PART ONE: OUTSIDE

I hear that you're building your house deep in the desert.
Are you living for nothing now?
Hope you're keeping some sort of record.
--Leonard Cohen, "Famous Blue Raincoat" (Lyrics used without permission)

"So. What is it you actually DO, Toby?"
     The girl--excuse me, *woman*; she has to be his age, at least--is
named Andrea: Bright, chatty, absolutely un-Gen-like in her freckled,
snub-nosed blondeness. Blonder by far than Tobias Beecher himself, these
days: Close-cropped hair still thick but prematurely paled, dull gold
diluted by grey--his already-light eyebrows gone vestigal, almost
invisible. Like someone's leeched the heart's blood right out of him,
starting from the top...
     (And I think we all know *who*, don't we?)
     Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like we could ever FORGET.
     (Even if we--tried.)
     Keller, Christopher, Jesus Christ All-fuckin'-mighty *Chris*, with
his smirking grin and wicked, flirty eyes--a mere memory, though one
whose fallout clings and burns like acid rain. Podmate past, hot dream
deferred. He Who Must Not Be Named.
     (That lying, leg-breaking, Schillinger-sent whore.)
     Single most--make that *only*, really--useful thing Tim McManus
ever did, in Beecher's humble opinion: Pull his head far enough out of
his own drum-tight, supremely hubristic ass to BELIEVE Beecher when he
surfaced in the infirmary, casted on all four limbs and husking the
magic words--
     *Schillinger did this. Keller helped. And C.O. Karl Metzger *let*
them.*
     Ratting. Throwing in the towel. And finally WINNING, one way or
another, just by doing what Vern never thought he had the brains (or
guts) to--accepting his own defeat, and granting credit for Operation
Toby' success where credit truly was due.
     I mean, fuck REVENGE, man. Offer a way *out*...
     (a transfer, for example--maximum security to minimum, Oswald to
Macmillan, with Timmy-boy actually USING those oh-so-potent professional
contacts he always claimed to have)
     ...and Beecher'd have been an even bigger fool than he already felt
*not* to take it.
     (Whatever the cost.)
     Vern's second felony offense comitted while already serving time;
got him slapped with life, no parole, under Jenna's Law. Metzger was
fired, then prosecuted--the jury a scant hour or so away from sending
HIM to Oz, according to legend, when he startled the court by cutting
his own throat with a broken water-glass.
     (A real coup for Court TV, *that* one)
     And Keller...Keller got an extra twenty. Pushed his own parole
eligibility back towards mid-century.
     Beecher had been allowed to tape his testimony, which saved him
having to confront the accused face-to-face. He lay in his infirmary
bed, segregated and protected, and gave himself over to physical
healing, mental forgetfulness. Which, in two Oz-bound years plus of bad
choices--one after another after another--had to be...
     ...the single hardest thing he'd done yet.
     Back in the here and now, meanwhile, Beecher takes a sip of his
orange juice--and wishes to God there was some way he could
telepathically *insert* a shot of vodka inside it.
     "I'm a...paralegal," he answers, slowly. Glancing up at her over
the rim of his glasses, through his once-gilt lashes--that old mock-shy
look, Oz-perfected. Careful to keep his circumcision-sharp teeth in
hidden check, while simultaneously trying hard to inject a note of
genuine human warmth into those faded, chilly blue-grey eyes he meets
every morning, in the mirror above his bathroom sink.
     Andrea, cheerfully: "And I have NEVER known exactly what that
means."
     Beecher allows himself a brief little twist of the lips--hardly
enough to qualify as a smile, even by the most generous standards. And
replies:
     "Basically? It means I get to do all the stuff that REAL lawyers
are far too busy to do for themselves. Draft motions, do research,
prepare and deliver documents..."
     "Sounds sucky."
     He sips, coughs. "'Tis."
     "Hoo. Get all *Shakespearean* on me, why don'tcha."
     Beecher gives her another glance, a bit sharper this time; she
meets it with a wide, Hard Candy Pink Grapefruit lipgloss-colored,
slightly uneven smile--surprisingly free and easy, considering the
subject matter.
     Not to mention *sexy*.
     Fun chick in general, this Andrea. He's glad she asked him out
tonight, glad he came. Even wishes it meant more to him than a possible
bone-jump...
     ...but it just doesn't. And no matter how he might want to--even if
he DID want to--he can't really pretend that it ever could.
     (Finally learning not to lie to yourself, huh, Tobias?)
     About--*some* things, at least.
     Five years out of Oz, two "conditions of parole"-observing years
out of jail, and the sky still makes Beecher nervous, the same way this
wet winter cold still makes his reset joints ache and pull. Everything's
so BIG, so uncontrolled. There are too many rules. There aren't nearly
enough.
     He spends his days at the office, slaving over a hot copier for his
old Harvard classmate, defense lawyer Bill Zettweiler, who never fails
to get in a subtle daily dig about how *lucky* Beecher is to get this
bottom-rung second chance at mastering the legal  profession--his nights
studying Code and pumping iron, keeping his sinews supple while
preparing to appeal his disbarment and retake his exams. Sometime...very
soon.
     (No, really.)
     But: Some nights he can't get to sleep unless he crawl under the
bed and wraps himself tight inside a duvet, because his one-room
apartment seems too spacious, too private, too quiet, too EMPTY after
the familiar see-through din of good ol' Em City. And SOME nights he
locks himself in the closet, just to hear the comforting click of a key.
Just so he can know he's *safe*.
     (Talk about irony in action.)
     Marking time. Distracting himself. It was like that inside, pretty
much, as Beecher recalls--barring the occasional rape or seduction,
face-shitting victory or bone-snapping defeat. And now that he's finally
OUT--
     (at fucking *last*)
     --the main thing that's changed, appallingly enough, is him
occasionally getting to slip between the sheets with someone who DOESN'T
have a matching three-piece set.
     Not that it ever tends to work too well or last too long with
women, of course, Beecher thinks, idly. 'Cause let's face it, Tobe...
     (...you got *issues*.)
     The last woman he actually slept with--a semi-professional met in a
bar remarkably like THIS one, after the rest of the Zettweiler team had
gone home--didn't even ask about the scar on his ass, where that
long-awaited skin graft didn't *quite* take. Beecher guesses he could've
gone back, done it over...but after Oz, he'd found himself less than
eager to spend any more time face-down than was absolutely necessary.
     And then there's Galina Sokol, a junior partner in Zettweiler's
firm, with whom Beecher had an affair when he first joined up: Genuine
attraction (mutual, thankfully), liberally admixed with a newly-released
prisoner's normal urge to re-prove his own essential hetreosexuality.
She'd processed his bonding papers, so she knew his background; had a
sister who was raped, so she'd understood...what there--was--
     (is)
     --to understand.
     Sweet Galina, under her acerbic second-generation Russian
immigrant's hauteur. He'd felt a genuine affection for her--still does,
actually. For all that *he* was the one who finally broke it off.
     *I'm a bad investment,* he'd told her. *Too...damaged.*
     (So don't waste your time trying to fix me.)
     And Galina, studying him with those grave black eyes--dark like
Gen's, he'd only noticed then, with a stab of contempt for his own
addict's repetitiveness--
     (or Keller's)
     --staring at him, sadly, under knit black brows. And replying:
     *Honestly, Tobias? I hadn't noticed.*
     (Still--it's not *my* opinion that really matters here, is it?)
     But: Come ON, Beecher tells himself, even now. All pleasantries
aside, what could I ever offer any woman, in the long term? What could I
offer...
     (anybody)
     ...who hasn't been to Oz?
     An endless round of meetings: A.A., N.A., parole check-ins, custody
hearings. His kids, who avoid him. His parents, who pay him a healthy
weekly allowance to avoid *them*.
      His daughter Bobbi, fourteen now, is going through a Goth phase;
she's dyed her hair pitch-black, and the last time he saw her, SHE
looked so much like Gen that it hit him like a fist to the gut. He had
to excuse himself and flee, cut the visit short--and saw gratitude in
her kohl-lined eyes, when she realized he wasn't sticking around...
     It would have made him cry, except he knows all too well he has no
right to such easy solace.
     Andrea picks at her glass, licks Margarita salt from beneath one
lacquered nail. "So what's your story, hombre? Gimme the thumbnail
sketch."
     Well. *This*--might take a while.
     (Even the expurgated version.)
     Reluctantly, he begins:
     "I, uh, went to Harvard...I've got two children. Married eight
years. My wife--"
     (killed herself, after I drunk-drove over another couple's kid and
wound up in Oz. Oswald Correctional, Em City unit, maximum security jar
full o' nuts, sluts, assorted and sundry murderous
mother/father/podmatefuckers? I'm sure you've *heard* of it)
     "--is...dead. The kids...live with their grandparents..."
     He pauses, unsure just HOW much bullshit he can fit in a
jury-rigged bag. Lawyer--
     (*ex*)
     --or no.
     Finally: "I guess I'd rather talk about you."
     And Andrea, still smiling--still apparently, blithely unaware of
the painful currents behind Beecher's hesitance--replies:
     "Welllllll, I went to--high school, I'm a waitress, I work at this
diner you come into every day..."
     ...toying with the neck of her blouse, as he watches--the sweetly
revealed swell of her cleavage, push-up bra full and city-dweller
pale...
     "...and right now, I'm kinda--wondering--why you don't just take me
home and get busy, like any other normal person."
     Beecher feels his mouth come open a little, genuinely--if
pleasantly--surprised. And thinks: Gee. Ummm...
     ...good question. Seeing as I *am* normal--NOW--
     (*Not*.)
     Yeah, well.
     (Don't have to tell HER that.)

~~~~~~~~~~

So: An hour later, back at Beecher's apartment building--he and Andrea,
careening up the stairs together, arm- and (intermittently)
lip-locked--giddy with drink on her part, simple anticipation on his...
     ...then falling through the front door, giggling and fumbling with
his keys, only to snap on the lights--and find the living room couch
already occupied by a very unwelcome, though not exactly unfamiliar,
visitor.
     "Tobias."
     Beecher draws himself up, carefully. "Officer Jacobson," he
replies.
     Andrea, to Beecher: "*Officer*?"
     Beecher looks at Jacobson, who flashes Andrea a disarmingly "sweet"
smile--
     (fucking *hack*)
     --and explains, helpfully:
     "PAROLE Officer."
     The subtext, readable (symbolically, at least) from a mile away:
'Cause he didn't tell you 'bout *that*, now, did he, darlin'?
      Not that I actually HAVE to, or anything, Beecher thinks. But
that's beside the point, with this guy.
      (As with most of them.)
      Amazed, as always, at the *palpably* prurient interest all penal
system employees--inside or out--seem to routinely take in their
charges' sex-lives. Not to mention the old, sad, utterly true dichotomy:
The smaller the amount of power wielded, the more intensely said
wielders tend to abuse it.
     He sighs, turns to Andrea. And tells her, cautiously--
     "I was paroled from Macmillan, two years ago. Officer
Jacobson...handles my case."
     And with *most* pick-ups, that might very well cover it--for now,
at least. But Andrea here's no hoity uptown gal, as--
     (ugh. VERN)
     --might put it. When you mention local prisons to *her*, she can
probably name relatives in every one.
     "Paroled," Andrea repeats. "What for?"
     "Good behavior, mainly. Plus--extenuating circumstances."
     Jacobson, interjecting, still "helpful": "I think what she *means*
is what did you get sent UP for, Tobias."
     Oh, and thank you so VERY much for the clarification, *Officer*.
     (You asshole.)
     Addressing himself to Andrea again, pointedly ignoring Jacobson--
     "Vehicular manslaughter. Twelve years, parole in three."
     "That's a big hitch. Max security sentence, right?" Then, sounding
it out: "But...Macmillan--"
     "I transferred there." Pausing, as she studies him, before
completing the sentence. "After I did two years in--"
     (Oz)
     "--Oswald."
     Mmm, and look at Jacobson grinning now, nice and wide, as Andrea
*goggles* up at Beecher, frankly awed by the admission: Up at his
greying hair, his good coat, his glasses. His *suit*. Like: And you got
OUT? *Alive*?
     (...barely.)
     "Well..." she says, finally. "I really gotta go home now, Toby."
     Jacobson, hands behind his head, trying to catch Beecher's eye--and
grinning, grinning, grinning. Better than TV, ain't it?
     As Andrea turns for the door--then offers back, over her shoulder:
     "...see you tomorrow?"
     "Sure."
     A little smile, a tiny wave. And the door, shutting behind her. As
Beecher thinks--
     Yeah, uh huh: *Sure*.
     (Because YOU really gotta go home--and *I* really gotta find
somewhere else to eat breakfast, from now on.)
     Now that you KNOW me. Who...
     (and *what*)
     ...I am.
     He turns himself, starts shrugging off his coat. As Jacobson
comments, idly:
     "Well, SHE sure tore outta here with her pants on fire, didn't she?
And not the *good* way, either."
     'Cause you better not tell me you were actually thinkin' you might
get LUCKY tonight, ToBIas. TO-by.
     (Pussy-boy.)
     And: Well, fuck you too.
     "Hope you weren't waiting here long," Beecher says.
     "Oh, half an hour, somethin' thereabouts." Jacobson rises,
stretches--easily attaining, and revelling, in his ex-cop's
oh-so-superior height. "You been drinking tonight, Tobias? 'Long with
all that--*other* celebratin'?"
     "Nope."
     "Wouldn't be lying to me, now, would you?"
     Beecher hisses through his nose, slowly--then throws Jacobson back
a narrow, pitiless glance, something perilously close to the *civilized*
version of a good, old-fashioned Em City quad eyefuck.
     Smiling, sunnily. And replying:
     "No. But seeing how you seem a bit disinclined to just take me at
my word--why don't you violate me, make me take a breathalyzer test, and
find out for yourself?"
     Jacobson makes a little moue, fake-hurt.
     "*Toby*. Buddy! Wouldn't kill you to be a little nice, y'know."
     Implication translation: 'Cause...from what I hear, you CAN be.
     Oh, and is *that* all you really want, Officer? Beecher thinks, his
hitherto-repressed anger building to a spillover-bright white heat. You
want me to be NICE?
     (I mean, you've obviously seen my record--so why don't you haul
down your fly, and see for yourself how NICE I can really be?)
     They stare at each other for a moment, game face to game face;
Jacobson's the one to break contact, with a smirk and a wink. Victory to
Beecher...not that it matters much.
     "Be good, counsellor."
     Beecher lets his lips peel back further, smile becoming an
incipient snarl. "Always am."
     (When I'm not running over little children--or biting the dicks off
of stupid-ass P.O.s like *you*, motherFUCKER.)
     Then the door shuts yet AGAIN, and he's left alone with his
thoughts, his angry *non*-thoughts. His aimless rage, duelling for
control with the lust Andrea stirred up in him earlier--not aimless at
*all*, and still sparking along his fisting hands, his thin-pressed
lips, the locked and humming cage of his pelvis. Gritting his teeth, and
telling himself:
     Early day tomorrow, like always. Get undressed, get cleaned
up--notes by the bed, weights under it. Law & Order re-run on at eleven,
then sleep...
     (or)
     ...yeah. OR.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Then it's later, jump-cut fast--up against the wall of an alley behind
the bus shelter where he caught this guy's eye and thought: Receding
dark hair, strong profile, good build. Obviously *interested*, the way
he's staring back--half shy, half defiant. Cruising for a...whatever.
     (He'll do.)
     Feeling himself stir--the werewolf, waking, beneath his silk-weave
suit and tie. Holding the guy's stare as he slips his glasses off, folds
them deliberately and stows them away--then fades into the alley,
back-first. Like a silent DARE.
     (You *up* for this--BUDDY?)
     Well, I guess *so*.
     And now, winding his arms under the guy's and flipping him back
against cold brick, colder concrete, glass crunching beneath their
shoes--startling him with his own vehemence, though not in (as Jacobson,
that fuck, would no doubt say) the BAD way.
     Nose against nose, hot and sweaty, kissing *deep* and using his
newly-freed teeth. His painfully re-"civilized" shell cracking open all
at once, peeling away like a scab to reveal the unhealed wound that
forms his REAL personality: Beech, Beech-ball, Bitch-er.
     And the guy, amazed, amused. MOANING.
     You wanna be on top, bitch? Beecher thinks, dizzily. *Wrestle* ya
for it.
     He remembers telling his court-appointed psychiatrist, back when
they were still making him go to one--same woman who specialized in male
post-rape trauma, and told him one of its "normal" side effects was
promiscuous, self-destructive same-sexual interludes--
     (ah, yes--SO different from the *drunken*, promiscuous,
self-destructive HET sexual interludes I used to indulge in during
the...pre-Kathy Rockwell era...)
     "I just hope you're protecting yourself, Tobias," she'd said,
weirdly prim. And he'd replied, without even a hint of visible irony--
     "Oh yes, Doctor. I'm--*protecting* myself."
     Because: No one gets close. No one even tries. And, in actual
fact--
     (--*I*'m not the one who ends up NEEDING protection, most times.)
     Plainly, simply--but hardly plain and simple--Beecher's experience
in Oz has made it impossible for him to look at male sexual attention as
being anything BUT potentially violent. It turns him back into feral
Toby, prag from Hell--and since he can't be that outside of Oz, which is
where he wants to stay, he tends to keep a pretty tight day-to-day lid
on those *particular* responses. But he misses the freedom of it, the
madness--the wonderful release of NOT FUCKING CARING--
     So when he *does* hook up with men, it's equally brief, but far
more violent. Reverent and deferential with the gals, out of control
with the guys. Pure blowing off steam, either way.
     No softer emotions. No twists or ties. Nothing lasts for long--
     (or should)
     Beecher closes his eyes now, recklessly, and lets the fantasy
unscroll. This guy's face dissolving, blending into that lurking
mnemonic shadow that underscores every (male) pick-up...
     Closing his eyes, breathing that breath. Hearing those words, soft
on his tongue. That lovely lie.
     (I--love you too. Toby.)
     Uuuugggghhh...
     Keller, in the laundry room--that cheek against his, that hipbone
under his hand, with no guards, no prying eyes. Or in the gym, pinned to
the matt; sweat and strain and tension, built and released. That
transfigured grimace.
     Lying back, letting go. Willingly giving him what Vern had to take,
every wrenching, disgusting time.
     Five years on, and Beecher still uses other men's hands to help him
jerk off to the image of Christopher Keller, the man who hurt him deeper
than any other mistake he's ever made. His *favorite* mistake, to coin a
phrase.
     Still, as fetishes go, it's safer--by far--than any of the...other
alternatives.
     (For example...)
     That one time he'd been dumb enough to pick up a large, stocky man
with close-cropped hair--some married man, some *Daddy*, some
truck-driver passing through, all blue-eyed and blue-collared. God only
knows what HE'd said, afterward--in the Emergency Room--
     *Yeah, Doc, that's right. A man in a suit. With *glasses*.*
     Not some wild dog, some rabid animal. Some...
     (monster)
     Perfectly decent guy, probably--well, who knew? But just a
garden-variety, semi-closeted manly-man who liked getting pinned and
skewered every once in a while, letting a smaller guy climb on top for
once--and paying the price, *this* time, when memory swept over Beecher
like a hot red wave, making him think he was riding someone...entirely
different.
     (Want me to leave MY mark, sweetpea? Can't really--REACH--my
*lighter*--)
     He'd bitten that unfortunate son-of-a-bitch right in the shoulder,
where it would show to best advantage--then fled after the man bucked
him off, cursing. Slammed the truck's back door behind him and ran out
into the snow, slipping and sliding, flagging down the very first cab he
saw...
     But: Beecher pushes THIS guy away now, too hard. Sees his head hit
the bricks, watches him wince. And tells him, breathless--leaning in,
much too close to misinterpret--
     "You're not gonna fuck *me*, cupcake. But if you're REAL nice..."
     ...voice dropping to a murmur, a sly, hot sussuration against the
vulnerable inner ear--as he runs one hand down between the guy's legs,
simultaneously, confirming his own suspicions...
     "...I *might* be persuaded to fuck YOU."
     And thinking, coldly, as the guy's eyes roll back in his
head--aroused, amazed by such unexpected *good luck*:
     Works every time. Just like--
     (Keller. And me.)
     Well. And who says lawyers can't learn anything?
     He grabs for the guy's lips again, and tastes his ragged whisper.
     "...got a place?"
     Grinning back: "WAY ahead of you."

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Beecher's alarm goes off at five; he drags himself
into the bathroom, flips up the toilet lid. And only remembers about
that GUY he just left sprawled out asleep in his bed--
     (Mr no-name, one more in a string of no-names)
     --when he has to peel the used condom still attached to his dick
off, before he can start to pee.
     Shaking his head, as he reaches in to turn on the shower:
Hahhhh...Toby, Toby, Toby.
     (you fuckin' slut)
     Yeah, yeah. And stay the hell out of my head, sleepy or
not--VERNON.
     Hosed down thoroughly, Beecher re-emerges ten minutes later,
rubbing his hair dry-- then pauses to sniff, suspiciously. Is that,
could that be--
     (--coffee?)
     Yup.
     Plus the guy himself, sitting up across the table, all bright-eyed
and bushy-tailed: Smiley-face Sam, Tom, Dick or Harry, looking
fairly--DIFFERENT, now Beech sees him with his glasses back on, and
*without* the hormonal buzz modifying his visual input--
     (not much like Keller at all, now he comes to think about it)
     The guy offers Beecher a cup of fresh-made joe, offputtingly at
ease around the kitchen supplies, like he's expecting to...*stay*, or
something. And says, cheerily:
     "Hi!"
     "...hi."
     "Last night was--really something, huh?"
     And: Was it?
     (Not *bad*, exactly. Considering it all kicked off at a BUS stop.)
     Beecher shrugs, sits down. Takes the coffee--so he has something
besides his guest's gratingly eager face to look at, basically. And
mutters--
     "Sure."
     But does the guy get the hint? Nuh-ho.
     "So..." A pause. "Will I, um...see you again?"
     Beecher puts the cup down again and stares at him, feeling his
eyebrows hike in open mockery: You're KIDDING, right?
     Nice, fine, innocuous--blinking back at him, in the clear light of
day, all receding hairline and mild, worrylined eyes. Probably teaches
grade school somewhere, determined (if not exactly CONTENT) to keep his
dick *firmly* in his pants unless someone as crazy as Beecher--
     (USED to be)
     --hauls it out for him, under high-octane "romantic" duress.
     Studying him, now, with those puppy-dog fucking eyes--so *shocked*
by Beecher's apparent lack of interest. Like: Hey, gee. I feel kind
of...USED...
     Well, what did you expect, buddy? I *did* use you. Let you use me.
     I don't go looking for LOVE in dark alleys, man.
     (Or anywhere else, truth be told. These days.)
     "Who's Chris?" The guy asks, suddenly.
     Which makes it Beecher's turn to pause, his heart's temperature
sinking to sub-zero. And think:
     Well. Who indeed.
     (Who *was* that masked man?)
     Oh, just some guy.
     (Like...YOU, actually.)
     He raises the coffee, finishes it in one final swig. Wondering,
wearily, why--or when--he learned to be such a...*bitch*, quite frankly.
And knowing the answer, from start to finish, long before his mind's
even done forming the question.
     (Why, when. Where. And from WHO.)
     Then rising, turning away--towards the bedroom, where his clothes
await. His tie, his shoes.
     (His *suit*.)
     "I need you to be gone by the time I come home," Beecher tells the
guy, careful not to let himself look back. "Just pull the door to, when
you're ready to leave. And by the way--there's nothing here worth
stealing, so don't bother to search."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Galina meets him at the office door, her arms full of files. "He wants
to see you, Toby. Now."
     Next stop, Zettweiler's office, where the air's already blue with
cigar smoke--yet another alpha dog affectation his old school pal likes
to cultivate, to the annoyance of colleagues, co-workers and smoke
alarms alike. His toupee's looking extra-greasy this morning; must've
combed it out and mink-oiled it for that real high-gloss, high-CLASS
sheen.
     And: I swear to Christ, those are the same zits he had back at
Harvard, Beecher thinks. How can a man have the SAME ZITS for *fifteen
years*?
     (Well, if anyone COULD...)
     "Heeeey, the Tobe-ster," Zettweiler sings out, looking up from the
eviscerated ruin of his daily newspapers. "Howya goin', pally? Keepin'
busy?"
     "Oh, you know."
     "Man, *don't* I!"
     Beecher nods, conjuring a matchingly meaningless grin. Thinking:
     But not quite busy *enough*, I guess. Since you've obviously got
something...in MIND for me.
     "Great," Zettweiler says, nodding aimlessaly. "Yeah, great, great.
Galina tell you 'bout this thing she's got goin' down at Oswald,
skipper?"
     (Ah. NOW I get it.)
     Beecher, cautiously: "This would be...Anton Saldek, right?"
     Saldek, junk bond king and crooked banking executive, prosecuted
"to the fullest extent of the law" under the state's stringent new RICO
statutes: Fraud with intent, grand larceny, organized crime. Several
twenty-plus sentences, all running consecutively.
     Got put in Em City, of course--starfucker McManus, hard at work
keeping his pet project in the headlines. Because Beecher *does* take
note of the comings and goings amongst that particular cellblock's
population, every once in a while. Whenever the mood hits him.
     "You got it." Zettweiler lights a fresh stogie, then continues
filling in the blanks. "Saldek claims a guard jumped him, beat him down,
then lied about it. Fractured his skull in three places. We're pursuing,
on the family's behalf."
     "Excessive force?"
     "To start with."
     Beecher frowns. "I'm not sure how I can help you here, Bill. Seeing
as I don't actually--*know* Saldek, or anything."
     (Just like I don't know a LOT of the people. Even in Oz.)
     What do you think--they send us a fucking alumni newsletter, or
what?
     "No, I know you don't, Toby. But you *do* know our star
witness--guy name of..."
     And: Oh. *No*.
     (Be SERIOUS.)
     "...Keller?"
     (I'm psychic.)
     Galina in the doorway behind him, just visible through the haze.
Her eyes soft with sorrow, with understanding. Trying not to show it,
though--*too* overtly. Trying to leave Beecher just a tiny, LITTLE bit
of--
     (dignity)
     Dead voice, numb tongue. And the name, shaped through white lips:
     "Chris...topher."
     "Yeah, that's him." Zettweiler pauses. "You DO know him, right?"
     (...riiiiight.)
     "He used to be my...cellmate," Beecher replies. Equally slow.
     (Among other things.)
     But *was* he, really? Was he ever ANYTHING more than that?
     And Zettweiler, Bill--Billy No-Balls, they used to call him, behind
his back, at those keg parties where Beecher did all *his* serious
cramming. 'Cause the guy couldn't open his mouth in class, half the
time, or finish a sentence when he DID.
     Zettweiler, cigar in hand, blowing a huge puff of smoke his old
frat brother's way--and grinning, still, with the unbearable smugness of
someone who knows *just* which spot to press, even on a man covered head
to toe in scar tissue. And saying:
     "Well, even better. You'll be able to tell if he's lying."
     Galina takes a breath, short and sharp. While Beecher takes a
MOMENT, freeze-framed--a long, long pause before the necessary words can
even begin to form, let alone become real enough to *speak*.
     "Oh, yeah," he says, at last. And starts to laugh, hysterically.

PART TWO: INSIDE

Despair and Deception, love's ugly little twins
Came knockin' on the door--I let 'em in
Darling, you're the punishment for all my former sins
I let love in, I let love in.
--Nick Cave, "I Let Love In" (Lyrics used without permission)

Inside...
     ...the "normal" Oz-bound routine for Em City Unit Inmate Keller,
Christopher, as of these last five years: Count, morning shower, bad
eggs and soggy bacon for breakfast, followed by an eight-hour shift
humping paper and running the copier in the library. Meatloaf again for
dinner. Gym time: Free weights, punching-bag, fifteen minutes of b-ball
(shirts against--literally--skins, with Vern Schillinger's ideological
grandkids practically falling over themselves to all eyefuck him at
once). As long a shower as he can get away with, followed by an equally
long session spent grooming, checking, making sure his shit remains as
correct as his charms remain (thus far) ageless; hair mostly gone in
front, grey everywhere else, but his body's tight as ever--brows still
darkly arched, blue eyes still half-hooded and--
    *shameless, you're so fucking *shameless*, Chris*
    A brief shiver, throwing that ghostly little memory-voice--high and
tight, raspy with unshed tears and drunken self-hatred--off with a brisk
shake and a splash of Old Spice. Then free time 'till count, shooting
the shit with what few of his fellow Others still survive; chess with
Augustus Hill, maybe a game and a half, as Em City's feuding factions
find momentarily detente in the TV bank's hypnotic glow. Verbal sparring
about nothing in particular, observation, negotiation, flirtation...
     *Jesus, don't you ever STOP?*
     ...followed, inevitably, *by* count, lockdown, reflexive sex with
his nutbucket cellmate, Jason Cramer--the one guy in this whole
glass-walled bin with an even worse reputation for being pulled around
by the dick than Keller himself. Followed by sleep, REM-sleep. Dreams,
if he's lucky. And if he's not--
     (memories)
     Tobias Beecher, limbs snapped, retching with pain--his broken body
pinned beneath Chris's and flopping uncontrollably, cracked hips spread
unnaturally wide, like a parody of consummation. And then that awful
sense-memory sliding--with hallucinatory ease--straight back into the
cling and strain, the muscular ache and groin-to-groin spark of any
given wrestling session, every pod-bound comfort-and-grope two-step. The
laundry room, with Toby's too-clean taste in his mouth, his spit
sheening Chris's own wicked lips: So fine, so brave, SO crazy. Knowing
all too well what it might cost him, but taking the risk anyway.
     (Man. The guy really MUST'a been some kinda nut.)
     From what Chris had since gathered, though--as even Ryan O'Reilly
might be driven to admit, apparently, if only he weren't quite so busy
striking that constant "Hey, I ain't no fag, pal," pose of
his--Beecher'd offered almost everybody he'd run across a similarly soft
place to fall, for most of his first year in...just as long as
circumstances (or Ryan's "free" snorts of horse) conspired to keep him
high enough not to ask for much in return.
     Which adds another memory-voice to the chorus, intruding
mid-thought. Vern Schillinger, rumbling sourly--
     *Huh. That little freak always was...easy.*
     (The unspoken subtext being: But then, we all knew THAT.)
     And yeah, easy--that's it, you hit him at his best. Even after all
he'd already been through, plus all the extra work Chris'd had to put in
on--
     (breaking him)
     Tense little Beech, sweet lips held stiff behind that rancid
roadie's beard, eyes always narrowed to wary slits of gold-rimmed blue
'cause he couldn't see much further than the end of his own snub nose.
Stalking around in a haze, rage-driven and rhyming--but so desperate for
a friendly voice to tell him things could still somehow be the way he'd
always thought they were, back before Vern's rough handling and ruthless
"re-education", he'd practically *purr*, you just took the time to pet
him the right way...
     Chris grins to himself, sidelong, in the dark: Ooo, THERE's a
picture.
     Leading to so many *other* pictures, all equally nice--and
useful--when you're all alone in a pod somewhere, with (almost) nothing
but your hand between you and the looming thought of eighty-three more
years of this shit to go: Beecher--Toby--uncurling, stiffly, beneath
Chris's expert gentling. Relaxing far enough to give a hesitant
snort-giggle at Chris's constant stream of self-*de*-pre-CA-ting jokes,
to even crack a few sly one-liners of his own in return--
     Allowing himself to stretch his spine and hike his hips on the
wrestling mat. Allowing Chris to lay hands on his soft underbelly and
feel the muscles beneath the flab flutter with contained tension.
Letting out a long, slow breath, sweat sparkling in the tight waves of
his nape...letting himself bend before Chris's gaze, not longer afraid
to seem weak again, *soft* again...
     'Cause you're safe with ME, Tobe. 'Cause--I'm your *friend*. Right?

     (Riiiight.)
     Even at his worst, though--bottle-bleary, literally broken--Beecher
had an unsuspected steel core, like a spring. He bounced back, GAVE back
as good as he got, and more...and never made you pay for it, either.
     (Not like *some* people we could mention.)
     Yeah, well.
     Once a week, Chris has himself a session with Sister Peter Marie,
who continues to probe his invisible wounds with a deft and expert hand.
The same questions, regular as mass:
     *So, tell me--do you feel BAD, Christopher? Responsible? For what
you did to Tobias?*
     And Chris, parroting back his established answer, utterly
straight-faced--
     *Oh, sure do, Sister. Suuuuure do.*
     No, really. I mean it.
     (*Really*.)
     Meeting her tired eyes head-on, her half-quirked brows with his
own, fully quirked ones--and musing, as he did, for neither the first
nor (no doubt) the last time:
     Well, c'mon--we both know I don't exactly feel proud about my part
in Operation Toby. But then, what did I *ever* feel proud 'bout my part
in?
     (Not much.)
     Inflicting fresh new pain on someone who'd already had more than
enough, the stark emotional betrayal Vern Schillinger's revenge plan
demanded probably more of a wound, all told, than the gym's four short,
sharp shocks. So yeah, now he came to consider, it probably DID make him
feel bad. *Responsible*, though?
     That was a whole 'nother story.
     (Tool don't feel guilty over how it's put to use. A gun got no
particular grudge against whoever ends up gettin' shot.)
     And since Vern and Toby had basically started this poison snowball
of theirs rolling long before Chris ever revved his bike towards that
convenience store, let alone sauntered through the Em City gates, his
own brief part in their little vendetta had been almost,
kinda...incidental.
     (Almost.)
     Which was something else to consider, in itself.
     "Hearing" a fresh voice added to the mix, now--Sister Pete's
oh-so-reasonable tones, asking the classic therapist's question: *And
how do you feel about THAT, Chris?*
     (Don't know. Don't care.)
     *Don't *want* to know, you mean.*
     (...that too.)
     So many reasons for his participation, and all of them far too
plausible to deny. His debt to Vern. The thrill of the chase. Cat and
mouse, with two cats and no mice: Jungle-black panther to Beecher's
pedigreed pussy, playing predator or prey as the chips fell, or the mood
took him. The master seducer, gradually seduced--as ever--by the process
of his own seduction.
     Chris closes his eyes, and loses himself in a moment's dream of
what might have been. Pictures himself sprawled full-length between
Toby-baby's spread, straining legs, finally getting to acquaint
him--from the bottom up, so's to speak--with the fact that your ass can
be something other than just a socket for someone else's plug...a whole
erogenous zone of its very own, excitingly unmapped territory, just
waiting to be discovered.
     The smell of both men's sweat, slowly mixing into one musky, mutual
scent. The rasp of blond fur aginst dark. Muscles working, sturdy on
lithe. Coiling and uncoiling.
     And the noise, that *noise* he knows Beech would make as he eased
himself in at last, inch by careful, spit-drenched inch. A long,
whimpered gasp--the sound of someone arming himself against pain, only
to be amazed by pleasure.
     Christ, he can almost hear the damn thing now.
     *Uhhhhhuuuhhhhhh...*
     (Ahhhrrrrr.)
     But that's bullshit, and Chris knows it. That ain't where he is, or
what he's doing--or what he's *gonna* be doing, any time soon. Warm
thoughts aside, HIS life is gonna stay restricted to the same routine he
just got done with: Sleeping, waking, working, fucking, lying, sleeping,
waking again. Oz, bay-bee, and nothin' but.
    With every other breath spent forcing himself to not even speculate
about the next day, or the next, or the next one after that: Make-work
and memories, meaningless sex, bad fuckin' dreams. All this "free" time,
and no one worth sharing it with--'less you felt like wanting to hang
around with old Bob Rebadow, and get an instant human preview of exactly
what you can expect from the rest of your life. Your life, doing life,
FOR life...
     Chris turns over, shoves a pillow between his knees, bears down
hard. Tells himself, at the same time--fiercely--
     Shit, just try and keep a fucking GRIP here, Chris. I mean--ain't
like you ever really *loved* the guy...
     And his own voice, finally--echoing as if filtered by distance,
down the empty space of five long years:
     *I NEVER loved you. Not *ever*.*
     Long ago and far away, just like the STAR WARS trailer says. But
not far enough to make the words not hurt, by fuckin' half.
     (Never far enough for that.)
     Not like they even ever knew each other, really, him and
Toby--Beecher. Not THAT well. Not *really*.
     (Nope.)
     And certainly not like he's ever likely...
     (...to see the spoiled little Yuppie son-of-a-bitch again.)

TO BE CONTINUED
in PART THREE