Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📕

his throat six more times over the next fifteen minutes, each attempt equally pathetic, each attempt making his cheeks grow redder.

“So,” Mayweather said, “I hear you’ve been suspended.”

“You’ve got your ears to the rail,” Mettle said.

Wish it were the third rail, I thought.

Mayweather nodded. “I don’t have to listen very hard. People talk. Guards, cops, firemen—we may wear different uniforms, but we all wear the same underwear. How long is your suspension?”

“A month.”

“You paying your bills okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mettle said firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Tell me.”

Mayweather sized Mettle up, his eyes lingering on his biceps. “You ever think of working for the prison? With a build like that, your mere presence would be able to keep the inmates in line.”

“I’d rather shave my head and dunk it in hot glue.”

“You might change your mind,” Mayweather said. “We’ll talk later.”

The door opened and Mettle and I twisted in our chairs. A woman shuffled in, followed by a guard. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit. Her ankles were fettered and her wrists were constrained to the level of her hips via a belly chain. Her hair was black and frizzy, as if she had tried to supercharge a hot pot, but had gotten her wires crossed. Her cheeks were divided into distinct portions, the lines in her face spanning haphazardly into features where they didn’t belong.

She glared at me. “Don’t set me on fire.”

“There’s no glass here, duh,” I said.

Everyone looked at me.

“Obviously, I use the curvature of the glass to concentrate my powers. It’s like a magnifying glass.”

Their eyes widened.

“That was a joke. What’s the matter with all of you? I don’t have any magical powers. No one does. Magic isn’t real.”

“Be careful,” Mettle whispered out the side of his mouth. “The warden went to seminary school.”

Mayweather folded his hands on the desk as if he were about to pray. “Do you know this woman, inmate?”

“No,” she grunted.

He turned to me. “Do you know her?”

“No,” I said.

“This is Charlene Pots. She shared a cell with Phyllis since day one.”

“You mean Goat.”

“Yes. Whatever,” the warden said. He turned to me again. “Sometimes the inmates give each other pet names.”

“I ain’t never heard of nobody having no goat for a pet,” Pots said.

“You know what I mean,” the warden said.

So Pots was the one who gave Phyllis that stupid name. “How did she become the Goat?”

“Just Goat.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said ‘the’ Goat. It’s Goat. With a capital G,” Pots said. “I made her eat the straw out of my mattress. When she bent over—”

“Okay that’s enough,” Mayweather said. He nodded to the guard standing beside her. “Did you find anything in her cell?”

The guard held up one of two plastic bags. In it, was a bunch of orange thread, probably pulled from the prison scrubs.

“Under her mattress, we found a few paperclips and a half-knitted cap,” he said. Then he held up the other bag. It was full of a thick, white liquid that looked like watered-down mashed potatoes. “And some of this god-awful gunk.”

“What is that, inmate? Is that pruno?” Mayweather said. “Because if that is in fact pruno, you are going to lose your recreation privileges for a month. No library, no outside time, no visitation.”

“What’s pruno?” I whispered to Mettle.

“Prison wine,” he said.

I wrinkled my nose. But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take a swig at this particular moment.

“I don’t know how to make no pruno, sir,” Pots said.

“Don’t play dumb with me, you old hag,” Mayweather said, even though he was old enough to be her spouse. “Bring me that bag.”

The guard brought Mayweather the bag. Mayweather took it and squished the mushy mass between his fingers and pinched a chunk and squeezed it to smithereens. Then, utterly fearless, he opened the Ziplock, sniffed, and recoiled.

“God in Heaven, cripes almighty. This smells like you put dirty socks in a blender.”

“That’s my special chowder,” Pots said proudly. “It’s made from cafeteria ingredients. I got folks linin up for that batch. Do you want to try a spoonful?”

“Absolutely not,” Mayweather said.

“You sure? There ain’t no alcohol in there. It’s good ol’ comfort food. There ain’t nothin in the handbook against it. I guarantee a spiritual experience.”

“Did Phyllis give you her secret recipe?” I asked.

“She did,” Pots said proudly.

Phyllis must have been in real trouble. I had practically begged her for the recipe, but she never gave it up.

“I don’t care if she makes wine from blood,” Mayweather said and dropped the bag in the waste can beside his desk. It landed with a loud squish. “And I don’t care if chowder is not explicitly mentioned in the prison Bible, but hoarding cafeteria food and trading it is against the rules, inmate. Understood?”

Pots twiddled her thumbs as if she were playing innocent. “I don’t trade it, sir. It’s free for everyone. All you gotta do is ask me. I was hopin maybe I could get a job in the kitchen one day, so everyone could enjoy my chowder. You think I could do that?”

“Absolutely not,” Mayweather said.

“But you said we’re supposed to find our calling. This is mine. I wanna be a chef.”

Mayweather snorted. “I don’t grant favors to extortionists. We’ve brought you here today for an entirely different matter. You used to be cellmates with one of the recent burn victims.”

Pots glared at me. “Ayuh. Phyllis never got to share her latest recipe.”

“Did Phyllis ever mention anything about this woman?”

“What’s her name again?” Pots asked.

The warden looked to me.

“Rosie,” I mumbled.

“Did Phyllis—”

“Goat.”

“Right. Goat. Did Goat have a grudge against Rosie Casket?”

“Not that I heard,” Pots said.

“You didn’t trade stories of your crimes?” Mayweather asked.

“Of course not,” Pots said. “This is real life, you old fool.”

“Watch your tongue, or I’ll snip it off,” the warden said. “Did you ever see her playing with any kind of fire?”

Pots shook her head. “Nope. But she was fearless of the hotpot. That’s all I know. She used to touch the dern thing with her bare fingers. She showed