Own Me (The Wolf Hotel, #5)(97)

Dad smirks. “His name is Crazy Bob. And yes, they call him Crazy Bob to his face. Haven’t asked what he’s in for, and I don’t think I wanna know. He likes the violin and NASCAR. Hasn’t tried to shank or rape me in my sleep yet.”

I frown my disapproval for the poor joke. “The violin and NASCAR. That’s an odd combination, right?”

“Yeah. You could say that,” my dad agrees. “But Crazy Bob is odd. He seems all right so far. Been in here over ten years now. Knows everything about everything. He’s been giving me the lay of the land, so to speak. Where the minefields are, so I can avoid ’em.”

“That’s good. And the food?”

“The peas are mushy, the potatoes are grainy, and I’ve fixed tires that had more give than the meat they served last night.” He chuckles. “So, kind of like your cooking. In fact, did you take a job in the kitchen that I don’t know about?”

“Har. Har. Har.” I roll my eyes. Leave it to my dad to try to make jokes in terrible circumstances. But he’s always had a natural ability to defuse any tense situation.

So how did he end up getting punched in the face?

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should push. Finally, I can’t help it. “Dad, why did someone hit you?”

He waves it off. “Aww... it was nothing—”

“So then tell me about it, if it’s nothing,” I challenge, wielding that sharp edge in my voice that Dad swears is like listening to a recording of my mother.

The longer he studies the smooth surface of the table, the more I’m convinced that my gut is right and it’s not just a matter of a pissing contest or a funny look.

“Dad....”

“Apparently Fleet’s got family or something in here. He wanted me to know he wasn’t happy with what happened to Fleet, is all.” Dad shrugs nonchalantly. “So now I know. I’m just gonna stay out of the guy’s way and everything’ll be fine.” His jaw tenses. He’s more worried about it than he’s letting on.

Rightfully so. My father is locked up in here with a family member of the guy he killed and he’s already attacked him.

I think I’m going to vomit.

“We need to tell the guards—”

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “Trust me, no, Mercy. That won’t do me any good in a place like this. Fulcort’s known for.... Well, let’s just say I’m a guy with no friends, no affiliations. I’m best to fly under the radar.”

I frown. “What do you mean, affiliations?”

His gaze drifts around the room. I follow it, taking in the various men in orange jumpsuits. The population of Fulcort penitentiary is made up of every age and skin tone—short, tall, fat, skinny, clean-faced, scruffy.

How many of these men are like my father, I wonder.

How many of them don’t belong in here?

Probably a lot less than the number of men who earned their cell.

My dad drops his voice to a murmur. “You see that guy over there? With the tattoo on his face? Don’t be too obvious.”

I shift my gaze to my left, spotting the guy in question easily. Half his face is marred with ink—a scaly dragon with talons—making him look downright scary. He’s sitting across from a young pretty Latina girl with fake nails long enough to be used as a weapon in a place like this, I’d hazard. “Yeah.”

“Crazy Bob says he’s high up in some notorious LA gang. Anything that guy wants in here, he gets. Anything.”

“So become his friend.”

Dad chuckles. “That’s not how it works.” He glances over his shoulder at the group of inmates filtering in. “See that one there? The third in line?”

I watch a heavyset man with pock-marked cheeks and unkempt gray hair stroll in. He must be in his seventies, with a belly that strains the waistline of his prison garb. “Okay.”

“He’s got the warden and plenty of the guards in his pocket. Even dragon-face stays away from him. He could put a hit out on anyone and it’d be done in a day, inside these walls or not. That’s what Crazy Bob claims, anyway.”

I watch the man lumber along. Maybe it’s the jumpsuit and shaggy mop on his head but I’m picturing him stretching pizza dough or selling car insurance from behind a chunky old desk circa 1970, not swimming at the top of the food chain in a maximum security prison, scaring LA gangbangers.

“What’s his deal?”

“Mob boss. Big into the drug trade.”

I feel my eyebrows pop. “As in, like, Al Capone…?”

“As in, you betray him, he takes out your entire family and then you, and then he pisses on your ashes.” Dad’s voice drops to a whisper. “Crazy Bob told me that some clueless do-gooder guard came in here last year, stirring the pot against the corruption. He didn’t last long.”

“As in fired?”

“As in stopped coming in. His family hasn’t heard from him since.” Dad gives me a knowing look.

“I feel so much better knowing you’re spending your days with these kind of people,” I mutter, nausea stirring in my stomach. I study the mob boss as he passes. He walks with ease, as if he owns this room and he knows it. And maybe Crazy Bob isn’t blowing smoke. Maybe he does own this place.