Beth
When Beth showed up for work on the day of the big fight, the entire prison was buzzing about it.
She had to break up at least half a dozen fights between inmates about who would win, and she spent the first two hours of her shift busting convicts for betting on the outcome before she realized it was pointless and ignored it instead. There were just too many of them making wagers, and it seemed like at least half the guards were in on the action too.
Lindhurst was sidelining as a bookie, running from block to block with fistfuls of cash so the prisoners could make bets with people in other parts of Bluebonnet—he even made a few trips to the Ad-Seg unit, so he could collect money from the guys in solitary and the hole. Meanwhile, Butler was openly boasting that he'd bet five hundred bucks on Hank knocking out Manolo by the fourth round.
Scraps of paper with bets on them flowed through every room in Bluebonnet like whitewater rapids. They wagered anything they had—credits for the commissary, food, drugs, cigarettes, work shifts, phone cards, and even sexual favors.
It was all anyone could talk about: Who would win? Which round? By decision or knockout?
Beth tried to attend to her duties without letting any of the chatter affect her, but she felt nervous. What if Hank got injured badly? Bib had always praised Hank's skills as a fighter, but what if Manolo cheated somehow? She hadn't interacted with Manolo much since she'd started working at Bluebonnet—he largely kept to himself and stayed out of trouble—but she'd heard a lot from the other guards about how ruthless and unpredictable his brother Roberto was.
Worst of all, she had to keep taking orders from Bull and enduring his lewd comments. At one point, he told her to go buy him a bottle of champagne.
“We can crack it open to celebrate after Hank takes down Manolo,” he said, winking. “Maybe you can even use the bottle to put on a little show for us, how about that?”
She'd taken his money and left to buy the champagne without answering him. Still, on the way back to the prison, she kept eyeing the bottle as nausea squirmed in her stomach. He'd probably just said that to rattle her, but what if he was serious? If he demanded it from her, what could she do? Being subjected to the whims of someone so twisted and evil made her sick, and when her panicked mind dragged her to thoughts about how the bottle would feel inside her, dread crawled up her throat and she pulled over to open the door and retch.
She desperately wanted to tell Bib what was going on. There were even a few nights when she'd come close, after he'd pulled her aside and asked her how the job was going and how Hank was holding up. She opened her mouth, wanting to let it all come blurting out—but then she thought about Butler threatening her with perjury.
Being a guard in a prison was hellish enough. She wasn't eager to find out how it would feel to be an inmate, especially since she doubted ex-guards were treated well inside. There were two ex-cops serving time in Bluebonnet on corruption charges, and both of them were kept in solitary, along with the child molesters and others who'd be special targets for the rest of the prison population. The isolation had already driven one of them to attempt suicide.
So instead, Beth forced a smile, took a sip from her beer, and said that the job was fine and Hank was fine and everything was fine. She saw the traces of suspicion in Bib's eyes and hated herself for lying to him. She wanted to believe he'd think of something, find some way to protect her and Hank.
But she couldn't.
Now she was back in Bluebonnet, feeling the gray concrete walls and iron bars press in on her from all sides. The air was always sour with the odors of sweat and raw testosterone, and she felt the eyes of the convicts on her tits and ass every minute of the day, like grubby hands pawing at her from every direction.
The fight was scheduled to take place during the hour when about a third of the guards—Beth included—were on their lunch breaks. Even though she'd always hated boxing, Beth filed into the gym with the other COs and inmates who were attending as spectators. She knew she'd be even more worried about Hank if she weren't watching.
But it was more than that, too. She wanted him to see that she was there. The things he'd said to her in the stairwell had hurt. But she understood that he was feeling as angry, trapped, and helpless as she was, and she was sure that was why he'd lashed out. She still cared about him, and she wanted him to see that, even if there was no safe way for her to express it overtly. She wanted him to know that she was in his corner—figuratively, and also literally, if that was what he needed from her.
A boxing ring had been set up in the center of the gym, with bleachers on all four sides. The spectators were clearly divided into sections based on who they were rooting for. The on-duty guards positioned around them were tense and watchful, looking to stop fights in the crowd before they started. With all these inmates sitting side by side, it would be far too easy for someone to get a shiv between the ribs in the name of settling old scores.
For the most part, though, the convicts just seemed happy and excited to watch the fight. It seemed like they were far more interested in the temporary relief from their boredom than they were in harming each other. In several areas of the bleachers, Beth even saw known enemies sitting next to each other. There was some trash-talking, but overall, it looked like a temporary truce was in effect.
Beth was briefly reminded of a nature show she'd once seen, in which predators and prey on the plains of Africa sat beside each other peacefully when they got to the watering hole. Even for the most bloodthirsty creatures on the planet, there was still a time and a place for violence, and a time when certain social niceties needed to be observed.
Once everyone had taken their seats, a potbellied CO named DiNovi stepped into the ring and stood in the center. He'd been chosen to act as referee, and Beth wondered whether he'd placed any bets on the outcome himself. If so, how could he be trusted to enforce the rules equally, or do a proper ten-count if someone got knocked down?
Beth shook her head. As examples of corruption and injustice in Bluebonnet went, she reminded herself that this was pretty minor. Still, she didn't love the idea of how ugly this crowd would probably get if they thought it wasn't a fair fight.
Hank sat in his corner of the ring, staring straight ahead as Bull massaged his shoulders and spoke to him. Beth saw how uncomfortable he was, and how much he was trying to focus on the fight itself instead of whatever racist nonsense Bull was probably spewing into his ear. For a moment, she regretted her impulse to come see the fight after all. What if he saw her and it broke his concentration?
Well, too late now. She was here, and she couldn't bring herself to leave.
Manolo was in the other corner of the ring, his expression blank as his brother Roberto jabbered at him. Manolo's face was inscrutable, and Beth wondered whether he'd had any more choice in participating in this than Hank had. More than anything, it seemed like he just wanted to get it over with.
DiNovi took a deep breath and addressed the crowd in a booming bass voice, drawing out every syllable. “Ladies and gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the red trunks and weighing in at two hundred and ninety-two pounds...representing the Nation of Sinners, with a record of twelve victories, four knockouts, and no losses...MANOLO 'THE MEXICAN MAULER' TORRES!”
The Sinners in the crowd took to their feet, howling and clapping. Roberto danced around in the corner, grinning and holding up Manolo's huge arm. If Manolo noticed the commotion, he gave no sign. His brown eyes were fixed on Hank, studying him carefully, as though looking for weaknesses.
“And in this corner,” DiNovi intoned dramatically, “wearing the black trunks and weighing in at two hundred and eleven pounds...representing the White Knights in his very first Bluebonnet boxing match...HANK 'THE HAMMER OF HELL' HALL!”
The Carnage Warriors whooped loudly, pumping their fists in the air. The Aryans stood and gave stiff-armed Nazi salutes, chanting, “Seig heil! Seig heil!”
Beth saw Hank wince. She suspected he'd been prepared to be introduced as a representative of the Warriors, not the White Knights, and she could only imagine how much that had to piss him off.
The crowd began to whistle and stomp their feet, and Beth saw that the prisoner named Foley Cartwright was circling the inside of the ring. He was wearing a slinky dress that looked ridiculous on his pudgy frame, and tottering in high heels as he held up a sign that said “ROUND 1.”
Beth felt a wave of pity for him. Everyone knew he was being regularly beaten and humiliated by the Sinners, but no one would do anything about it. Most of the guards just laughed about it, especially Butler. She knew that the crime Foley committed to get sent here was horrible, but even so, the punishments he'd endured in prison seemed disproportionate. She wished there was something she could do to help him, but she knew there wasn't. This was just the way things were in Bluebonnet.
Foley stepped out of the ring and a bell dinged sharply.
Both fighters were on their feet immediately, dancing, circling, sizing each other up.
Good luck, Hank, Beth thought fervently, her hands curled into tight fists.