We are delighted to welcome back author Trey R. Barker to Omnimystery News.
Last month we had a conversation with Trey about his new crime novel No Harder Prison (Down & Out Books; March 2016 trade paperback) and he subsequently gave us the backstory to the origin of the book. Today he has generous provided us with an excerpt from it, the first two chapters.
— ♦ —
WHERE THE HELL IS MY MONEY?" Pacing, Noverto Griego clutched a cigar.
"That money's —" The man sitting behind the screen, his face lit by a deep blue, cleared his throat. "That money's pretty much gone."
"I know that." Sweat broke on Griego's forehead as he continued to worry the cigar. "Who are you?" Griego's voice was quiet, barely a whisper in the office.
From a shelf, Griego took a small box. Inside that box was a never-fired Beretta 92. He'd only taken it out of the factory-direct packaging and cleaned it a few days ago. He hefted the pistol but stared at the numbers on the screen. "I got fifteen shots here, whoever you are."
"Dana had fourteen, didn't he?" the man asked.
"Ten of those to the guy's face. Wasn't much face left."
"He gets out tomorrow, right?"
"Tomorrow."
"This his doing?"
The cigar began to split open. Griego nodded. "Yeah." He touched the gun barrel to the computer screen. "Call Stefan, tell him I gotta job for him."
"Dana getting his own ten shots?"
The cigar broke. Tobacco spilled to the desktop, then to the carpet. "Right now, all I want is my money back."
CHAPTER 2
When doors close, they close forever.
First day, first words, from the first guard he saw.
Twelve years ago and it had been Captain Woburn. He'd said it as the men had gotten off the bus, giving them each the same smug grin. We know the real score, that grin said, And you ain't even worth the shit on our shoes.
Somewhere down the mainline, a door slammed. Somewhere else, hard to tell exactly where in a concrete-lined hallway, someone laughed at someone else's yelp.
Usually, Dana Oldham could ignore the cries. Having heard the hurt ten thousand times, every day and night for twelve years, the anguish had become part of his brain. When he'd first arrived, convicted of murdering a gas station attendant, he had crossed himself and said a prayer for those who cried out. After six months, he'd just crossed himself. Six months after that, there was nothing but the brutalized inmate as background music.
But tonight he heard the cries again.
Because tonight was it. Last night in. Tomorrow at sunrise and a free man walking out.
Nearby, another cell door closed.
The beaten and the wounded he had learned to ignore, but that sound — that metallic bang, like a sheet of iron smashing down over someone's head — he had never been able to shut out. The bang, then the whir of the electric lock, and then nothing at all except all the time in the world to replay the bang in your head.
"No more." His words stumbled into the walkway. "Enough is enough. No more." Dana rattled his cup against the bars. "Now. Now."
"Hey, nigger, shut up." Anonymous voices from everywhere on the line, the first one or two for Dana. Beyond those two, the voices yelled just to yell. "Shut up, Reggie, I'll whittle your ass right out." "Yeah? Get your nigger ass over here." "Oh, the wetback boy shouldn't'a said that. It'll come a beating."
Dana fell back from the bars. Stupid, he thought. Not once, in twelve years, had he called through the bars. Now everyone was shouting and threatening and most were looking for a piece of Dana's innocent tomorrow.
Damn near none of them were innocent, no matter what they said. He was but it didn't matter that a prosecutor had hidden evidence for re-election, it didn't matter that the police hadn't investigated beyond the first name they found. None of that mattered because when the doors close, they close forever. And if they open again, it's one of two things: freedom or death. And sometimes there was no difference.
The calls and jokes, threats, the songs and whispers piled atop each other until only one voice was discernible. It crept from the dark and slithered along the walkway until it stood outside Dana's cell.
"I need it pretty bad, Dana." There was a long, empty sigh. "Why you think they moved me outta your cell? Maybe somebody snitched."
Dana ground his teeth. "It was me, Trexler. You smell bad."
Trexler laughed. "Educated man's always got a smart answer. I know what's in your head, Dana, you can't hide it from me. You scared. You been scared since the first night. 'S why you came to me. Because I could protect you. Mmmmm, now you say you done got me tossed. Guess you don't need my protection anymore."
"Trexler, I'm tired of your mouth. Find somebody else to stuff it with."
"Zebra's getting some guts." A random voice from far down the mainline.
"I am not a zebra," Dana shouted.
"Sure as shit are, boy. You black and you white. Eighteen-inch dick and no rhythm."
Laughter rang down the corridor.
"No, he's more the cracker than the darkie. He got a four-inch dick and all kinds'a rhythm."
More laughter.
"You ain't never talked that way to me before, Dana. But you can make it up to me. Yes, sir." Trexler chuckled. "Stop by tomorrow. We'll fix it. Understand?"
Dana squeezed the bars. Squeeze hard enough, he thought, and they'll snap.
"Better get your ass in bed, Zebra, you gotta day tomorrow. Getting out and leaving us behind."
Trexler went quiet then, but the rest of the wing continued to drown beneath its own noise. Eventually, Dana heard the weak laugh hidden in the middle of it all.
"See what you started?" The voice's owner chuckled. "Christ, you got 'em all worked up. It'll be hours 'fore they go to sleep."
"Yeah. I don't know what came over me," Dana said.
"Yeah, you do."
Dana held his tiny mirror outside his cell until an old face slid into it. "Ennis. You have a good day?"
"Any day I ain't six feet under is a good day."
A voice exploded from somewhere in the darkness. "I need some pussy and I need it now."
"Shut up, brother," someone called. "You ain't never had no pussy you didn't pay for, just be glad you got Lilly in that cell. Tell him to put his pretty little ass up against them bars, I'll slide on over."
In the mirror, Ennis' head moved slowly side to side. "Animals."
"Yeah, they let the good prisoners go over to Block B."
An old joke, worn down by years but it was comfortable, like an old pair of shoes.
"Ennis? You don't sound so good."
"Good? Hell, I been in here thirty years. How good you think I could be?"
"Hey." Another random voice. "Dana, you listening, boy? I got some friends wanna make sure they find you. How's that sound? Get some friends over, have a little party. I mean, you ain't been too friendly with them, they're feeling a little neglected."
Across the way, men stood with arms draped out of cells, cigarettes or mirrors clutched tightly, bottles of illicit booze held easily, as though there weren't a care in the world. How many had laid down the bets, Dana wondered. "Five to one against?"
"'Bout what I hear," Ennis said. "But I got my dimes on you."
Dana chuckled. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you lost every bet you've ever made in this place?"
"Yeah, I keep betting on the good guys."
Dana saw it at the last second. A small black thing, flying through the shadows. When he jumped, his hand caught between the bars and pinned his wrist backward. He yipped as the flying thing exploded.
"Dana? Dana? You okay?"
His wrist thrummed. Wetness, maybe blood, soaked him. A few cons cheered.
"Dana? Damnit, boy, answer me. You dead?"
Beyond his wrist, there was no pain. "I don't think so, Ennis." His wet shirt stuck coldly to his ribs like a second skin. "Idiots."
Ennis snickered. "Water balloon?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe surviving that makes those odds a little better."
It was crazed, men betting on death. It was the chaos of money changing hands over the possibility of a man getting shanked in the breakfast line or beaten in the shower.
Dana stuck his hand through his cell toward Ennis'. When Ennis' hand came out, Dana held it desperately. "I'm real scared right now."
"I know."
"I'm not going to make it."
"Yeah, you are."
"They're going to kill me."
Ennis was silent after that. The man had bet his dimes on Dana but did he really think he would collect? Did he really think Dana would make it through the day?
Because Dana sure as hell didn't.
— ♦ —
Photo provided courtesy of
Trey R. Barker
Trey R. Barker has published hundreds of short stories, plays, poems, and thousands of articles as a former journalist. Currently, he is a sergeant with the Bureau County Sheriff's Office, and an investigator with the Illinois Attorney General's Internet Crimes Against Children task force.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at TreyRBarker.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
— ♦ —
No Harder Prison by Trey R. Barker
A Crime Novel
Publisher: Down & Out Books
Two hours out of prison and already someone is shooting at Dana Oldham.
Dana has traded the stain of "convict" for the freedom of "wrongly convicted." But before he can get home, his car is shot up and the shooters demand the return of $50,000 Dana swiped from a gun runner. To punctuate their demand, they shoot his niece.
But Dana hasn't stolen anything, and as the amount of stolen money rises, so does the violence directed against him.
— No Harder Prison by Trey R. Barker. Click here to take a Look Inside the book.
