The slamming of a prison door sounds like nothing else in the whole world. It's a harsh, hollow, hopeless sound. There is an air of finality about it that turns the bones as cold as steel bars, and the heart into a lump of concrete in the chest.
Billy flinched, even though he was doing his best to be cool. He'd done time in juvey holding and county lockup but this was different. This was the Big Leagues. State prison.
He forced a grin onto his face. You're Bad Billy, he told himself, and as of now you're a Major League Player. But the grin fit his face like a cheap plastic mask, and his steps slowed as the oppressive air of the place wrapped around him like even more chains than he was already wearing.
"Move your butt, pretty boy." The guard was in his late forties, and at least a hundred pounds overweight. Wrinkled gray uniform with sweat rings under the arms. Shirt buttons pulled tight across his belly. Mean little piggy eyes behind thick round glasses. He prodded Billy from behind with a pudgy hand. "Your suite's all ready. You wouldn't wanna let the champagne get warm, wouldya?" He snickered and patted Billy's fanny. "Or mebbe you're more the fruit basket type."
"Screw you," Billy muttered, half under his breath, knowing it was a pretty lame comeback. The problem was this place was so cold. Not cold like winter, but cold like you didn't mean nothing to it. Like you were nothing but a tiny little cockroach in a giant steel dumpster.
He hunched his shoulders and walked faster down the concrete corridor, his chains jingling in time. I shouldn't be here like this, he thought bitterly, chained up like some freakin' dog. Wouldn't be either if the lawyer the public defender's office had stuck him with hadn't been a boozy, chain-smoking old bag who spent half her time lighting up a fresh smoke from the butt of her last, and the other half coughing and looking for papers she couldn't find. Stupid old bitch hadn't even been able to keep his name straight, kept calling him Bobby. She'd bargained his charge down from aggravated assault and armed robbery, sure, but getting him two years hardly seemed like a favor.
The corridor ended in a solid steel door that looked like it could stop a bulldozer.
"Wait up, Cinderella," the guard drawled, grabbing him by the back of the white coverall he'd been issued. The guard glanced at the clipboard he carried, then raised his voice. "Genovese here with a new deb. William F. Thomas, prisoner number 3154-822985." He flipped up a sheet, made a clucking noise with his tongue. "Got us a real tough guy here." He eyed Billy like something smeared on a toilet seat. "He beat up two women while knocking over a liquor store."
Billy bit his tongue, his face sullen. The lard-ass guard was right about what he had done, but it wasn't like he made it sound.
"Clear," came a bored, scratchy voice from the speaker grille next to the door. The heavy door rumbled to one side, opening on a short dead-end corridor. One side was nothing but blank wall, the other lined with white doors without any handles or windows. The walls of the corridor were white, as were the floor and ceiling, and it was so brightly lit that Billy had to squint against the glare. There was not a single person in sight. No guards. No prisoners. The corridor was eerily silent. Like a tomb.
The guard gave him a push. "Move your buns, blondie. I was s'posed to go on break five minutes ago, and if I don't get coffee and a smoke soon I'm gonna get reeeal cranky."
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