“Card game—my house,” Glen said, tossing his head in the direction of his cell.
In the county jail, or the Skyline Hotel, as it was called, your cell became your house and having other prisoners over to your house had quite a different meaning than your average suburban housewife. I was doing a forty-three day stretch for non-support as a result of my recent divorce. Here I was, a naive kid who'd never been in any real trouble, thrown in with the car thieves, father stabbers, barroom brawlers, murderers and larcenists. They were not exactly the gang of guys I'd have chosen to chum with on the outside.
On the outside, I was a smart-mouth, wise-cracking funnyman who had no problem speaking my mind as I saw fit. Do that on the inside and see what it gets you...Trouble with a capital T.
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