No Good Deed

Beaten By Anger

In the darkness of his cell, Phillipe Richard crouched on his haunches and put his back against the wall. The block guard called lights out an hour ago, but Richard couldn’t sleep. He hardly ever could.

In prison, most men couldn’t sleep out of fear.

For Richard, it was a simmering anger that kept him up. Just as soon as he’d start to fade into sleep, images popped in his mind. Almost always, it was that little punk Stefan Kopriva. Le fils de pute! Richard saw him over and over, how he tricked a confession from him outside the locker room. Then testifying against him in court. Playing his little tape recording. So smug.

Richard knew he would see Kopriva again.

He wouldn’t be in here much longer.

The lawyer was good and the judge sympathetic, but most of it was simply because he was Phillipe Richard, hockey player. Grand-nephew of Maurice Richard, the Rocket, but he played like Dave “The Hammer” Shultz. On his way to the NHL on the power of his fists before that little piece of merde-

Richard stood, drew a long, deep breath and let it out.

He’d accepted a plea bargain. Three year sentence for manslaughter instead of second degree murder. He had twenty-two months left, counting good behavior.

His cell-mate slept peacefully on the top bunk. Richard stared at him malevolently, jealous of his repose. Todd’s quiet breath filled the cell. The dainty outline of his chin, nose and mouth made Richard grind his teeth. They reminded him of Kopriva.

Mon Dieu, he should not have to stare at that.

He reached out and nudged Todd. The smaller man could roll over and face the wall. If Richard could not sleep, at least he didn’t have to be reminded of Kopriva constantly.

Todd stirred awake and saw the hulking Richard looming over him. His eyes widened in panic.

“No, please! I-”

“Roll over.”

“Don’t hurt me,” Todd whimpered. “I’ll…I’ll do what you want.”

Richard’s lip curled in disgust. “Relax. I am no pede. I just want you to-”

“Please,” he pleaded.

Richard clenched his jaw. He was Phillipe Richard, hockey player. Enforcer. He wasn’t some kind of pervert. He loved women only, not-

“Just don’t hurt me,” Todd said.

Anger flared up in Richard. He reached out and grabbed Todd by the shoulder and jerked him up right.

Todd screamed.

Richard whipped a huge fist into Todd’s face. He felt the cheekbone snap beneath his knuckles.

Todd screeched and thrashed on the bunk. Animal rage flooded Richard and he pumped his fist into Todd’s head like a trip-hammer. He felt like he was on the ice again, gloves and sticks discarded, in the heat of battle. Kopriva’s face flashed before him and he unleashed his hatred into each blow.

Light flooded the block. Richard punched.

Buzzers. Clanging metal. Cries of men.

His fists were wet. And red.

A jolt went through him and his body went rigid. He collapsed to the ground to the clacking, zapping sound of electric current. He couldn’t move.

The current released him. A mass of bodies descended on him, pinning him to the ground. Someone ratcheted handcuffs onto his wrists.

“Oh, Jesus,” someone else muttered.

One of the guards stood him up. Zimmerman. His eyes were round with wonder.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked Richard.

Richard glanced at the still form on the top bunk.

“Jesus, Richard,” Zimmerman said. “You were out of here in twenty-three months.”

“Twenty-two,” Richard murmured, staring at Todd’s collapsed face.

“Well, you’ll do life now.”

Phillipe Richard didn’t answer.