Noble Warrior (22 page)

Demon crossed the cell to take a leak in the toilet. “Just a shame how a person has to use the can in lock-up. I still ain't comfortable taking a dump in front of another man. Treat
us all like a bunch of fucking animals, they do.”

When he finished whizzing, Demon turned back around.

“You gonna wash your hands?” M.D. asked.

Demon adjusted his nuts. “I can't seem to find the moist towelettes.”

M.D. shook his head. His father was never much for hygiene in the first place. “G'head, finish,” M.D. said.

“You don't believe none of this, do ya?”

“I can't think of any reason in the world why I'd ever doubt you, Dad.” M.D. had been lied to so many times before by his father that he knew that only a fool would
consider this made-up fantasy real. Yet he had to admit, he was interested to hear what kind of crazy final explanation his father would cook up to tie this whole cock-and-bull story together.
Demon was one of those bullshitters in life who had a gift for making a person want to hear the rest of his nonsense, even though they knew it was all pure make-believe. He owned a gift for it,
like the kind of guy who could sell mud in a rain forest, and even his own son surrendered to his enchanted ways.

“So what happens was,” Demon continued, “the cops show up, but they ain't got enough men, and a crazy-ass gun battle breaks out. These South American motherfuckers got
Uzis and shit. Dealers gets shot, buyers get shot, a few officers get blasted. Looked to me like that shit was cop on cop, too. All hell broke loose.”

“Wait a minute—you were there?”

“Yep.”

“Because the cops brought you?”

“Hell, no. They didn't know I'd be lurking,” Demon answered. “I showed up 'cause sometimes a mouse can find a bit of cheese after busts like this. You know,
dudes throw bags into the bushes and shit, when they are running and tryin' to get away. I was hoping to catch me maybe a quarter ounce of powder or something, just to feed my own
habit.”

“Like a scavenger?”

“Yo, watch your tongue,” Demon said. “I'm not so sure I like your attitude and all, and considering you're gonna be my beneficiary.”

“Your beneficiary?” M.D. laughed. “So like you got an estate planner now? Dad, this is so good.”

“No, I didn't buy any real estate,” Demon said, scrunching up his face. “But I might.”

“With the forty million dollars you have, right?”

“Forty-two million, three hundred eighty-seven thousand, six hundred fifty-two dollars and no cents.”

McCutcheon shook his head. This was classic Demon Daniels. Tell a lie and then stick to the story so sincerely that no one could ever refuse to believe you.

“You are one in a million.”

“Don't I know it.” Demon grinned proudly. “Okay, so like at the end, people scatter in all directions, but the cops win, and get a nice couple of photographs with four
tons of powder and a hunk of cash laid out on a brown picnic table for all the D-town media to drool over.”

“And you had a front row seat to all this?”

“Ain't that something? During the chaos—and I mean this shit was like Iraq—I grabbed two huge duffel bags and hauled ass outta there. I know some dirty cops gotta be
looking for their money, too. They probably think one of the gangstaz done took it. Want payback, too. But what they don't know is, it was me.”

Demon laid back, stretched out comfortably and folded his hand behind his head.

“Now that shit's my buried treasure.”

M
cCutcheon stared at his father reclining on the prison bed as if it were a lounge chair by a tropical beach.

“You are a lying motherfucker.”

“It's true,” Demon said. “How you think I got my juice in here? I done laid low for like two months, then went back to the Priests after shit settled down and gave
'em double what I owed them. Told 'em I won big playing the ponies in Atlantic City.”

“And they believed you?”

“Those motherfuckers don't care. A bitch walks in with four hundred grand in cash and says here ya go, clear my name, they take that shit and say, ‘Thank you very much, would
you like one of our hoochies to lick your Popsicle?'”

“And they had no idea it was their drug money you were giving back to them?”

“That's the sweet part; it wasn't their drug money,” Demon said. “The Priests were just brokering a deal for some rednecks out of Canada. People think Canada is all
polite and clean and shit, but they got some big powder-lovin' fools up across the border. It wasn't Priest money I took. It was Canadian cash.”

“You stole Canadian dollars?”

“Is you stupid?” Demon asked. “Of course not. Who buys cocaine with funny looking Canada money? These real American greenbacks, I got. Green as they come. For once in my life,
I was in the right place at the right time.”

McCutcheon looked down the hall and wondered when food might be coming. Like every other prisoner he hated the S.O.S., but hunger was hunger. No signs of a meal delivery, though.

“So how'd you end up in here?” McCutcheon asked.

“Jaywalking.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Jaywalking.”

“This story just gets better and better.”

“What happened was I got drunk in Vegas and decided to cross from Caesar's Palace to the Paris Hotel right in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard with two hotties, one white, one
Puerto Rican, on each arm. Oh, you shoulda seen them titties,” Demon bragged. “But some junior Nazi policeman busted me and found out I had a warrant for my arrest, 'cause
I'd done violated my parole by not checking in with my P.O. for a few months back in D-town. Got cuffed on the spot, extradited back to Michigan, and the bitch-ass judge gave me nine months
to teach me a lesson. Been here for five, only four more left to go.”

“And then you're gonna take your buried treasure and go to, let me guess, the Cayman Islands?”

M.D. always knew it was his father's dream to one day retire a wealthy man in the Cayman Islands.

“Indeed,” Demon answered. “Or at least I was till you showed up.”

The cell got quiet, the fun and lightheartedness of Demon's story giving way to the cold reality of their current circumstances. Demon, reflective, crossed to the front bars of the cage
and picked at the chipped white paint. Four months left on a bid was practically nothing to a con. An easy stretch. On the other hand surviving four months in the D.T. after double-crossing the
Priests was an eternity. It's one thing not to have gone through with the hit against his own kid; it was quite another to put a knife in the neck of the main head shotcaller. Demon knew that
being quarantined with the Cho Mo's might offer him some protection, but M.D.'s father was also a realist, and he knew chances were high that he was already a dead man.

At any moment, a hit could come.

M.D. started inspecting the cell and studying the environment. He'd been well-trained in the art of urban warfare and had been taught that if a way existed in, a way always existed out.
“This prison's too old not to have weaknesses,” McCutcheon said, surveying the domain. “You been here for months. What have you heard?”

“There's only two ways out of the D.T.,” Demon said. “Parole or the morgue truck. Everyone knows that.”

McCutcheon used his finger to peel away some of the aged concrete in the back corner of the cell and started ruminating over the how the plumbing lines ran vertically down the southern wall and
then under the floor. The water supply had to flow in from somewhere, which meant that where there were pipes there was crawl space.

“There's gotta be a way,” M.D. said. “There's always a way.”

He tested the strength of the toilet to see if he could pull it off the wall. It gave a bit, but M.D. didn't want to yank it with full strength until he formulated a plan. Just ripping a
shitter off its anchors would get him nowhere. Brains before brawn. Always.

Demon studied McCutcheon as McCutcheon studied the cell and couldn't help but admire his son's optimism and grit. In the cage, his son always had more heart than any fighter Demon
had ever seen. M.D. never gave up, never surrendered, and never believed he was ever out of a fight as long as there was still time left on the clock to battle. In so many ways, McCutcheon
demonstrated perseverance, honor, brains, bravery, and goodness. In so many ways, McCutcheon demonstrated all the qualities that Demon himself did not.

“I done made a lot of mistakes, M.D.,” Demon said to his son. “Lord knows I was a terrible dad. But you've always been my boy, and you gotta know one thing.”

“Yeah, what's that?” McCutcheon retested the strength of the sink. Perhaps if they both pulled at the same time a big enough hole could open so that…

Demon suddenly spun M.D. around and spoke in a sincere voice, his eyes wet with tears.

“I always loved you, son. I mean that. I always did.”

McCutcheon listened to his father's words. Heard every last one of them and then took a long moment to consider his response.

He decided to say nothing. He didn't hug his father. He didn't smile at his father. He especially did not say
I love you
back.

Demon had hoped his boy would forgive him. Hoped his sobriety and changed ways would translate into a new and vibrant relationship with his kid. He wanted McCutcheon to put the past in the past,
and see the true essence of his old man's heart. See his goodness, his light, his deep love. Demon searched M.D.'s face for some sort of sign that his unspoken apology for all the hurt
he'd caused, all the pain he'd brought into this young man's life, would be accepted.

Could what was done be done?

M.D. wasn't stupid and clearly saw the searching in his father's eyes. Saw his hunger and his hopefulness and his regret for all the thousands of mistakes he'd made in the
past.

He looked away.

McCutcheon carried too many wounds from a shattered, tattered childhood to forgive his father for being such a selfish piece of shit. Maybe one day he could let it all go, perhaps he could
forgive and forget and move forward, but for M.D., now was not the time.

Even though it may be the final time he'd ever have a chance.

As Demon slowly recognized forgiveness for his sins would not be forthcoming, he decided to do something very un-Demon like and not pursue the issue further. Instead, he removed his hands from
M.D.'s shoulder and decided to let it go. A lump formed in his throat. A lump caused by the fact that he completely understood his son's perspective.

In fact, Demon thought to himself, I don't know that I'd forgive me either. Demon wiped his eyes and gulped down the truth, but like all truths this one felt hard and exceptionally
difficult to swallow.

McCutcheon returned to surveying the cell. Certainly, a large hole would open if he and his father pulled the toilet off of the wall at the same time, but every prisoner in lockup had probably
thought of an escape route exactly like this before.

Which made the plan lame. The more M.D. contemplated yanking out the john, the less he liked the idea. Too clumsy. Too uncertain. Too much cloudiness about where to go, which direction to turn,
which path to take. And this was assuming they could even create a hole big enough to slip through. Besides, he knew, escaping the cell wasn't the goal; escaping prison was. A broken toilet
breakout plan felt like a fantasy.

Only two ways of the D.T.; parole or the morgue truck.

McCutcheon knew he needed to stay strong. Keep his eyes on the prize and not give in to despair. Part one of any plan would be remaining certain he could pull something off. If hope died, any
plan beyond that would fail.

He began telling himself the things he knew he needed to hear.
Relax. Be patient. First ideas are rarely the best ones anyway.

Stanzer had taught him that. Stanzer, the guy, should McCutcheon ever get out, who'd pay.

Like any fight, keep pressing but also remain patient. Solutions will come.

McCutcheon turned around, ready to hunt for a new approach.

“You been staying sharp?” Demon asked, prison slippers on his hands as if they were focus mitts for boxing.

His dad waved him forward, challenging him to see what he's got. Did M.D. still remember all the things Demon had taught him back when they trained together at the gym?

McCutcheon looked at the sandals on his father's hands and knew what his father wanted. Demon always loved working out. Back when his father was an up-and-coming boxer Demon epitomized the
term
gym rat.
Then drugs got to him. But even after that, some of Demon's best father-son memories consisted of training little M.D. to throw hooks, jabs, and pinpoint right crosses.
No one had ever seen a five-year-old counterpunch like Demon Daniels's kid. He was the apple of daddy's eye in the gym. Some fathers never forget the day they teach their children to
ride a bike. Demon never forgot the day he taught his son to smoke the hell out of a speed bag.