“Not like it makes any difference. Even if I could get up and walk, where would I go?”

“I hear you on that. Jail sucks, but trust me, prison is worse.”

 “No shit. They got you sweeping the floors now?”

“Yeah, but I can’t complain. No tube in my dick.”

Heller moved on, going through the motions like he was actually cleaning something.

Lucas looked up at the box-shaped television mounted on the wall in front of him. The thing looked older than him. He missed the television at the regular hospital; having a flat screen and some decent channels when you’re stuck in bed all day and all night made being handcuffed to the bed worth it.

The nurse walked in and announced, “Good, you’re awake. You’ve got visitors.” He left as quickly as he’d arrived, probably going off shift—unlike Lucas and Heller, he got to go home at night. Lucas didn’t get a chance to ask who his visitors were, but he didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The two detectives came into the room. Anderson, the younger and fatter of the two, was first in. He leaned against the rail at the foot of the bed and made sure his big body was blocking the television.

“What are you two doing here? This ain’t your kind of case,” Lucas remarked.

“We’re organized crime. You work for Harry Lee. This is our case.”

“Then you wasted your time. I’ve got nothing but nice things to say about Harry Lee. You all need to quit harassing him. He’s just a misunderstood businessman.”

“Whose driver went all horror movie on two people.”

“Did I?”

“If you didn’t, who did?”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told everybody else. You want to know who killed that white boy and his bitch, I need to be doing my recovery on the outside.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Anderson said.

“You shot at a cop,” Cranston added, “even if you’re cleaner than virgin snow, you aren’t walking away on that.”

“Sure, but then I got shot like six times in the back. They tell me I may never be able to pee right and shit. I think I’ve suffered enough.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“Until you all start being a bit more sympathetic, I guess the murder is going to remain unsolved.”

“We’ve got you.”

“Nah, you don’t and you know it. That razor don’t mean shit, I’m surprised you haven’t thrown Phoebe’s nice ass back in here.”

“Keep her name out of your mouth,” Anderson said.

“Damn,” Lucas replied, managing a smile, “You sound like you’re sweet on her or something.”

“Just watch your mouth, punk.”

“Her name might be in my mouth a lot after you get the charges dropped.”

“Are you saying Phoebe did it?” Cranston asked, drawing a look from his partner.

“Nah, like I said, as long as I’m in here, the murder case stays unsolved.”

“How do we know you even know shit? I told you, give us something, and if it checks out…”

“—I look like some punk? I know how you cops play people. Get me out and I serve up the perpetrator of the Masterson Hot Tub Massacre on a tray like you just got some McDonalds or something.”

“You know, the longer you hold out, the more likely somebody solves this thing without you and then you get nothing for sure,” Anderson said.

Lucas tried to laugh, but it hurt, so he stopped and then told them, “I don’t think I have to worry about that.”

“Think about it, Lucas. This here might be your best chance to get yourself out of this mess.”

“You heard the terms. Come back when you meet them.”

“Your loss, Lucas.”

“Next time, let me know you’re coming so I can call my lawyer.”

“You mean Harry Lee’s lawyer,” Anderson corrected him. “You know he’s just here to make sure you don’t talk about your boss when you’re trying to make a deal.”

“Lucky for me, I know enough I don’t need to say shit about Harry to walk away from this shit.”

“You’d better hope so. I don’t think prison will be easy for a guy like you,” Cranston told him.

“What do you mean ‘a guy like me’?”

“A guy who was getting his ass kicked by a girl the last time he was breathing free air,” Anderson said.

“Yeah, well, I bet she’d kick your fat ass too.”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one going to prison.”

Lucas didn’t have a good reply to that so instead, he said, “I think I want my lawyer.”

“Suit yourself,” Anderson told him. “We’ll be seeing you, Lucas.”

Lucas watched the detectives leave and went back to trying to find something on television. He was flipping through the channels when the door opened again.

He looked over and said, “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. You forget something?”

“Yeah,” the man said as he held up the hand holding a sharpened metal spoon, “I forgot to stab your sorry ass to death.”

Lucas tried to reach the call button but he was too slow. The sharp spoon was jammed through his neck before he could pick up the call button. His jugular vein was severed and blood began to spray. It wasn’t long before a spoon did what bullets couldn’t.