He chose the smallest, an eight-by-ten-foot cement box fronted by a sliding wall of thick, rusty bars. Inside the cell, two cots hung from a moldy wall by chains, one on top of the other. A metal sink sprouted from the adjacent wall. On the floor lay a filthy porcelain platform the size of a notebook, with slip-resistant shoe-shaped pads on either side and a hole in the center: the bathroom. “Same interior designer who did Leavenworth, am I right?” Charlie asked Drummond. Drummond put a hand to his chin and regarded the cell, as if giving the question serious consideration, until Bulcão propelled him and Charlie inside. Disappearing into the corridor, the guard heaved a breaker switch, sending the barred front wall shut with the force of a locomotive. “Supper is at nineteen hundred,” he called over the ringing echo as he disappeared down the stairwell. Taking a seat on the lower cot, Drummond remarked, “Surprisingly comfortable.” He looked underneath for the label, as though contemplating a future purchase.
