He wouldn’t be able to defend himself, which made him prey. Size didn’t always matter-some of the meanest pricks behind those walls were little guys with shivs and acid attitudes-but you could see that Danny Palmquist was a zero. The cons were probably already arm-wrestling to see who got to pop his puppy ass first. Not more than 5’6, 5’7, maybe 140 pounds, more meat on a taco than this one. But then, Romero knew, that’s what guys like Danny Palmquist were: hang-dog puppies. Just stood there in the corner, that lost puppy hang-dog look on his face.
Little shit didn’t have anything to say to that. Damn, the cons were going to eat that up with their bare hands. Letting him know right off that he was a ballbuster, a hardtimer that would bite out your eyes and fuck your skull if you got in his way. “You got a name, Cherry?” Romero put to him, crossing his muscular forearms over his chest, letting the kid see the jailhouse tats on them. What he didn’t need was this skinny little boy fucking things up for him. Romero wanted to feel that light on him real bad, on his face and hands, making things glow inside him where there had only been darkness for too long. Now he was forty, doing a dime for aggravated assault and battery of a police officer, staring down the long tunnel at the light flickering at the end. He’d already done five years at Brickhaven for grand theft and an illegal weapons charge when he was twenty. You did enough time, you got real good at “the look.” This was Romero’s second stretch. Romero just stood there, giving the new meat the look. He went on his merry way, twirling his stick, laughing with the other hacks, looking for cons to hassle and heads to crack. Then Jorgensen stepped out and the cell door slid closed. He’s young and pure, don’t go dirtying him up.” Jorgensen thought that was funny, took the kid by the arm and pushed him at Romero.
The sergeant hack, Jorgensen, brought the new meat in, said, “Here you go, Romero, we got you a new cellmate.
Knowing how it smelled, how it walked, and how it talked. You were sitting on ten years hard time and wouldn’t see parole for another three, you got real good at spotting trouble. He felt it down in his guts, something cold and inexplicable that just started chewing through him. Soon as Romero saw the new meat, he knew there was going to be trouble.
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