Protection by Danielle Page A

morning.”
    “Oh.” McCrory stared at Gabriel, then sighed. “I’m hopeless, aren’t I? Right. Tell me why.”
    Gathering his winnings – a pile of loose cigarettes – into a battered old tin, Gabriel made a dismissive noise.
    “Come on, Gabe. Please. I want to know what you think,” McCrory insisted. “I respect you.”
    Gabriel’s hands stopped gathering Pall Malls. He straightened so suddenly, Joey put his letter aside. Something about Gabriel, about his abrupt readiness, reminded Joey of that frozen moment before Gabriel plunged the nail in Paulie’s eye. But when Gabriel spoke, his tone was mild.
    “You don’t respect me.” Sweeping the last cigarette into the tin, Gabriel resealed it.
    “Of course I do.”
    “No, you don’t. Nor do you want to hear what I have to say on the matter.” Gabriel’s face went cold.
    McCrory appeared so stunned, so helpless, Joey almost felt sorry for him. The guard, no more than thirty, had watery blue eyes and a weak chin. Despite his broad shoulders and considerable heft, there was something childlike about the man, now that Joey took the time to see him.
    Gabriel’s stern look softened. “Bill. You’ll never play poker worth a damn ’til you learn to take risks. It’s always the same – you never raise unless you’re sure and you’re always too timid to call. As for a poker face – Jesus, pigtailed girls playing Old Maid are tougher to read. The entire story of Bill McCrory is written across his mug.” Gabriel pointed at the guard with his dog-end. “Including whether he has a bad hand and why he sticks his nose in my cell every night.”
    Joey caught his breath. He didn’t know how to intervene, or if he should try. He wasn’t even sure Gabriel was truly angry, or if he spoke harshly only to make himself understood.
    “I – it’s nothing personal,” McCrory said, drawing in his breath. “But it’s a rule. Prisoners are not permitted to—”
    “Prisoners are not permitted to wager more than one pound sterling’s worth of goods in any single game of chance,” Gabriel snapped, quoting the Wentworth Prisoners’ Handbook. “What do you think we just did? Shall I run to Governor Sanderson and bleat about how you and Buckland tempt me into wickedness?”
    “I never mean to tempt—”
    “And I never meant to tempt you,” Gabriel cut across him. “If you want what I have so badly, go and get it! But I’m sick to death of you spying on me, hoping to get a peek at what you haven’t the guts to try!”
    McCrory sucked in his breath. For a moment he stared at Gabriel. Then he squared his shoulders and left without another word.
    When they heard his heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs, Gabriel turned to Joey. “And now I just bet the whole goddamn pot. Why did you not stop me?”
    “Not sure I could have.” Joey forced a smile to hide how shaken he was. Plenty of inmates shouted at guards, insulted them, took a swing at them. And those inmates always paid the price, either overtly or by more subtle means. “How did you know? About McCrory, I mean.”
    “Ah, well, you play cards with a man long enough, you learn who he is. At first I didn’t understand. Not ’til I realized he couldn’t look you in the eye. Thirty years old, no wife, no girl I ever heard of. I should have guessed sooner.” Gabriel sighed, passing a hand over his face. “And spoke gentler.”
    The overhead lights snapped off. “We still have ten minutes!” someone bawled. By Joey’s watch it was fewer than five, but he’d been at Wentworth long enough to understand the sentiment. It was hard to feel like a man when bedtimes were enforced and sometimes changed on a whim.
    “Joey. If McCrory comes back with the lieutenant governor, say I forced you. Beg for a transfer to a different cell block,” Gabriel said. “’Twill save you from the lash. We can mend things later.”
    Joey couldn’t see Gabriel’s expression in the sudden darkness, but he could imagine it.