the walls closed in. Damn, it’ll take me weeks before I can buy paper at the commissary. Fuck it, I can call, maybe in a week or two I’ll have worked up enough credits, and then I can use the phone for a minute or two. I could beat someone else’s minutes out of them…but, Casey wouldn’t like that. God, Casey. I miss you, baby.

The noise of mail call had finally died down, there wasn’t much time left before the bars would close them in for the night. She hoped morning would bring a peaceful repeat of the day with only subtle changes. There was a strange comfort in monotony, an illusion of peace. But the day would not remain exactly the same; perhaps a fight, where there wasn’t one the previous day, would break the forced tranquility. She could only hope it didn’t involve her. A shadow fell across the floor; she didn’t have to look up to guess who it was.

"What do you want, Greenie?"

Greenie stepped into the cell, her hands behind her back. "Can I come in?"

Magali scowled and raised an eyebrow at her while glancing at the girl’s feet. "Looks like you already have."

Greenie looked down and smiled, the effort of the unaccustomed expression plain on her face. "I guess so. I just wanted to bring you something, I thought maybe you would want this back."

Magali’s eyes widened at the small object coiled in Greenie’s open hand. The crucifix was the first thing that caught her attention; it froze her to the spot, her back to the wall. She hadn’t expected to see the necklace again.

"Don’t you want it?" Greenie asked, giving her a confused look.

"Come here and sit down," Magali muttered, patting an empty space beside her on the bunk. Greenie complied, the rosary still in her hand. "How’d you get that?"

"Well, when everyone else was running around…after they clocked you on the head, I sorta just went around and picked it all up. It took me awhile to get some string for it, and even longer to put it all together. They wouldn’t let me have a sewing needle." She shrugged shyly.

Magali nodded and held out her hand. "Thanks," she stated simply, curling her fingers around the warm beads of hematite.

"Can I stay here a little while. Free time’s almost up."

"Yeah, sure." Free time… now that’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one. She couldn’t refuse, not with the soft glow of reassurance left by her Saint’s letter; she still had her love, and it settled around her like a warm blanket.

Greenie scooted over, putting more space between them and then laid her head on Magali’s lap. The dark woman threw her arms up, not sure where to put her hands. Sighing she finally settled on resting a hand on Greenie’s head; then she heard the girl’s slowed breathing, and knew she had fallen asleep. Defend yourself, Magali, or next time…they’ll kill you, he had said and she had believed him.

Magali had to stay in the infirmary for a few days, while she was monitored for hemorrhaging. It was a simple open area, lined with metal beds draped in white sheets. A long window lined one wall where guards overlooked the beds and patients under the care of whatever nurse was scheduled to work. She was asleep when she heard the chair being dragged across the floor, its metal legs emitting a high pitched squeal against the surface; but it was his voice that made her suddenly jump, despite the sedatives given her.

"Well, well, look at you, Magali Guerrerro. They got you good, huh?"

When she opened her eyes he was there, sitting in the same dark type suit she had always seen him wearing. There were more white strands in his hair than she remembered.

"Papi?" She squinted to look up at him.

"That’s right, kid." He leaned his elbows on his thighs and narrowed his eyes at her. "What are we doing? Trading places?"

"When did you…how did you…shit."

"Watch your mouth, Magali," he ordered, straightening out his suit. Suddenly she felt as if she were five again, and he was scolding her, and like a five-year-old caught, she shrugged. Her back ached.

"They told me about your brother’s…and your mother’s death a week before I got out. They didn’t tell me how…your lawyer did. I guess he thought I should know. I wanted to kill you, you little shit…but then, it’s my blood in your veins, I blame myself as much as I blame you." His expression changed to a deadly cold.

"Fu-," she paused, catching herself. " I’m sor—"

"Too late for apologies and too late for you…your brother Efrain, yes, but not you. I can see it in your eyes, Magali. It’s the same look I see in mine."

"What are you talking about, Papi?" she asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

"Very good…real big shots don’t talk." He bent over, coming close to her ear and whispered, "How many did you kill, Magali? Hmmm? I know what you’ve been doing. I spoke to Eddie. He didn’t want to tell me anything, but let’s just say…he recognized I wasn’t the bad guy. Don’t get me wrong, my little one, I’m not angry. You did what you had to do…I’m proud. You and I, we’re the same; and we’re going to make that little world of yours into an empire. And, umm…next time I come see you, they better not bring me over to the infirmary. I hate these fuckin’ places."

He patted her shoulder and smiled at her as he stood from the chair. Visiting a sick inmate, although more intimate without the separating glass of the visitor’s room, required a shorter stay. His last words to her never faded.

"Defend yourself, Magali…or next time…they’ll kill you." Then he gave her a wink and left.

For the rest of her time in the infirmary, Magali thought of little else but her father’s words to her. She had understood from the very beginning what had been done to her, and knew deep down that she had expected it. It didn’t make it any easier to accept, and the position it had placed her in was even worse than the act itself. Her father’s warning had spelled it out clearly-- she was marked; and if she did nothing, she was dead. It infuriated her to think of her status having been so neatly robbed, and night after night she punched at her pillow, scheming and cursing. When I get out of here, they’re fuckin mine.

It should have felt better, more human to be out of bed, and wearing something other than the open-backed hospital gown; but the orange zip-up jumpsuit issued her felt like a scarlet brand pressed onto her skin. Through the reflection in the wire-crossed window stretching the length of the infirmary, she could see her image in the suit. P.C, protective custody, was printed over her heart in small black letters, and between her shoulder blades in bigger blocks. The suit, designed to make her easy to spot and keep her safe, was to her yet another insidious mantle of shame. ‘They shoulda just made a public announcement that I’m easy pickin’s,’ she thought. Faded, were the deep bruises around her mouth and jaw, and all that was left of the cut on her forehead was a yellowish smudge, Jesse had paid her a visit when they were darker. After her father’s visit she had decided to avoid the forced feedings by eating on her own; and the few weeks of supplements, meal-replacement shakes, and three regular meals a day had somewhat restored her previous physique.

Magali shook her head at her reflection. A guard waited for her with shackles in hand-- her arms crossed at her chest, feet shoulder-width apart, a deep scowl on her face. "If you don’t like it…refuse it," she spat. ""I don’t give two shits or a rats ass, if I haul you out of here in orange today…or a body bag off the premises tomorrow. But, walk out of here in gray, and you’ll be signing your own death warrant. You’ll be a lamb going to the slaughter…Think about that, and make it quick." Officer Kreski spent more time behind steel and concrete than she did in her own bedroom. Day after day, she watched overa succession of women, voluntarily or involuntarily placed in protective custody. It was a confinement within a confinement, but it extended the lives of those miserable few dressed in bright orange. Either way, one more or less to look after would change little in her day. She inspected Magali with weary eyes-- a cub trapped with beasts. If the girl chose her protection, there was a good chance she would survive no more changed than she already was. If she didn’t, and she lived long enough to complete her sentence, Kreski knew that a faster, more hardened criminal would be set loose-- grown, tutored and more dangerous than ever. There was no better school; and from what Kreski understood, the cub had learned enough on the streets to make her a master pupil. Prisoners like her were growing in number, and the child was no more.

Even the way she looked now belied her youth. A straight back design of corn-rows gave her a hardened appearance, and she missed the old coot who had put them in. She had been a grandmotherly inmate-- permanently stored in the infirmary while she waited for her heart to finally give out-- who had neatly and patiently braided the rows into her hair. "This long-ass hair of yours is gonna be trouble for you in here, child," she’d laugh out sardonically, and grumbled, "best for you to keep it outa the way for now. Mhmmm, right outa the way," as she pulled and twisted the raven tresses. Whenever Magali winced at the pulls, the old inmate ordered her to "stop that weepy bitchin’", gave her a playful smack to her head and continued the hour-long ordeal.

A small barred window high on the wall behind Magali let in dusty streams of sunlight from the outside world. One beam touched the shoulder of a husky inmate in a gray jumpsuit sitting on the edge of a stretcher. With the sleeves cut off, her muscled arms were exposed from bulky shoulders to large hands; one arm sported, in intricate lines and shadows, the image of a prison watch-tower, complete with surrounding gates and barbed wire. A score of Cyrillic letters arched in a U below the gates. She watched Magali with a deadened look under one scarred eyebrow, while absently fingering a fresh line of stitches raw across the knuckles of her right hand. The woman was a fighter.

Magali glanced down towards her feet, then back again at her reflection, she could see the inmate behind and to the side of her. She took a deep breath, clutched the front of the orange suit and, in one swift pull, ripped the zipper open.

"Fuck this, and fuck you," she growled at the guard, flung the suit aside, and wondered why it didn’t bother her to be so openly naked under scrutinizing eyes.

Kreski picked up a folded gray suit from a bed and threw it at her in disgust. "Suit yourself. Now get a move on."

Magali slipped into the fresh suit, deliberately taking her time. She closed the zipper, stopping mid-way up her chest, and folded the collar down. Finally, with a smirk, she held out her hands for the shackles. From the stretcher, the menacing inmate rubbed back the red, prickly brush of her crew-cut, and gave her a short nod of approval as Kreski pushed her out of the infirmary, frowning.

Back in the mainstream, Magali requested a work detail that assigned her a space near the immense red-head. She learned that the woman was serving what might as well have been a life sentence, with convictions to be served consecutively summing up to almost forty years before a chance at parole. She’d begun her stay with a simple two-to-ten stretch, before she wracked up more years for strangling a guard during a riot. Few remembered her real name, and even the guards called her Red, as in Red Sonja, the fictitious warrior of the Conan stories. Sonja rarely spoke; when she did, her speech was guttural and restrained, her accent heavy.

The laundry, like so many details involving machinery, was a dangerous place to work. Long rods shots flames to heat the air of dryers, metal hooks pulled loads of sheets and clothing over carts, everywhere there were loose pieces of metal among churning, spiked wheels. A prisoner could easily lose a digit, a limb or a life to any one of the perilous gaps between the turning belts and grinders. Sonja made her home among it all, becoming, after eight years, the room’s supervising ruler. In particular, she took an interest in the angry, black-haired teen who had been meticulously and furtively stealing pieces of wire coil from the carts. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the wire was for. Sonja had done the same.

"Vengeance is better when it runs warm down your hand…it’s messy, but faster," came the whisper from over Magali’s shoulder. She recognized the roll of the r’s over the din of the spinning washers.

"Vengeance?" she tried nonchalantly, tucking her latest prize into the waist of her suit. She didn’t bother to look back.

"Here, I found this piece on the floor…it’s just a skinny piece of metal; must be from that old vasher. Throw it out for me, okay?" A wide grin spread across her face, and she laughed with hands clutching her wide hips. "Heh, if one of the guards were to see it, they might tink somebody was planning to make a…hmmm, how is it they call it again? A shank?" Sonja shrugged her broad shoulders and took hold of Magali’s wrists; she shoved the rectangular piece of metal into the younger woman’s hands and then casually lumbered away.

Magali flipped the green painted piece a few times in her palm; its potentially sharp edges scraped the heel of her hand as she did. "A shank"-- a makeshift knife, made from any solid object that could be sharpened or given a point, "Oh, yeah." She knew what Sonja had meant, and it sent a cold chill down her back knowing her intentions had been so coolly identified. She knew the precious gift would eventually bear a price. In the meantime, Magali scraped away at the concrete floor of her cell at night, sharpening and honing her piece of contraband to a deadly sharpness. She found scraps of terry cloth in the laundry and wound them around the roughly fashioned blade as a handle. The weapon was sure to hurt going in and even more coming out; she liked the idea of it. Her intended targets, her former classmates, had continued to attend classes, making it difficult for her to get near them. But she was patient; she had nothing but time.

Once a month the prisoners were ushered into the mess hall, where, on a large screen, they were shown two-year-old movies. A small privilege. It mattered little to them when the film had been released; for most of them, it was new. Magali was filed in along with her block, the edge of the shank biting into her skin under her suit as she moved. She kept herself from wincing as she scanned the room for any one of the five who had laid her out. Two rows ahead of her sat the biggest of the group, who walked with a pompous swagger and laughed at the top of her voice. She wore a doo-rag over her shaven head, partly to hide a section of burned scalp she had suffered in a fire as a child. The puffy scar on her cheek was a recent ‘accident’. Magali guessed that it had been her who had orchestrated the entire thing. And she would be the first to go.

When the lights were dimmed, and the blinding light of the projector blasted images onto the screen, Magali fidgeted in her seat. She’d have half an hour to plan it all out, steel herself to the deed, find the best route of attack with the best chance for escape afterwards, and then help hell break loose. Sonja was sitting behind her. She could hear her laughter, felt the woman poke her in the back with a huge knee. It gave her the inspiration she needed. Keeping her torso as still as she could, she kneed the blonde woman sitting in front of her. She’d seen examples of the woman’s temper. In the dark, Magali saw her turn to search for the perpetrator of the offensive gesture, then look to the woman at her side. It was a perfect set-up-- the prisoner to Magali’s side happened to be an ex-lover of the hot-tempered blonde; the fight would be spectacular. When she kneed her again the reaction was explosive, and Magali found herself on the floor with the ten other women who had been sharing her bench. Fists flew past her as one after another inmates jumped into the fray. A fist landed on Magali’s cheek, but she ignored it; her eyes were set on another quarry. While guards screamed for the lights to be turned on, and bodies lunged at each other in the darkness, Magali retrieved her shank from the recesses of her suit, and thrust it into the throat that housed the voice of her nightmares. There had been no sound other than a gurgling and a short gasp. It was quicker than she had hoped, almost too fleeting to savor except for the warmth of black ooze running down her hand. Magali left the weapon where it had stuck, and when the lights turned on, she was pleased to see that her chosen spot of entry had sprayed all those near enough with its gushing of red. The guards would never know who did it for sure, and they would never be told. All around her eyes cast glances of fear in her direction; she basked in them as if she were bathing in the light of a new sun. Sonja had been right.

 

A siren blew, clearing the web of memory into which Magali had sunk while Greenie slept on her lap. The young woman didn’t move at the sharp shriek, and Magali was sure the youngster hadn’t slept as soundly since her admittance to the prison. She shoved the sleeping girl’s shoulder, hesitant to put her hands anywhere else, and Greenie moaned. The soft parting of her lips gave Magali a tingling sensation in her chest. She wanted so much for them to be the lips of her Saint, but they weren’t, and Magali shoved at her shoulder again.

"Hey, sleeping beauty. You need to get out of here, and back to your own bed. You let me know if anyone bothers you from here to there. You scream like they’re killing you, alright?"

Greenie nodded sleepily and shuffled from the cell. Magali leered at the sway of the woman’s figure under the thin dress, and clutched Casey’s letter. The cells closed, and the lights went off. When they returned, the day would start anew. Magali hoped it would be uneventful-- Sonja had died slumped over a railing…

*************************************************************************

Julia was having a bad day at best. Christopher, her husband, was due back from his latest venture concerning the legal contracts for a hostile take-over, and her hair just wouldn’t flip the right way. Somehow her driver had forgotten to fill the tank first thing in the morning, and she was forced to sit in the back seat and wait as he did. She hated the smell of gas stations. The blue dress she had wanted to wear was still at the dry cleaners, and she’d had to wear her blue pants suit instead— blue gave off just the right feel of authority. There were countless phone calls in the morning that had interrupted her breakfast, and her coffee had gone cold. In the afternoon, she was scheduled for a scene at her city townhouse, and she still had to somehow make it out to the prison to interview Casey’s acquaintance. She had put it off for weeks. Casey’s ‘friend’, she thought as the gas fumes filtered in through the open door as her driver got in. Shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to convince the scoundrel to take a class or two. No, not difficult at all. That kind has little, if any sense at all. Unless they’re stealing one thing or another.

Julia picked up her cell phone and dialed Christopher’s number. By now he would be airborne and on his way in their Cessna. When his voice mail picked up, she disconnected the call. Two weeks had passed since she had last seen him; their conversations on the phone were often brief and formal. Such was the way with marriages of convenience. A convenience to him, a nightmare for me.

Christopher Winslow, a bright, fellowship, law-school student from the back streets of Boston, knew exactly where to put his foot in and who to erase. He’d changed his surname from O’Reilly and his style of clothing, and adopted the airy accent of the Bostonian elite. Gone was the son of a drunkard Boston cop. When he spotted Julia with his best friend, he had known instantly what she was. Andrew’s love of punishment was no secret to him; but it was for Andrew’s daddy. One good camera-- bought from a pawnshop-- and an excellent angle, gave him just the leverage he needed. Those first few shots provided him with a neat portfolio that included not only Andrew and Julia, but a substantial assortment of ‘clients’ who liked and needed their personal business to remain private, as did Julia. His admittance to the corps of American Aristocracy, initiated in the lines of a marriage contract, was sealed and guaranteed.

With time, Julia grew accustomed to his company, though she was perpetually angry. His preference for boys kept her out of his bed, while his presence kept Casey out of hers. She hadn’t been able to keep her temper at bay, nor explain to Casey the "behind closed doors" arrangements that were sending her into unreasonable tantrums. In the end, her use of her only tool, force, drove the petite woman away, once she was able to subsist on her own. That fact confirmed the suspicions that Christopher had haphazardly planted. For Christopher, her aunt and even Casey, Julia and her position were merely opportunities, stepping-stones on the way to higher status. Someday, Casey would be a doctor, instead of a retail salesperson at Walmart, like her mother.

Although Bedford Hills Correctional Facility was a maximum-security institution, Julia may as well have been given a key. The guards, so accustomed to her comings and goings, simply waved her car in. She didn’t even park in the visitors’ lot; a spot was reserved for her in staff parking. She and Christopher privately funded a number of programs for the incarcerated women: a rehabilitation program, G.E.D classes, vocational training, and therapy were among them. When one of the women was discovered to be pregnant, Christopher had immediately provided an avenue to remediate the situation, including the money for the transaction. At first, Julia, hadn’t been happy with his proposal, but his argument that "it’ll keep one more kid from entering the system" convinced her.

Her driver opened the door for her to get out, and the chill of winter’s air, though it was fast approaching spring, drifted in. She picked up her dress coat and threw it around her shoulders; it was a short walk into the corridors of the staff entrance. A few of the caseworkers greeted her with a smile; others were busy haranguing an inmate or talking on the phone. An assistant, upon seeing her, picked up a folder from her desk and trotted to meet her. It had surprised the prison’s faculty when she had first conducted an interview herself. They had expected someone else to do it for her, but Christopher was suspicious of everyone and had insisted she do them. Julia had requested Magali’s record the day before and, as she continued down towards the interviewing rooms, she leafed through it. Sheet after sheet annotated behavior-- mostly violent episodes-- and work detail involvement. A long computer print-out listed address information, family, arrests and convictions-- with a censored juvenile section-- and medical treatments. Julia shook her head at the thought of Casey’s association with such a woman.

The room was small and painted a dark green; it was a horrendous color. A short table was set up with two chairs at either end. A two-way mirror glinted from the light coming in from a grated window at the opposite side of the room. Julia was grateful for the light; it tied her stomach up in knots to be in any of the prison’s sections that were devoid of windows. There was a door of thick steel behind each set of chairs at the table, one for the prisoner to enter and the other for the free. The prisoner’s was dented and scratched in certain places. She finished reading the file’s contents and shutting the folder just as the lock on the prisoner’s door squeaked open, and two guards entered the room followed by a tall, dark, manacled woman in the blue denim and A-shirt of the labor prisoner. Another two guards followed behind her.

Julia straightened in her chair and crossed her legs as one of the guards pulled the other seat away from the table for the shackled woman. A second put his hand on her shoulder, and Julia caught the gleam of instant menace in her cerulean eyes. The guard took his hand away and, instead, gave her back a shove, pushing her towards the chair. Chains dangling from her waist to her ankles rattled as the woman moved and sat. Julia noticed how closely cuffed to her waist the woman’s hands were and donned her domineering expression. The prisoner tilted her head, slumped back into the chair and sniggered.

"Gentlemen, are those absolutely necessary?" she asked, clearing her throat and gesturing at the bonds holding Magali. It wouldn’t do to try to convince the prisoner of her good intentions while she was being restrained, it shattered the needed aura of trust.

"Sorry Mrs. Winslow, but this one here just did six weeks in the ho— in solitary confinement for attacking a guard. We’d have a hard time explaining it if anything happened to you."

"Aha, I see, Officer Williams," she said, crossing her arms and squinting at his badge. "But I don’t think you have anything to fear officer; I doubt Ms. Guerrerro would harm me," she continued, leaning forward with her elbows on the table.

There was nothing she hated more than when someone called her ‘Ms. Guerrerro’. It smacked of patronization, and Magali rolled her eyes.

"But Mrs. Wins—"

"Take them off, Officer. She and I have a mutual acquaintance. I’m perfectly safe."

Grudgingly Officer Williams nodded to one of his colleagues, who produced a key from his waist belt and cautiously approached Magali. When the chains fell away, the dark woman brushed back her hair and crossed her arms, eyeing Julia with a glare of barely concealed suspicion. Julia smiled at her.

"Now that’s better, isn’t it?" she queried, going into the pocket of her coat, draped neatly on the back of her chair, and bringing out a pack of cigarettes.

Magali smirked at the textbook routine. She swore that there were directions written on a placard somewhere as to how to talk to an outlaw. Sure, thanks, those nasty chains were hurting my dainty, little wrists, Magali mimicked a prissy voice in her head. It was entertaining.

Julia placed the pack and a lighter squarely in front of Magali and leaned back, still smiling, and waited.

Ah, what the fuck, they’re free, Magali thought, reaching for the pack, and the guards behind her tensed. Easy boys, I’m going for the smokes, not your necks…not yet anyway.

Julia watched quietly as Magali took out one of the cigarettes, lit it, and after taking one satisfying pull, blew the smoke out at one of the guards.

This woman loves trouble, Julia thought, as she waited for Magali to take another drag. "So, Ms. Guerrerro, thank you for meeting with me. I’m Julia Winslow and—"

Like I had a choice…hel-lo, did you see the chains? "Who is it?"

Julai shook her head, momentarily caught off guard by the first words the woman had spoken, and a brief glimpse of a familiar shade of blue on the inside of the prisoner’s wrist. "Excuse me?"

"I said…who is it? This person ‘we’ know." Magali rolled the cigarette between her index finger and thumb, gazing at the glowing embers under the white of ashes, and then flicked them onto the floor.

"Oh, I understand, you want to know to whom I was referring." Her raptor smile returned; she had the woman’s attention at least.

Magali gave her a short nod and stared at the window-- sunlight was precious. Smart, pretty…and blonde.

"Ms. Bridges."

Expecting to hear a name following some legal title, Magali held back the need to cough. It can’t be. "Bridges?"

"I’m sorry, you must not recognize her surname. You probably know her better as Casey. It’s Casey Bridges."

"Yeah, I know her," she replied, focusing harder on the white light glowing through the window. "How do you?"

"We went to school together. She thought I could help you out, maybe get you into a—"

"Don’t need it," she deadpanned.

"What?"

"Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need it," she clarified, throwing down the cigarette and stomping it out.

"You misunderstand. I’m not ‘selling’ anything. But I can try to get you an early release, or at least, when you get out you can have a diploma. Then you can get a decent job." She was using her business tone, the one that conveyed seriousness and finality.

"A decent job?" she spat. Damn, Casey. So that’s what this is all about? That’s good, Zee, jump on the defensive right away. Bad habits.

"Yes. I mean…I’ve looked at your record. Haven’t you learned yet? Do you want to keep coming back here? To this place or another like it? I’m offering you a chance, Ms. Guerrerro."

"The name’s Zero," she corrected with menace, "and if you want to help me, then find a way for me not to be bored to death. Now…can I leave?" she finished, raising both her hands, palms facing Julia.

At last Julia got a clear look at the icon on the inside of the woman’s wrist— a small blue hand, just like Christopher’s. I don’t believe it, a woman like this, with that mark? Think, think…how many ways could Christopher use her-- in here, out there? "Officer Williams? Could you please leave us alone for a minute? You can time us if you like."

"Mrs. Wins—"

"Now, Officer Williams."

"Yes, ma’am," he agreed with resignation, and motioned to the others to follow, as he opened the door and left.

Julia took a cigarette out of the pack and, sitting back, lit one for herself. "Do you like to play games?" she whispered.

Shit. Magali stone faced her and clenched her jaw tightly before responding. "That sounds like a challenge. Are you throwing down the gauntlet?"

"The stakes are high." Again she whispered, a smirk beginning at the corner of her mouth.

"Those are the only kind worth playing for." The too familiar phrase came out wrapped in bitterness. There you have it, bitch; now you know what I am, and I know who you are.

Julia smiled and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the table. "You’ll be hearing from me again, Zero…soon." The guards were back in the room before she had picked up her jacket; as the door shut behind her she could hear the chains being refastened. The day was looking up.

*******************************************************************

Daly rolled over under the blanket for the hundredth time and sighed. The mattress was one of the few things his ex-wife had left him with, and every time he slept on it he remembered why. A corner of it sloped nearly to the floor, and the springs jutted in waves across its surface. He was better off on the floor, but he knew that if he got up he would head straight for the overflowing mass of documents that owned his living room, and he was in need of some sort of rest. One step into the room and he would be in thrall to the files and papers, photos and graphic trees of names that had seized control of his life for the past fifteen years. The coffee table alone was buried under piles of black and white glossies, some as much as fourteen years old and others as recent as two months.

Having his morning cup of coffee, he would lean over the table and stare at the images captured on the shiny paper. In the shower, the face and gestures of the photographs’ main subject flicked through his mind, grainy and shaded-- like the scenes of a silent movie. Over the sink in the kitchen, a faded eight by ten hung from the edge of a cabinet by one tattered piece of tape. He’d gaze at the strong, young legs clad in leather, straddling the chrome of the motorcycle’s engine. The snug T-shirt hugged the girl’s defined shoulders and budding breasts, its sleeves straining at the bulk of her biceps. At the waist of her chaps, just above the bleached blue of her jeans, a dark rectangle pressed itself against her belly; it was the butt of a gun. Dominating the framing of the photo, the girl radiated a splendid mix of danger and beauty. But what captivated him the most, with a breeze blowing back her raven hair, was the wild grin of unrestrained laughter on the girl’s face as she threw back her head. It was the only picture he had of her smiling-- a rare moment forever frozen in time over his dirty dishes.

He threw the covers off his head and glared at the wide-open doorway of his bedroom. It was officially his day off, but Daly never really had a day off in his entire career. His job, and a certain raven-haired scofflaw, devoured all his time; it was his true heart’s marriage. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t been at all surprised at the divorce papers left for him on the refrigerator door, when his wife had finally worked up the courage to leave them for him. For months beforehand, he had known she was hiding them in the bottom of her bureau drawer. Daly drummed on his bare chest and shot alternating glances at the door and the ceiling, trying to decide whether to battle his way into sleep or just get up. At last he sat up and jumped to his feet. Pushing the blonde, loosened tresses of his ponytail back away from his face, he trudged into the bathroom. His skin exhibited the pallor of a New York winter spent out of the sun and, combined with the shadow on his unshaven face, he looked a mess. He splashed his face with cold water running from the faucet and rinsed out the dryness of his mouth. The waist of the boxers he wore hung loosely, and he had to hold them up with every other step as he walked into the kitchen to put his poison on to brew. As he poured water into the pot, he winked at Magali’s picture and smiled.

"Morning, Darling." Then knitting his brow, "What’s that you ask…what are we doing today? Why…what we do every day…take over the world," he said, continuing his ritual.

With the ruthlessly slow dripping of the coffee permeating the air with its scent, Daly carefully removed the picture from its resting place. He held it gently at the corners and carried it over to the inundated coffee table in the living room. A thin haze drifted in through the half open shade, illuminating his precious and strange collection of a life spent on the edge of chaos. He opened a clear space amongst the piles and tenderly placed the photograph in it. With extreme care, he rubbed off the sticky remains of the overused piece of tape, and, peering under the table, found a roll of clear tape, its edges colored with bluish-gray lint. Daly tore a piece off, and calculated his distance to get just the right amount of the strip on the edge of white around the image; as he did so a pile fell to the floor and scattered, most of the photographs landing face down. He finished his small task cursing under his breath, then stooped to pick up the newly created collage of violence and destitution. His eye was caught by a snapshot that he had not seen for quite a while and, retrieving it, he laid it next to the first on the table.

Her hair in a neat French braid, decked out in a silk, crimson blouse and black, worn, leather jacket, an older Magali sneered at the viewer. Menace shone from her eyes-- unabashed and raw. In her hand, her knuckles white, the tendons hard, she held a .45 automatic--its barrel half hidden by a mouth stretched in terror. The large ring on her hand was a gleaming blur, set off by tears running down paled cheeks. Daly picked up another photo. There was Magali again, squatting in front of a crying toddler, her hand caressing his face, while with the other she held onto one of her signature weapons-- the .45 caliber she preferred. A fourth showed her walking at the head of a crowd; she was wearing a leather sports top, baggy jeans that hugged her hips just under her navel, and an antler-handled hunting knife sheathed and strapped to her belt. Her face and neck were draped with dark streams of blood from a cut above her eye; her abdomen and chest were speckled with it. One after the other, Daly collected the prints: Magali running through the gray snow of New York screaming; her hair clinging to her skin as she bathed in the gushing stream of an open hydrant, children running and laughing at her feet, the summer sun bronzing her skin; Magali tall and dark, enigmatic shades hiding her eyes, as she bent over a coffin to place one single rose on its cover; her jeep, double-parked, its hood serving as a temporary bed as she rested on it, exhausted, her arm folded over her eyes; Magali, her lips open to the sky, catching raindrops with her tongue as she exhaled a cloud of smoke from a joint she was enjoying. Still more followed. A wrestling-match with her right-hand man. A sullen look as she fought off the pneumonia that plagued her for weeks. A visit to her mother’s grave, her motorcycle off to the side. Her cool-look as she sat at a table with four men, a discreet envelope being pushed towards her. If he chose to string all of the shots together, he’d have a pictorial novel of the most dangerous woman he knew. But the collection was for him alone, to be shared only with those with whom he kept professional company. And they were few. Daly frowned at the life strewn before him and rose to fetch his first cup of caffeine. He needed to pay Magali a visit, and the drive was a long, and boring one.

On the way to the prison he cursed each annoyance that arose: he couldn’t find his clip-on tie, he had forgotten his second cup of coffee on the kitchen counter, and the tape deck in his car was broken. He bitched when he was forced to stop for gas, then grinned at the pizza shop next door. Prison food sucked; Magali would appreciate the treat. At the gate he produced his credentials as Magali’s lawyer, and the guard waved him in. He waited an hour before an interviewing room was available and his name was called. The daily paper was interesting at least, with an account of new eruptions of violence in Brooklyn.

By MIKE CLAFFEY
Daily News Staff Writer

When he stepped into the dark green room it occurred to him that he was now as much a prisoner as Magali was. With practiced ease he took a toothpick from the pocket of his jacket to twirl between his fingers while he waited. Somewhere down the long corridors lined with large, round, hanging globes spewing a sickly light through their spiraled grates, was an unpredictable element in the female form.

That factor was, at the time, being very predictable. A little sweat mingled with a little pain, helped chase away the bile taste that had been engendered by Julia’s visit. The sickening feeling had begun the moment she had heard her visitor utter the phrase that invoked her link with the Gauntlet, and with a woman she knew she most definitely did not like. A need to dispel that feeling had prompted the afternoon’s activity. With the workday at an end, and a small crowd of women gathered around the bench where she pushed on a heavily stacked weight-bar, Magali bore her pain for all to see. As she strained the weights upward, a lanky, caramel woman straddled her thighs, holding a humming implement in her hand-- the motor of a radio concocted into a tattoo gun. Wires in a myriad of colors looped around the small engine parts, taped together with haphazard pieces of duct tape. A pair of popsicle sticks pumped rhythmically, the speed of their movement blurring the sewing needles at their ends. Some of the onlookers cheered her on to mask the sound; while others stared casually, Greenie winced periodically. The bare skin of Magali’s stomach rippled with the contractions of her abdominal muscles as she pushed the bar up over her, and the artist bent forward to complete the last of the Gothic script on the tender flesh as a trickle of sweat fell from her brow. The job finished she stood to admire her work. Thick black lines crossed and arched, just under Magali’s ribs and across her abdomen, looping dramatically into three, two inch high letters: S-I-N. As simple as it was, it was beautiful, with its darkening lines of settling ink beaded with crimson drops. Here and there a tiny red rivulet ran from where the needles had gone in too deeply too often.

Magali settled the bar into its niche atop the supports of the bench and pulled down her A-shirt-- which was immediately stained with small ruby specks-- and donned the clean denim shirt she had earned from her earlier shower. Unless it was filthy, the shirt would be worn for a week, with a fresh A-shirt being the only clean garment given her daily. She had been foul after pushing garbage around all day. Silently she handed the artist a bar of Hershey’s chocolate she’d traded from Smoke for a mirror, who had traded that for a sketchpad; the mirror had been a gift of appreciation from Greenie. She didn’t need to look at the fresh wounds carved into her hide, she’d felt each sharp puncture of every curve and corner, and had worn the word engraved invisibly on her spirit since the birth of Zero. She was tucking in the tail of her shirt when the yelling out of a familiar number jolted her out of her numbness.

"0329! Guerrerro! Lawyer visit!"

The crowd disappeared and the artist hid her tool; Magali scowled.

"You sure are popular today, Guerrerro."

"Bite me."

Magali strode in followed by guards who promptly left once she was seated. Lawyer visits were private. Daly expected some sort of reaction from the dark woman, but what he had not expected was the look of studied indifference he received instead.

"Look, Daly, they don’t respect you enough to put me in chains," she said teasingly, gesturing with her unrestrained hands.

"What?" he asked, bemused.

"Nevermind. What the fuck do you want?"

"Are you gonna eat the treat I got you?" he queried with a smirk, and pointed at the slice of pizza on the table.

Oh goodie, one brings me cigarettes and the other junk food. Must be my fuckin’ lucky day. "No thanks, I’m trying to cut down."

Daly shrugged and took the piece for himself, ripping at the hardened cold cheese with gusto. "Fine with me, I’m starving. I love cold pizza…must be a college thing."

"Yo, Daly. Is this what you called me in here for? To watch you eat, while you dick me around?"

"Why? You have some pressing business to take care of?" he dripped with sarcasm.

"Very fuckin’ funny, you’re a real comedian, Daly. You should quit your day job, go do stand-up."

"Nah, I like what I do."

"And what is that, exactly? Set people up?"

He stopped chewing and glared at her; she shrugged it off. His briefcase, up until then sitting on the floor between his feet, landed on the table with a thunk; she didn’t move. He opened it and took out a manila envelope designed for protecting delicate documents and took out one stiff eight by ten and spun it across the tabletop to her.

"Do you know her?"

She glanced at the photo lying in front of her without touching it, and slumped a bit into her chair. Months earlier, she lay in a hospital recovering from a near-fatal gunshot wound, charged with the serious crime of the homicide of a Police Officer. Though she was not guilty as charged, she faced the possibility of the death penalty. Daly had made his appearance into her already hectic life, offering to arrange for her acquittal. The added incentive of having Casey in her life had all but convinced her; she hadn’t been ready to exchange time with her Saint for a lethal injection. At the time, he had asked for nothing in return, insinuating only that eventually he would require a…service…from her. But now, looking at the picture he had produced, she knew the time to start paying had come; it had been the exchange of one certain death penalty for the likelihood of another.

"Yeah." she breathed. Within the white borders of the print, with the backdrop of a downtown Manhattan street, a distinguished couple strolled side by side. She recognized the tall blonde woman wearing a business suit and a lofty expression-- mere hours before she had sat with her in much the same way she was now sitting with Daly. The predatory atmosphere had been present then as it currently was.

He smiled, the way a shark would at the splashing of an injured fish. "She came to see you already," he stated knowingly. "Any idea how she fits into the picture?"

"Sort of. I’ll know more sooner than later," she replied, and lowering her eyes rubbed at the blue tattoo of a closed hand on the inside of her wrist.

"You’d better hope it’s way sooner."

Magali looked up. Not liking the tone in his voice, she glowered, giving him warning that she would and could pounce on him easily. Her initial reaction, however, was put on pause by the second print he nonchalantly tossed on top of the first. She raked her nails into the wood of the table, leaving lighter scratch marks on the surface of its age-darkened stain. The time of day was clear, sometime at night. A proprietary hand was on Casey’s waist, as she was led into a Town Car. The undisguised look of lust was plain on Julia’s face as she followed.

"What the fuck did you get her into, mother-fucker!" was the last thing he heard as Magali bounded over the table and straight at him. His head hit the floor and he was still clearing his vision as a stick came down on her from one of the guards who rushed in. Struggling against them she took hit after hit, ignoring the strikes to get at her intended target, Daly. When the small room was nearly filled with uniforms, and her form had disappeared under them, they were finally able to drag her away, her curses filling the air.

***************************************************************

"I spoke to your friend." Julia’s voice was hurried, as if she were balancing the phone and a few dishes, but Julia never cleaned.

"Good morning to you too, Julia." Casey rasped sleepily.

"Oh sorry, dear. I’m in the middle of something. But I’ll be in the city this evening. Are you busy?"

Suddenly Casey was very much awake, Julia’s first statement registering at last. "Did you say you spoke to Magali?"

"Yes, I did. Now what about tonight?" she continued, the sounds of an office drifting in from the background.

"What did she say? Is she all right? How’d she look?" Her voice was desperate, she knew, as the flurry of questions came out of her rapidly.

"My, my. Casey Bridges, if I didn’t know better I would say she’s more than an acquaintance. "A pet project"-- isn’t that how you put it?"

"It’s just that…well…no one has heard from her in a very long time. No phone calls, no letters, and…well…I’m concerned." She tried to calm her voice; it barely worked. "Concerned" my ass, I’m dying here…please God, just let her tell me something, anything.

"Weren’t you there to see her when I first saw you?"

"I wasn’t allowed to," she replied sadly.

"That’s right, she just came out of solitary…or so I was told. Letters take awhile to get to the prisoners. They scan them you see. Phone calls? If she hasn’t earned enough credits from working, she wouldn’t be allowed a phone call. Well, rest assured. She seems fine. But if you’re that worried…why don’t you go for a visit?"

Casey sighed, "I’ve been in the middle of midterms, and her visit dates come up only twice a month. I think I just missed one, so I won’t be able to go up, nor will her cousin. And I need to make up a few days at work. With my luck that’ll be when she’s allowed visitors."

"I see. Alright then, I have a plan of action. Come out with me tonight, and I can take you up tomorrow, then you can catch a train back. I’m pretty sure you’re on spring break now, so you have no excuse. What do you say?"

"But…how? I mean, if it’s not her—"

"You let me take care of that, dear. Oh God, look at the time. I have got to get going. My driver will pick you up at nine." Click.

Casey hung up the phone and cuddled closer to the warm spot of a curled Devi by her side. The prospect of seeing Magali after nearly four months left her with a permanent smile and a bit lightheaded. But first there was Julia to deal with, and the thought of spending another night with the woman made her queasy with its unwanted arousal. Under the lash it was easy to forget whom one was with, but it was Magali she hungered for more than anything else. To sense the pacing of the caged animal, barely controlled, in the depths of her pale blue eyes as they fell on her. Feel the power she was capable of, being harnessed in passion-- the gentle strokes of hands capable of killing, tender for only her. Knowing that her lover didn’t need to make control an issue, she simply was, by nature, sovereign; and under her rule, potent and benevolent, she reigned because she could and had to, yet never claimed it as a right. A shiver went down her spine and she hugged Devi tightly to her chest.

"Devi," she whispered, "wanna go for a wa— humph." With that she was left with empty arms and a cold spot.

It was incredible the way the dog could finish sentences without ever speaking. At times she reacted to just a syllable, and at others, scarcely a look. Devi was entertaining, and when alone she provided Casey with an unexpected comfort. She understood well why Magali treasured the animal so highly and, of course, the added bonus that no one approached her in the street when they went for their walks was fine with her. Although spring was just around the corner, the chill of winter held on tenaciously. She was grateful for the collection of heavy jackets Magali seemed to have in abundance. The bitter wind was enough to keep people off the streets, and those who were outside hurried by with upturned collars. Her stomach grumbled, loud enough for Devi, walking steadily at her knee, to turn her nose up at her.

"How about a donut, hmmm?" she smiled, still thinking of Magali, and the sticky sweet of a glazed…

Down the hill, a Dunkin’ Donuts blew the smells of fresh coffee and baked pastries out into the street. Casey tied Devi to a parking meter, needlessly, since the animal never wandered, by a sidewalk grate pushing up warm air from the underground train system. Devi sat on her haunches and gave her a curious look then, turning her attention towards the corner, whined softly.

"Don’t worry, girl. We’ll go to the park as soon as I get a little bite…and yes I’ll share." She patted her on the head and turned into the shop. A few customers later, Casey was walking out with a cup of steam in her hand and a donut in her mouth. She swallowed down half of it and gave the rest to a happy Devi, then bent to untie the leash from the cold pole around which it was wrapped. As she bent, she caught sight of a shadow moving quickly out of her vision at the corner; Devi was watching the same thing. For days she had had the sensation of eyes on her constantly, but had more than once dismissed it as part of her residual fear of Webster-- the cop who had held her prisoner in a stinking Brooklyn basement, while he tortured her with a stun gun for her lover’s whereabouts.

She picked up the leash and began a slow walk towards the park, and in the direction of the shadow, her heart banging away in her ears. It’s nothing, just my imagination. It’s just my imagination. At the corner she looked furtively in all directions before crossing. Seeing nothing unusual she walked across and proceeded to the mass of dead trees in the park. Along the way she passed other neighbors out for a walk with their pets, one Chihuahua decided she was tougher than Devi and yelped wildly. Devi to her credit, ignored the small rodent. Around a few bends in the path leading around the park in several directions, she came to the beginning of a stone tunnel. It usually gave her the creeps to walk through it at night, even with Devi, but during the day she had no problem traversing it. It was an old tunnel cut in through the middle of one of the park’s many hills, built when the site served as a fort. Blocks of stone, stained with years of dripping water, surrounded her. The cobble of the ground was worn and broken in places. Halfway through, Devi suddenly stopped and turned, growling. Casey’s breath caught in her throat, as she too turned at the soft crunch behind her but found nothing.

"Time to go home, girl," she whispered worriedly, and walked quickly out the other end of the tunnel.

At the door of the building she fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking. Almost running to the elevator, she nearly screamed when she heard the door open and shut behind her and, with Devi at her heels leaped into the arriving elevator, furiously punching the button for her floor. Casey slumped against the mirrored wall of the elevator and caught her breath, trying to convince herself that she was over-reacting. No one would follow me in here, not with Nelson and Ruben watching the place like hawks over a brood. The door slid open, and there was silence. Her breathing had calmed a bit, and the apartment door was just a few feet away. Devi wasn’t acting strangely, quite normal actually, and she took the necessary walk to the door. Inside, the phone was ringing, and she could hear the beginning of the message on the answering machine as she struggled to get inside and answer the call. Devi trotted in, her leash dragging behind her, and Casey ran to the phone to pick it up.

"Hello…hello." Nothing. The caller had hung up and left dead air for her to answer to. Could it be Daly? No he wouldn’t hang up. Gali? No, she wouldn’t either. Shit, shit. What the hell is going on? I can’t be imagining all of this. It’s not the first time. How long has it been, a few weeks, since…since that night with Julia. But I just spoke to her. It wouldn’t be her. What if it’s the cops. No, Gali has most of them in her pocket. And why would they follow me anyway? Alright, where’s that number? Eddie, he might know, or at least he can find out.

She found the scrap of paper still taped to the fridge, and dialed the number printed on it. One beep and she dialed in the number she was calling from, then hit the pound key and hung up. She didn’t know how long it would take for him to call back, and to keep busy until he did, she started breakfast, cracking an egg over a bowl. She was beating it senseless when the phone rang.

"Casey? What’s up?"

"Ummm, God this is gonna sound stupid, Eddie. But I’m glad you called, cause I think I’m in trouble."

Yeah, I know you are. When Gali finds out about whoever it is ya been seeing, ya gonna see a whole new side of her. "What’s the problem?"

"I think someone’s been following me."

Yup, they have, I told ‘em to, and they’re not doing a good job of it if you know. "No shit? I’ll check it out for you, alright?" Little shit Nelson can’t do nothing right.

"Thanks, Eddie."

"No problem. I’ll talk to ya later." After I fuck Nelson up.

Eddie hung up and frowned at Callie lounging on the couch. She held a small bottle up to a nostril and inhaled, then turned the small knob on its side to close its tiny opening. They had been up the entire night counting money and talking to workers from around the borough.

"Zee’s gonna kill ya, Callie."

"Yeah, well she’s not here…is she?" she spat menacingly.

"No, but she’s still gonna kill ya."

"Yeah? And who’s gonna tell her anything? You?"

Eddie shook his head and ignored her; half the time she was as irrational as a surprised rattlesnake, and he had other matters to take care of. Namely, Nelson.

"I gotta go. Go get some sleep and lay off that shit."

"Fuck you, Ed."

He closed the door behind him and suppressed the urge to carry the slender woman over his shoulder and dump her in the street. It was cold; and winter had taken root in the hallways and staircases as if hiding from the wrath of summer. He hadn’t seen his family in days, and it was just about the time of day when Alejandra would be throwing round, green pieces of puffed cereal at Enrique. Mariana would be yelling, picking up the mess from the night before. Eddie wanted to go home, if only for a quick nap, a shower and perhaps a moment with his wife. Whenever Magali was away it was always the same. Whether she was on a trip or behind bars, he stepped into the vacuum her absence created. It was no wonder to him why she closed herself off to the world, when she lived in a zone void of time, out of the reaches of anything common to the rest. She fucked when she wanted to, killed when she had to, fought to the limits of exhaustion and slept sporadically. He had hoped that all of that would change; that she would find some peace, an excuse to leave and live a normal life with Casey, maybe up in that cabin she loved so much. But as the weeks passed, and problems built on top of problems, he began to doubt any change was forthcoming. His heart told him he was wrong, but his mind said that Casey was betraying Zee, and in the end she would sink deeper into the murk of their world. And he would follow her there too, simply because, without her, he would never have had the chance to think of alternatives.

The apartment was quiet, but neat. In the kitchen, where he expected to find his family, he instead found empty packages of dye, multi-colored stained bowls, and a half-eaten yellow, marshmallow chick.

"What the…?" It can’t be; it’s too cold for Easter. Aw shit, Mariana is gonna have my head!

He looked at the calendar from the Chinese take-out place, hanging next to the window, and scratched his head. There, under a landscape picture of mountains he thought were probably somewhere in China, in bold red letters was the printed word "April". Magali had gone in to do time just after Christmas, and he had not spoken to her since then. It didn’t surprise him. She left instructions; he followed them until they changed. Still, he knew her lack of communication could only mean that she was finding her own brand of trouble behind the walls. He knew her well enough not to worry. His bed summoned him to the bedroom, and he trudged in, promising himself not to wastefully sleep away the entire day.

When Mariana nudged him awake, it was dark, and she wasn’t speaking to him. He looked at the time and grimaced, rushed into the shower and quickly dressed. Enrique gave him a sad smile, and Alejandra stuck out her tongue as he kissed his angry wife and petted them on their heads on his way out. His car was double parked outside, and a ticket under the wiper flapped in the wind. He turned the key, and the engine hummed to life. The tires left marks on the street as he skidded away.

Nelson was dozing on the mattress they had laid on the floor, while Ruben stared at the TV screen scooping ice cream out of a container with a fork. The kid smiled and pointed at the TV.

"Hey, Eddie, check it out. Just in time, bro’."

Eddie glared at the sleeping Nelson then turned his eyes to the screen. It showed the street outside from a camera they had hung from the roof. A Lincoln Town Car had pulled up, and a woman was standing by it, leaning on its trunk with her arms crossed. She was tall and lean; short hair flipped away from her face in wisps. Eddie took the controls from the floor and turned the knob to focus on the woman alone. She was attractive, with strong features and the air of confidence that accompanied money. Then he saw her smile, and he focused back to a larger range of scope. Exiting the building, dressed to the nines and with a clear bounce to her step, was Casey. The woman kissed her, then put her in the car.

"Hey Ruben? Who’s gonna follow her?" Eddie growled.

"Nelson."

Ruben’s head suddenly came forward, propelled by a blow from behind by Eddie.

"He’s asleep you idiot!" he screamed as the car pulled away.

She had spent the day cleaning the apartment and watching TV, filling the time with whatever she could. Julia had surprised her by coming herself, and it made her more nervous than she had thought it would. To see her standing calmly by the car, in plain view of what she knew would be the watchful eyes of Nelson and Ruben, added to her uneasiness. Julia had given her a peck on the cheek and then, with a hand on her shoulder, guided her into the car before getting in on the other side. For a time they rode in silence. Julia took a call on her cellular and a drink from a small bar at her feet. She poured one for Casey and handed it to her without asking. For Julia, it was second nature not to ask-- she wanted Casey to drink. When her call was over, Julia took a careful sip of her drink and laid a hand on Casey’s thigh.

"I apologize for not seeing you sooner. I’ve been busy for the past few weeks."

I didn’t mind. "That’s all right, Julia. I know how…hectic things can be for you."

She chuckled. "That’s what I love about you, Casey, so damn honest."

"So where are we going?" She hadn’t bothered to ask earlier, knowing how Julia preferred to control everything.

"I thought we could take in the opera. La Boheme is playing. Christopher abhors it. Then…let’s just play it by ear, shall we?" Casey gave her a skeptical look, and she sighed. "Alright, you have me pegged…I’ve just really missed your company, Casey. And I’ve had a busy week. Let’s just enjoy the leisure time." The weariness in her voice was indisputable; Julia wanted to drown out the world.

After the last soaring aria echoed through the halls and touched every heart, they left the elegant mob behind for the darker confines of a small bar in Greenwich Village. After a few Martinis downed by Julia, and a few beers for Casey, the hard façade Julia wore like armor faded. It wasn’t a part of her, only a mask she forcefully employed on a daily basis. Her smile came through, genuine and full of mirth, gentle and concerned. She joked about the woman at the bar, flirted with a waitress and tapped her finger to the music from the jukebox. When Casey knocked over a beer bottle and splashed some of the sudsy fluid on her lap, Julia jokingly wiped it away with a napkin, insinuating and giggling.

In the tender quiet hours of the night, they left the bar, with Julia as young as she had been at Storm King school. Patiently the driver had waited until they were ready and, upon seeing them, opened the back door. Casey went in first, with Julia slumping in next to her, telling the driver to "Take me drunk, I’m home." An old joke, but one she enjoyed. Losing the rest of her poise, Julia laid her head on Casey’s lap and gazed up at her. Tenderly she reached up and caressed Casey’s cheek, a sudden sadness rushing into her eyes. She turned on her side, curling into herself. Casey put a hand on her shoulder and felt her shudder, wondering who, if anyone, was comforting Magali.

Continued - Part 7

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