By breakfast time the next morning, Diego had reviewed all the evidence, and had begun to form a strategy.

Crescend had waited until Diego was safely out of the way before he made a move on Machi. That meant he rated him as some kind of threat, at least. Crescend had been present the day he charged Tigre and kneed his balls back up into his belly, so he knew that Diego could still do damage, given the right circumstances. More than that – the incident with Tigre had shown Crescend that stroke or not, Diego was still a crazy reckless bastard, second only to Yanni Yogi in how little a fuck he gave for his own safety. Maybe more so, since now he had even less to lose than when he was healthy.

Yes, Diego mused as he chewed a slice of rubbery toast, ignoring the moist crumbs gathering in his beard, he could work with that. The reputation he'd earned over the last eleven years would carry him quite a bit of the way. True, he no longer had the strength to back it up, but he still had one hand that could crush, and that might be enough. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. After all, he'd been an attorney once – bluffing was what he did best.

Diego slid his gaze over to where Crescend was sitting. The tricky part would be choosing when to approach him. If he threatened or humiliated Crescend in front of witnesses, then Crescend would have no choice but to kick the crap out of him. And then Machi would go after Crescend. But if they were alone, Crescend might hold off, and if he didn't, there would be nobody to go running to Machi to tell him all about how Sharky Five-Oh beat the daylights out of his daddy. The problem was, Diego couldn't think of a single time or place when he might be alone with Crescend.

Diego looked up at his dining companion. Machi was staring at Crescend. He only wore a faint scowl on his face, but there was a darkness in his eyes, like the sky before a storm. Diego finished his toast. He would find a solution.

xxx

Diego almost missed him as he stood in front of the dryers, folding clothes as usual. He didn't know what made him look up, but when he did it was just in time to see Crescend pushing one of the big trolleys around the corner to where the clean clothes were sorted. Diego didn't know why Crescend had been switched to the laundry room for work detail, and he didn't care. He smirked. That old whore Lady Luck had a heart of gold after all. He went on with his task, waiting for Crescend to come back. When he reappeared with the trolley, Diego paid careful attention. Crescend stopped a few feet away from him to load up the trolley with folded clothes. He didn't even glance in Diego's direction.

Diego pondered the fact that Crescend hadn't paid him any attention, even a fleeting, wary look to make sure he wasn't going to try anything. Maybe Crescend didn't think he was a threat after all. Of course, in that case the turnabout would have an even greater impact when it came. Maybe Crescend was bluffing – hoping Diego would think twice about approaching him if he showed that he didn't rate Diego as a danger.

There was also a chance that Crescend simply believed that Diego wouldn't take any action, no matter what he did to Machi. That eating together, walking the yard together and spending time in the music room together was one thing, but the cripple actually going to bat for the kid was another. They shared no gang or mob affiliation, they certainly weren't from the same family or neighbourhood. Their allegiance was an attempt at safety in numbers, born out of their common status as easy targets. What else could it be? There were, after all, no friends in prison.

Diego concentrated on folding clothes, mentally noting the number of times Crescend made his rounds. No matter what, his only choice was to go on the offensive. The only question was to what degree, and to answer it, there was something he first had to find out.

Machi was silent all through lunch, but he wasn't giving Crescend any more dirty looks. He stayed at Diego's side as they were turned out into the exercise yard. Diego butted him gently with his shoulder as they began their first circuit, and got a weary smile in return. The darkness had receded from Machi's blue eyes, and Diego felt some of the tension in his chest start to ease.

They took a breather after three and a half laps. Diego picked a spot in the sun near the fence, and Machi sat beside him. Diego glanced at him briefly. He'd been thinking about how to ask his question all morning, and he hoped that Machi would understand. He nudged the boy with his elbow. When Machi looked up at him, Diego pointed to his bandaged fingers. Then he held his arms in front of him, bent at the elbow. He curled his fingers slightly and then wiggled them while moving his hands from side to side.

For a moment Machi simply frowned in puzzlement, and Diego tried to think of another mime that might work better. Then Machi's expression changed to one of understanding.

"The doctors say I play piano again," he replied. The shy smile he got when he played for Diego appeared on his face. "Only long bones broken. Knuckles okay, nerves okay."

Diego took a deep breath and let it out slow. He returned Machi's smile and squeezed his shoulder. It was a relief to know that the boy wasn't permanently crippled, or even just crippled enough to stop him playing the instrument he loved. In a couple of months he'd be whole again, and have all the hope and joy he had before. And it would be easier for him to resist the urge for retribution, especially if Diego managed to warn Crescend off in the meantime.

Not to mention it made Diego's job a lot easier, now that he didn't have to mangle Crescend's hand to make things even.

xxx

Diego waited a week before he made a move. It gave him time to figure out the routine of the laundry room. He'd worked down there before the stroke, loading and unloading the washing machines, and he'd been at his current station for a few months, but he'd never bothered to pay attention to who else was there and when they came and went.

He'd known that Gant folded clothes with him. Even now, at nearly eighty years old, he had a presence that was impossible to miss. His prostate trouble meant he was allowed three or four bathroom breaks, and his age meant he took his sweet time getting there and back. Gant claimed he had arthritis, but Diego wouldn't have been surprised if the old man was bullshitting as an excuse to dawdle. Gant hated work detail, you could see in his face that he thought it was beneath him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Ha…! Thirteen years into a life sentence for murder, and he still behaved like the whole thing was an outrage.

The particular bank of dryers where Diego folded clothes was separated from the rest of the laundry room – and any witnesses – by the back of the store room where the detergents were kept. The wall and dryers formed a narrow corridor, open at each end. Sometimes a guard was stationed nearby – usually after someone got jumped in the out-of-the-way space. But everything had been quiet lately, and Diego and Gant were left to their own devices. On a typical day Crescend made at least one trip with his trolley during each of Gant's breaks. He came in at one end, carefully manoeuvring the big trolley around the corner, passed behind Diego, collected the folded clothes left neatly on top of the last dryer, and then turned the corner at the far end, bearing his freshly-laundered cargo back to the rest of the laundry room for sorting. Exactly the same every single time.

There was only one thing that bucked the routine. Portsman had the job of loading and unloading Diego's bank of dryers, and he did it without any rhyme or reason. He'd come down with too many wet clothes and start overloading the machines. Or he'd come down with too few, and divide them up equally among the dryers. Then he'd arrive with another load and fidget and whine because all the dryers were going. Diego couldn't really blame him for being addled. Portsman had deteriorated badly since he was imprisoned. He'd turned to the small group of incarcerated law enforcement members for support at first. Badd and Marshall wanted nothing to do with him because he'd murdered a detective. Diego distanced himself because he hadn't needed allies, and if he had, Portsman would have been a poor choice. Yogi didn't give a fuck, even though Portsman was his cellmate. Then he'd tried to get in with the criminals by bragging about icing a cop, and when they'd laughed and beaten the shit out of him, he'd finally gone crawling to Gant. The ex-police chief was insulted at being left till last, and disinclined to take such an obvious target under his wing…at least until Portsman went on his knees. But Gant's influence had been on the wane for some years now, and Portsman skittered around the prison like a kitten in a warehouse full of rocking chairs, paranoid about where the next hit was coming from.

His unpredictability created a problem, but after much consideration Diego decided it was a minor one. If Portsman walked in on his man-to-man with Crescend, he was too cowed and jumpy to say anything smart. And he had no allies to tell who might give Crescend a hard time about the cripple making him his bitch, except for Gant…who wouldn't see the point in causing trouble over something that didn't affect him. With that final complication accounted for, Diego set his plan in motion.

There were five stages to laundry detail – sort, wash, dry, fold, and sort again. At the start of the morning, everybody sorted. Bedclothes, stripes and underwear all went into separate piles, and when the piles were big enough half the group began to load the washing machines. Diego continued to sort the laundry while the first of the machines finished their cycles. He watched as Portsman went down past the store room and disappeared around the corner to load the dryers. Diego kept his eye on Portsman when he came back, and followed him when he went down with his next load.

He kept his distance while Portsman unloaded the dryers. The former prosecutor was twitchier than usual, and Diego wondered if somebody had menaced him over breakfast. Gant shuffled down just as Portsman finished loading up the last dryer with more wet clothes.

Diego set about folding the dry clothes. Two dryers away, Gant began to do likewise, but after fifteen minutes he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Diego didn't look up, but he knew what that meant, and sure enough, within a few minutes Gant shuffled away. Diego heard him call out to the guards that he needed to take a leak. The stage was set – Diego was alone, the dryers were at the beginning of their cycle. All he had to do was wait for Crescend.

The minutes ticked by. Diego began to worry that Crescend wouldn't be down before Gant returned – or worse yet, that he'd been assigned to some other task and he'd missed his opportunity. But then finally he heard the rumble of a trolley, and seconds later Crescend arrived around the corner.

The trolley he was pushing had a wobbly wheel, and Crescend struggled to turn it, cursing under his breath. As he moved down to the last dryer, Diego crept up behind him. Crescend took his hands off the trolley to pick up the folded clothes, and Diego grabbed his little finger with his good hand and bent it back as far as he could.

Crescend let out a yell, then quickly smothered it with his free hand so as not to draw the guards' attention. Diego made sure his body was as close to Crescend's as possible, and when Crescend turned his head he actually jerked back a little, frightened by Diego's proximity to him. "What the fuck?"

Diego released the pressure on Crescend's finger for a split second and then reapplied it. Crescend gasped, shoving his fist back into his mouth to keep from making any more noise. Diego already knew he wouldn't be able to break Crescend's finger, but he could flex it, sending little pulses of pain down the bone and into his hand. Crescend glared at him, but didn't try to pull away. Understanding was dawning on his face.

"What, Tobaye can't jerk you off the way you like it now?" he growled. "Boo fuckin' hoo." Diego flexed his finger again. This time Crescend grimaced, a strangled little sound escaping through his clenched teeth. He swallowed, regaining his composure, and glared at Diego. "Look, I don't wanna have to hurt you, old-timer, so how about you let me go? That little snot-nose doesn't need you to fight his battles."

Diego applied a touch more pressure on Crescend's finger.

"Shit, gimme a chance!" Crescend hissed. "I got proof."

He lifted up his shirt with his free hand. A mosaic of bruises, slowly fading to green and yellow and brown, lay along one side of his ribs and spread down to his stomach.

"See that?" Crescend growled, a note of contempt entering his voice. "Yeah I smashed his fingers up. And he kicked the shit out of me. You really thought he was in the hospital all that time? Little fuck was in solitary."

If there was one thing Diego had learned, at an appalling cost, it was that when justice was served, you had to let it go. The licks Machi had dished out would cover his broken fingers, assuming the docs were right and they healed properly. He stopped flexing Crescend's finger, but kept a tight hold of it.

"You wanna let me go now?" Crescend snapped. "I got work to do."

Diego jerked his head forward, aiming to headbutt Crescend with his visor, but pulled it at the last second. Crescend flinched away, and Diego raised his bad hand, splaying his index and middle finger apart. He pointed them first at his visor, then at Crescend's eyes.

I'm watching you.

He whipped his good arm and released Crescend's finger, as if he was throwing it down. Crescend took a step back and turned to the last dryer, keeping his eyes on Diego as he picked up the folded clothes.

"I'm sick of him and I'm sick of you," he spat. "Walking around like you're such hot shit. You're a fucking cripple and he's a snotty little brat. Don't forget it." He finished loading up his trolley and pushed it around the far corner.

The rest of work detail passed without incident. Crescend threw Diego a brief glance the next time he went by, but after that he ignored him. Diego was satisfied. Machi had fought back already – he would be less likely to want revenge, once his fingers were healed. And while Crescend had probably intended his final little rant to be threatening, it had come out like the whine of a petulant child. He'd gotten Diego's meaning, even without words.

It wasn't until lunch, when he was trying to negotiate his fish sticks without smearing tartar sauce in his beard, that Diego realised Crescend was jealous. Jealous because even the cripple and the brat at least had each other for company. Jealous because he used to be able to find common ground with the other prisoners by kicking Diego around, and now nobody did that any more. Diego glanced over at Crescend, sitting at the end of a table full of criminals, staring at his meal while he ate. It had never occurred to him to wonder who might have taken his place at the bottom of the totem pole.

xxx

The weeks stretched into months, the days getting longer and the weather getting warmer. Machi's fingers healed just fine, and the look of pure joy on his face when he played again for the first time filled Diego with relief and happiness. But every now and then he would see a shadow in those sky-blue eyes, and he knew he would have to stay on his guard.

xxx

"What day is today?"

Diego stirred. Someone was shaking him awake. He groped for his visor and put it on.

"It's Diego's birthday!"

Machi smiled at him, bathed in the morning sunlight. Diego screwed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. He rolled out of bed and shuffled over to the calendar. It couldn't be. Already?

But yes, there it was, the day marked with sticky tack. Diego took a deep breath and blew it out. Machi came up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Is big birthday?" he asked. "How old are you?"

Diego shook his head and waved him off. Age was meaningless when you were missing five years and your body felt like it belonged to an old man. He went back to sit on his bunk.

"Then I guess." The boy was so enthusiastic, anyone would think it was his birthday instead. "…Sixty?"

Diego looked up at him, offended. A sly smile spread across Machi's face.

"…Ninety?"

Diego smirked and flipped him off. Machi practically bounded over and sat on the bed beside him.

"I need to know, for cake."

Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of Diego's mouth. He held his hands up in front of him, spreading all his fingers out.

"Ten," Machi remarked. Diego curled his hands into fists, then spread his fingers out again. "Twenty," Machi said. "Thirty. Forty. Forty-six."

Diego nodded. He lowered his hands, resting them in his lap. Forty-six. He should have a wife and kids by now. He should be trying to make partner, or running his own law firm. He thought about his parents, his father working two low-paid jobs and his mother cleaning rich people's houses so that their only child could be a professional and have a better life. He was glad they had died before they saw how he'd squandered all their hard work.

Machi saw the change in his posture and expression, and rested a hand on his back.

"Is Sunday," he said hopefully. "Maybe you get birthday card today. Or visitor."

Diego smirked briefly and shook his head. He saw Machi looking at him in surprise and turned his head away.

"…No?" Machi's voice came out small and sad. "Not even today?"

Diego shook his head again. What the hell was up with this sudden heat in his face? He'd known for years that he would die in here, alone and forgotten, without a soul on God's green earth to mourn him.

The blanket rustled as Machi shifted closer, and he moved his arm up onto Diego's shoulders.

"When I finish my jail, I come and visit," he murmured. "Then you have visitor."

Diego gave a small sigh, and shook his head. Don't make that promise, kid. The best thing you can do is forget this place and go on with your life.

"I will."

The sudden vehemence in Machi's voice surprised him. Diego turned his head. Machi was gazing up at him with a look of almost offended determination.

"In Borginia, a man keep his word," he said fiercely. "If I say I come, then I come."

Diego stared at him, wracking his brain for a way to express the difference between a headshake that meant No you won't, you little liar and You don't have to do that, kid. Machi continued before he could even try.

"You believe me?"

The intensity in Machi's blue eyes startled him. Diego felt hope brushing up against his soul, and was torn between embracing it and shutting it out.

"You think I forget you," Machi murmured. He lifted his arm, and Diego flinched when he felt Machi stroke his hair. "Like everyone else. But you my friend, Diego. I never forget."

Diego looked away. Really, this lump in his throat was ridiculous.

xxx