FICTION - BABETTE

Peter’s an accountant for a firm in Bevery Hills. Drives a Benz, lunches at the Four Seasons. Small guy, with whipsy hair in a bad comb over, coke bottle lenses in fashionable frames.

In here, though, he’s just fresh meat.

“Guards tell me you’re causing trouble, Peter,” I say.

He sits across from my desk, staring at the floor, three piece suit given up for a state issued orange jumpsuit. I don’t usually take the time to talk with individual inmates. But Peter’s special.

He looks at me, fat shiner around his left eye, glasses cracked, lips swollen from a well aimed fist. “I didn’t do anyfing,” he says. I think he might be missing a tooth.

“Way they tell it, you’re dangerous. They’re calling you Mad Dog out there in the yard. Might have to move you to the violent offenders ward.”

His eyes go wide. I know he’s already had a run in with Babette, a six foot two, pre-op tranny who likes his fun short and squealing. I’m thinking he doesn’t want another.

“I can–,” he starts, goes silent.

“You what, Peter?”

He reaches over the desk for a pen, writes a long number on a Post-It. Shows it to me.

“That’s nice, but you know how this works.”

He writes another below it. Reads my mind, adds a phone number.

“I think I can work with this,” I say. After the guards escort him out I make the call, transfer the funds. Drain Peter of any usefulness he might have had. Then I call down the order to move him.

Babette could use a new bunk mate.