Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild

Author:R.M. Wild [Wild, R.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mod 29 Media
Published: 2021-03-19T22:00:00+00:00

21

We waited in awkward silence. The only sounds were the farting of our cracked vinyl cushions as we shifted uncomfortably and the squeaking of the warden’s casters as he tried to maintain his flag-pole posture.

Mettle cleared his throat, but it was only a half-hearted attempt as he seemed afraid to upset me, afraid that I’d set his crotch on fire or something. Because the first throat clearing was so ineffectual, he had to clear his throat six more times over the next fifteen minutes, each attempt equally pathetic, each attempt making his cheeks grow redder.

“So,” Mayweather said, “I hear you’ve been suspended.”

“You’ve got your ears to the rail,” Mettle said.

Wish it were the third rail, I thought.

Mayweather nodded. “I don’t have to listen very hard. People talk. Guards, cops, firemen—we may wear different uniforms, but we all wear the same underwear. How long is your suspension?”

“A month.”

“You paying your bills okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mettle said firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Tell me.”

Mayweather sized Mettle up, his eyes lingering on his biceps. “You ever think of working for the prison? With a build like that, your mere presence would be able to keep the inmates in line.”

“I’d rather shave my head and dunk it in hot glue.”

“You might change your mind,” Mayweather said. “We’ll talk later.”

The door opened and Mettle and I twisted in our chairs. A woman shuffled in, followed by a guard. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit. Her ankles were fettered and her wrists were constrained to the level of her hips via a belly chain. Her hair was black and frizzy, as if she had tried to supercharge a hot pot, but had gotten her wires crossed. Her cheeks were divided into distinct portions, the lines in her face spanning haphazardly into features where they didn’t belong.

She glared at me. “Don’t set me on fire.”

“There’s no glass here, duh,” I said.

Everyone looked at me.

“Obviously, I use the curvature of the glass to concentrate my powers. It’s like a magnifying glass.”

Their eyes widened.

“That was a joke. What’s the matter with all of you? I don’t have any magical powers. No one does. Magic isn’t real.”

“Be careful,” Mettle whispered out the side of his mouth. “The warden went to seminary school.”

Mayweather folded his hands on the desk as if he were about to pray. “Do you know this woman, inmate?”

“No,” she grunted.

He turned to me. “Do you know her?”

“No,” I said.

“This is Charlene Pots. She shared a cell with Phyllis since day one.”

“You mean Goat.”

“Yes. Whatever,” the warden said. He turned to me again. “Sometimes the inmates give each other pet names.”

“I ain’t never heard of nobody having no goat for a pet,” Pots said.

“You know what I mean,” the warden said.

So Pots was the one who gave Phyllis that stupid name. “How did she become the Goat?”

“Just Goat.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said ‘the’ Goat. It’s Goat. With a capital G,” Pots said. “I made her eat the straw out of my mattress. When she bent over—”

“Okay that’s enough,” Mayweather said.

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