heard Mendes’ bloodcurdling screams. Seinfeld had somehow prised the laundry goods delivery lift open. The lift had been on the next floor, which had been only slightly above their floor; no more than two feet. There had been an exit on the opposite side above them. Graziadai held the guy to the floor, a foot on his upper arm; the arm hovering ominously over the open lift pit. They had then sent the lift cascading down to their floor, severing Mendes’ arm from his body. The resulting screams had given Tetley several sleepless nights over the following few weeks. And all this over something as trivial as Seinfeld thought Mendes had been serving him smaller portions than anyone else the last couple of lunchtimes. Now Mendes wouldn’t be serving anybody. Not with his right arm at least. Mendes had somehow survived, in spite of the massive blood loss that had occurred, and had gone through extensive rehab in following four months or so. Almost as soon as he was back, Mendes had been subjected to daily ridicule from Graziadai and Seinfeld but never once ratted them out to any of the prison staff. Well not to any of the ones that weren’t on the take, anyway. He must have thought that life with one arm was at least better than no life at all.
So it gave Tetley no comfort to imagine he could expect a minimum of the same level of treatment from these guys. All the IV in the world wasn’t going to make that thought any less painful.
Fucking Jimmy. If they had stuck to the agreed time, they would have been well clear. Moseley could probably have covered ten to twelve blocks before the police had shown up, he’d have his ten thousand dollars, everyone would be happy. Instead, he was laying here with a fucked up leg, facing the unnerving prospect of prison certainly, and death a distinct possibility.
Sensing his situation was futile, he lapsed into a vague level of concentration on the room’s television, his eyes half open. Farrington News blared onto the screen, complete with the annoying jingle he had heard so many times before. During the restricted ‘television time’ at San Quentin, Farrington News was an inmates’ favourite for no other reason than the anchorwoman was something of a stunner. A definite nine out of ten. You very rarely heard the actual news when she came on, the catcalls, shouting and whistling were often deafening. He could hear it now though; the top story was something about The Chemist who might or might not have struck again. Having nothing better to do, Tetley gave the screen as much attention as he could muster, actually savouring the sight while he still could.
About a minute into the broadcast something she said caught his attention. What had she said then? Maybe he had imagined it? Glancing at the IV drip, it was nearly empty so he guessed that it would be taking effect by now. But wait, there it was again.
Instinctively, he tried to sit upright, forgetting about the handcuff around his right wrist and the IV drip in his left hand, causing a sharp pain as the metal cuff scraped the skin off the top of his hand, and he had almost knocked the drip stand over.
Had she said Clozapone ?
That rang a bell from somewhere. Where the fuck had he heard that before? He had definitely heard it from somewhere.
It took a couple of minutes, Tetley fighting to remember, battling against the saline that was carousing through his system. Nevertheless, it eventually came to him. He was sure he’d talked to a particular inmate during his time at San Quentin, and he was sure they had talked about Clozapone and its effects that day, amongst many other things. He hadn’t seen that inmate in the six months between that conversation and his parole.
Was that inmate The Chemist? If Tetley was right, that might be just the sort of information that would broker him a deal. Worming his left hand free from the drip, he began to urgently press the call button.
27
So it gave Tetley no comfort to imagine he could expect a minimum of the same level of treatment from these guys. All the IV in the world wasn’t going to make that thought any less painful.
Fucking Jimmy. If they had stuck to the agreed time, they would have been well clear. Moseley could probably have covered ten to twelve blocks before the police had shown up, he’d have his ten thousand dollars, everyone would be happy. Instead, he was laying here with a fucked up leg, facing the unnerving prospect of prison certainly, and death a distinct possibility.
Sensing his situation was futile, he lapsed into a vague level of concentration on the room’s television, his eyes half open. Farrington News blared onto the screen, complete with the annoying jingle he had heard so many times before. During the restricted ‘television time’ at San Quentin, Farrington News was an inmates’ favourite for no other reason than the anchorwoman was something of a stunner. A definite nine out of ten. You very rarely heard the actual news when she came on, the catcalls, shouting and whistling were often deafening. He could hear it now though; the top story was something about The Chemist who might or might not have struck again. Having nothing better to do, Tetley gave the screen as much attention as he could muster, actually savouring the sight while he still could.
About a minute into the broadcast something she said caught his attention. What had she said then? Maybe he had imagined it? Glancing at the IV drip, it was nearly empty so he guessed that it would be taking effect by now. But wait, there it was again.
Instinctively, he tried to sit upright, forgetting about the handcuff around his right wrist and the IV drip in his left hand, causing a sharp pain as the metal cuff scraped the skin off the top of his hand, and he had almost knocked the drip stand over.
Had she said Clozapone ?
That rang a bell from somewhere. Where the fuck had he heard that before? He had definitely heard it from somewhere.
It took a couple of minutes, Tetley fighting to remember, battling against the saline that was carousing through his system. Nevertheless, it eventually came to him. He was sure he’d talked to a particular inmate during his time at San Quentin, and he was sure they had talked about Clozapone and its effects that day, amongst many other things. He hadn’t seen that inmate in the six months between that conversation and his parole.
Was that inmate The Chemist? If Tetley was right, that might be just the sort of information that would broker him a deal. Worming his left hand free from the drip, he began to urgently press the call button.
27
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