When Ryan finished talking, no one said anything for a long moment – so quiet in the office you could hear a pin drop – then suddenly everybody started talking at once, Murphy muttering “Jesus, O’Reily,” and Querns asking “You know what this means, don’t you?” and McManus yelling, “FUCK!” as he whirled around to face the window.
“Yeah, I know what it means,” he replied, ignoring the other two. What else was there to say?
“Then why are you telling us?” Querns folded his hands on the desk. “And why now?”
“Just figured it was time to do the right thing,” Ryan recited, the lie he’d practiced in his cell the night before tasting like cotton candy on his tongue, and probably sounding equally insubstantial. Oh well – everything else was on the table; they could connect the rest of the dots easily enough. Cyril’s death, Seamus’ death, Gloria’s transfer, his mother’s sudden decision to move to Europe, Torquemada’s parole. Well, hopefully they won’t connect that dot.
It didn’t matter. None of it did, anymore – from the moment Murphy took him into that office, all the dominoes could do was fall, and fall they did.
“The right thing?” Querns sneered predictably, and Ryan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Just get on with it already. He fingered the lock of hair in his pocket, twirling it around his thumb.
“Yeah.”
“Bullshit. From everything you’ve just told us, it seems like you’ve never given a thought to doing the right thing the entire time you’ve been here.”
“Jefferson Keane?” McManus said without turning around. “Ortolani? That was you?”
Ryan shrugged, realised it was a pointless gesture, and said, “Pretty much, yeah.”
“You know, I find it interesting that everyone you claim helped you with these murders is already dead,” Querns continued. “Johnny Post. Simon Adebisi. Chris Keller –”
“Howell’s not dead,” Murphy pointed out.
“No,” Querns said dryly, “but God knows where the fuck she is now, and it would be more trouble than it’s worth to try and track her down.”
“Hold on,” McManus said, turning away from the window, “you’re just going to let her off the hook?”
“What do you think?”
“He just told us she killed an inmate. She can’t get away with that.”
“Tim –” Murphy began.
“Don’t Tim me, this is bullshit!” McManus snapped, raising his voice. Querns fixed him with a withering glare.
“You want to go down that road? We can talk about how everything we just heard happened right under your nose. And if you really want to split hairs, maybe we can talk about what else you let Howell get away with.” He turned his gaze towards Murphy, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“That wasn’t me,” McManus muttered. “Leo made that call.”
“Leo Glynn isn’t here. You are.”
McManus stood there seething for a moment (Ryan could almost picture the steam coming out of his ears, like a cartoon) before repeating, “This is bullshit,” and storming out of the room.
“None of the stories you’ve told us implicate anybody living except you,” Querns went on, as if nothing had happened, “and Officer Howell,” he allowed. “But it seems to me that a guy like you would have kept his fingers in all those pies. Everything you’ve confessed to is 5 years out of date at best. What’s happened since?”
“Beats the fuck out of me,” Ryan said. “I’ve been keeping my nose clean.”
“Let me be perfectly clear.” Querns leaned forward. “If this confession goes on the record and you go to trial, with your rap sheet, you’ve bought yourself a one-way ticket to Death Row. But I’m not interested in cases that have long since been closed. I want to know who’s calling the shots now. I want to tell Officer Gutierrez’ widow that we’re punishing the man responsible for his death. And I know that wasn’t you, or you would have included it in your little scalp collection.” His eyes glittered coldly. “Tell me what I want to know, and maybe we can work out a way to save your sorry skin.”
“Like I said, I don’t know,” Ryan replied, “and besides, even if I did, turning snitch isn’t exactly going to make life in Oz much more appealing than Death Row.” He sniffed. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet I’d last longer there. So, you know.” He put his wrists together and held them out, looking Querns dead in the eye. Querns stared back.
“Officer Murphy, leave the room,” he said finally.
“Warden, what are you –”
“I said leave. And go find McManus. Tell him to keep his mouth shut for the time being, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Murphy looked uncertain but did what he was told, casting one last look at Ryan before closing the door behind him.
“Alright, you little shit,” Querns said. “What is it you’re after?”
“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just wanted to come clean. Set the record straight and all that.” He was laying it on a bit thick, he knew, but he still had some rope to cast before the line went tight – plus, the enjoyment he got out of the sour look on Querns’ face was worth a little risk.
“Cut the crap. You might trick those other two sops into thinking you have some kind of death wish, but I don’t buy it. You sit there telling us all about what a mastermind you were all those years, orchestrating almost half the deaths in this prison since 1997, and you expect me to believe that you’re doing it all to clear your conscience? Don’t make me laugh.” He jabbed a finger at Ryan. “You’ve got one chance to tell me the real reason you came in here today, and if I don’t like your answer I’m walking you down to Death Row myself. So I would choose my next words very carefully if I were you.”
“Alright, yeah.” Ryan leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground. “I know who’s running the game, and I know who killed Gutierrez. I also know who’s planning the riot in Unit B – what,” he asked, seeing Quern’s eyes widen, “you didn’t know about that? Huh.” He let the chair fall back down. “What’s more, I know who ordered the hit on Governor Case last month. And I know when and where the second one’s meant to go down.” Ryan leaned forward and smirked. “But I’m not saying shit until you tell me what you’re willing to offer.”
Querns pursed his lips. “What do you want?”
“Parole.”
Querns blinked in surprise, then laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“My original date’s coming up in a few weeks, and I want a shot at the board.”
“Even if I was willing and able to grant that – and that’s a very big if,” Querns said, “you were indicted for conspiracy to commit murder in the case of Preston Nathan. Life plus 40 years. What makes you think the board would do anything but laugh you out of the room?”
“Well, a little birdie told me that after what happened with Ruiz and Alvarez got out, some members of the public didn’t respond so well. Whole board had to be replaced. And that same little birdie let me know that these new board members are pretty amenable to hearing out unusual requests. For the right price, of course.” Ryan drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “And you know, ever since Preston Nathan, on paper, I’ve been flying straight as can be. I think I’ve really learned my lesson, don’t you think?” Querns opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Ryan interjected, “Plus, word on the street is that with Governor Case’s polling average, he’s got a pretty solid chance at being booted out when his term ends next year. Which is a crying shame, if you ask me, but good news for anybody who was thinking of running against him. Who knows? Maybe the same people who might want to put in a good word for me with the board might be willing to put in a good word elsewhere.” Querns shut his mouth and frowned. “I guess you’re right, though – it’s a pretty big if. Maybe we should just call it a day.” Ryan stopped drumming. “You send me to Death Row, call Mrs. Gutierrez and tell her you’re sorry for her loss but it is what it is. Occupational hazard. And maybe I’m full of shit about the riot. And hey, the governor survived the last sniper, he’ll probably be fine, right?” Ryan grinned. “Polling numbers aren’t everything. You like it here, right?”
“You little shit,” Querns repeated through gritted teeth.
“Just putting all my cards on the table, like you asked. If that’s not what you wanted to hear, well, like I said, I’m ready to go when you are.” Ryan tightened the lock of hair around his thumb. “I got nothing to lose and everything to gain. What do you say?”
Neither of them said anything for a long moment – so quiet in the office you could hear a pin drop. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“Now, tell me what I want to know.”
“Ah-ah.” Ryan wagged his finger. “You see what you can do first. I’m not handing over the goods until I see cash.”
Querns leaned back in his chair. “You wanna play hardball?”
“I don’t want to fall on my face the second I leave the plate. If you were in my position, what would you do?”
“Fine. But you’re not going back to Emerald City.” Querns picked up the phone. “Melanie? Get me a C.O. in here.” He hung up and regarded Ryan carefully. “The next time you’re in this office, you’re telling me everything you know,” he said. “Every damn thing. And if anything – and I mean anything – doesn’t check out, the deal’s off.”
“Sounds fair to me.” He had plenty of notes, his own plus the supplements he’d been left – the latter of which contained a couple of aces in case what he’d alluded to already wasn’t enough. “So what, you’re sending me to P.C.?”
The door to the office opened, and Querns smiled cruelly. “Not quite.”
---
6 weeks later, Ryan was standing outside the prison as the gates closed behind him, blinking in the August sun.
He’d spent almost half that time in the hole, and it had felt like double – for a while there, he was convinced Querns had changed his mind, decided to leave him there underground indefinitely, to rot. When the door finally opened, he’d grabbed at Lopresti like a drowning man and got a baton to the side of the head for his trouble.
Querns had come through on his end of the deal; and in return, had drained Ryan of every last drop of information he had. Every word he’d scribbled down during those late night conversations had been necessary, and even then he left the room feeling uncertain.
But 2 weeks in protective custody later (and that had been almost worse than the hole – the anxiety preventing him from sleeping a wink most nights, even with Querns’ agreement that he would wait to act on as much of Ryan’s information as he could until he was out of Oz) he was standing in front of the board in a shirt and tie and his hair slicked back (not that it mattered – he could have turned up in a garbage bag and the outcome would have been the same).
All the dominoes had to do was fall, and fall they did.
5 more days in PC later (exhausted, paranoid, hypervigilant – attention glued to the door, jumping at every sound, nightmares every time he closed his eyes) and he was out.
A clear blue sky, warm light on his face, breeze tugging at his hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.
“Need a ride, handsome?”
Ryan opened his eyes and looked over at – “You can’t be fucking serious,” he muttered to himself as he headed over to the car, the stretch limo that was waiting for him. Not a sleek black one, either: brilliant white, with a painfully reflective gold trim. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded of its owner, whose long torso oozed out of the window in the back. “What is this?”
“My, my. Whatever happened to ‘thank you?’” Alonzo Torquemada had always been...interesting to look at, but Ryan didn’t appreciate until now how much he’d been dressing down in Emerald City – bleach job dyed hot pink, a series of concentric gold hoop earrings (the largest of which nearly touched his shoulders), lacquered nails an inch out from his fingertips like candy-coated claws. Giant white fur coat like he’d skinned a polar bear and left no scraps. “You gonna get in?” he drawled. “Don’t got all day.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Ryan hissed, glancing around – nobody watching, as far as he could tell. “You got the same speech I did. No known criminals. You want me to break the record for fastest parole violation in the history of the state?”
“I don’t see the problem. We paid our debt to society, didn’t we?” Torquemada reached out to touch Ryan’s sleeve. “Nice jacket,” he said, rubbing the leather. “Very butch.”
Ryan pulled his arm away. “And after everything you did – we did –”
“Oh, relax, O’Reily,” Torquemada snapped suddenly. “Nobody cares. Get in the fucking car.” He pulled himself back inside, stabbed repeatedly at a button on the side. “Or walk, for all I care.” The window rolled up, a black mirror between them. Ryan sighed irritably and yanked open the door, slammed it.
“Not very fucking discreet,” he grumbled, and Torquemada rolled his eyes.
“So morose. It’s a celebration, darling. Again, you’re welcome.” He pulled a bottle out of the ice bucket behind him, gold with an ace of spades embossed on the front. “I already opened the champagne, but there’s plenty to go around, so don’t you worry.”
No kidding, Ryan thought as he accepted a glass, watching an identical empty bottle roll across the floor as the limo lurched forward. He waited patiently as Torquemada poured, one-handed, dribbling more than a little bit onto his hand; when he was finished, Ryan switched the glass to his left and wiped his right on his jeans. “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a small sip and pulling his coat tighter around him – the air conditioning was on full blast, a stark contrast to the oven outside.
“Picking you up, sugar. What else?” Torquemada twirled the contents of his own glass. “Would’ve been nice if you’d called. Had to make a couple calls of my own to find out what day to show. And then, of course, nobody could tell me what time you’d be out, so...” He downed the rest of the champagne. “We took a few laps.” He daintily placed the empty glass in a deep tray on the side, then slid over to Ryan, pressing up against him and putting his arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you,” he murmured.
“Mmm, yeah. You too.” Ryan swiftly raised his glass to his lips to avoid the kiss Torquemada was fishing for. Rolling, probably, in addition to the booze. “So how’s the outside been treating you?” he asked as soon as he lowered it. “Everything good?”
Torquemada sighed. “Oh, business as usual.” He straightened a little – still too close, Ryan thought, inching away ever so slightly. “The clubs are a mess, the music is terrible, the fashion is worse. I turned 39 last week, which is one year off from 40, which is basically decrepit. They might as well roll out the coffin now and save us all some time.”
“I’m 41,” Ryan said dryly. “42 in October.”
“Oh, but you wear it so well. Me...” Torquemada covered his face with a gold-gloved hand for a moment. “Well, enough about me.” He moved his hand to Ryan’s knee. “How are you.”
“Great.” He moved his knee slightly, as a test, then stopped when he felt Torquemada’s grip tighten. “Feeling good.”
“Wonderful.” Torquemada removed his hand, reached back for the bottle again. “Got any plans, now that you’re flying free?”
“A couple.”
“Mmm.” He poured himself another glass, filling it to the rim, then drained the dregs from the bottle directly and tossed it on the floor with the other one. “Care to elaborate?”
“Gonna travel. First chance I get.” Ryan looked out the window, watching the buildings as they zipped by – some familiar, some not. The more things change, the more they stay the same. “Finally take that trip to Morogoro.”
“Morogoro?” The limo stopped suddenly. “Fuck!” Ryan glanced back to see Torquemada wiping uselessly at his glittery gold pants, now doused in champagne. “Imbecile,” he hissed, and suddenly flung the glass at the divider. “IMBECILE!!!”
“Hey, hey! Relax, alright?” Ryan looked up front, but the driver didn’t seem to have noticed – or was paid enough to pretend as much. “Have mine,” he said, placing his own glass in Torquemada’s hand. No response, so he tilted Torquemada’s chin towards him. “You good?”
Torquemada simply stared at him for a moment, face blank and eyes unfocused, before his gaze softened and a lazy smile spread across his face. “Peachy.” He pulled Ryan closer, and Ryan let him, dutifully climbing into his lap. “Tell me about Morogoro,” he murmured, one hand on the small of his back, the other stroking Ryan’s cheek with his thumb.
“It’s in Africa,” Ryan replied, feeling the dampness seep through his jeans. Would evaporate quick enough once he got outside, he figured. “A place in Tanzania. They got safaris. Mountains. I showed you before, remember?”
“No.” Torquemada’s finger trailed down, tracing the outline of Ryan’s lips. “You showed me so many places.” He cupped Ryan’s jaw and leaned in; Ryan turned away at the last second, kissing his cheek.
“You wanna come with?” he whispered into Torquemada’s ear, and Torquemada giggled, the sound sending chills down Ryan’s spine.
“You want me to?” Torquemada asked, and Ryan felt him grab his hair, pulling him back up to look him in the eyes. “Hmm?”
“Of course,” Ryan replied, and the lie tasted like poison, a bitter pill that he nonetheless had to swallow.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
“Of course,” Torquemada echoed. “Of course.” His arms dropped to the side. “You were never very good at lying, you know.”
Ryan rolled off his lap without saying anything. What else was there to say?
“I don’t want to go anyway,” Torquemada continued, grabbing a fresh bottle. “Africa wouldn’t suit me. If I want to see exotic animals, I’ll go to the zoo.” He struggled with the cork for a moment. “Or SoHo on a Saturday night.” The bottle popped, bubbles spilling out onto the floor. “Where should I drop you off?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Here, if you want.”
Torquemada pressed a button and mumbled something in Spanish; the limo came to a stop. Ryan reached for the handle of the door –
“You really weren’t going to call?” Torquemada asked softly. “After everything?”
Ryan hesitated – for a second too long. Torquemada sighed. “That’s a no, then,” he confirmed, sounding bored all of a sudden. “How sad.”
“Alonzo –”
“Get the fuck out of my car, O’Reily.” He smiled, his eyes cold and vacant. “Enjoy your freedom.” He raised the bottle to his lips and faced forward, his dead eye facing Ryan. “You’ve certainly earned it.”
---
Ryan walked for a long time with no destination, lost in his thoughts.
I got 12 years to my parole. I wanna be alive to make that parole.
He was never going to make it to Morogoro – he knew that.
The names he traded for his parole all had connections of their own, spread across the city like a web.
Why Torquemada hadn’t seemed concerned about any of that was beyond him; then again, so was almost everything to do with Torquemada.
Part of him felt bad. Most of him didn’t. Another small part felt bad about that part. Ultimately, none of it mattered.
Querns was wrong. But that didn’t matter either.
I'm gonna walk out of here.
He got what he wanted. And in time, he’d get the rest.
I'm gonna survive.
All the dominoes had to do was fall, and fall they would.