Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [50]
The first time I went down, I was a kid. In New York, sixteen years old, you're too far gone for another bit in reform school. I came in with a good jacket: attempted murder. But it wasn't enough. One thing good about all that time in reform school—I knew the rules. I did the thirty days on Fish Row by myself. The Prof rolled up on my cell one day—he was the runner. Said, "This is from a friend," and tossed a couple of packs of smokes and an old magazine in my cell. I wanted a smoke bad, but I left everything on my bunk, waiting for him to come around again. I grabbed him through the bars, pulling him close.
"Take this stuff back where you got it," I said to him, nice and quiet. "I got no friends here."
The little man looked up at me. His eyes had a yellowish cast. No fear in them.
"Here's the slant on the plant, son. Don't play it hard when you not holding no cards."
"I'm holding myself," I told him. "You tell whoever gave you this stuff for me that I'm sending it back, okay? And if he don't like it, tell him I'll send it back with interest when I hit the yard."
The little man smiled, not even trying to pull away. "Jump back, Jack! I ain't no wolf, and that's the truth."
I looked over at the cigarettes. "From you?"
"From me, fool. You never heard of the Welcome Wagon?"
"I thought…"
"I know what you thought, youngbbood. Here's a clue—don't play the fool."
"I can't pay you back," I told him. "I got no money on the books."
"Look here, rookie. I've got more time behind the Wall than you've got on the earth. In prison, first you learn, then you earn."
"Learn what?"
"Here's your first case, Ace. Don't smoke the butts. Don't read the magazine. Let it all sit. Don't trust me. When you get into Population, keep your ear to the ground, ask around. People call me the Prophet. I don't stand tall, but I stand up. Take a look before you book."
I let go of him. The little man made his way down the tier, rhyming the time away.
When I got into Population, I moved slow. Asked around, like the man said. The Prophet had some rep. Guys knew him going back twenty years—this was at least his fifth time behind bars. He once did four years straight in solitary for smuggling a gun inside. He hooked up with a guy doing three life sentences, running wild. They took a guard hostage. Got all the way to the front gate when they ran out of room. The guy with him got blown away. The hacks broke half the bones in the Prof's body.
In solitary, they kept at him. Every day, every night. He kept telling them the gun came to him in a vision. Every con in the joint knew where the gun came from…where it had to come from. A guard. And the Prof was too much of a man to give up even one of them.
It took a few weeks, but I finally saw the Prof on the yard. I rolled up on him, keeping both hands where he could see them. The group of men around him pulled up close. The Prof made a motion with his head and they peeled off, giving me room.
"What's the word, rookie?" he challenged me.
I took the two packs of smokes and the magazine from under my shirt.
"You handing them back?" he asked.
"No. I wanted you to see for yourself," I said, opening a pack, taking out my first cigarette in seven weeks. "Smoke?" I asked him, holding out the pack.
"Much obliged, Clyde," the little man replied, a smile shining.
I hunkered down against the wall with him, my back to the yard, watching. Speaking out of the side of my mouth, looking straight ahead.
"I'm sorry for what I thought."
"That's okay, gunfighter. You just a schoolboy in here."
I wasn't looking at him, but he must have felt the question.
"I glommed your jacket."
"How'd you pull that off?"
"You don't have to pay if you know the way," the little man said.
I did three years on that bit. Not a day went by that the Prof didn't teach me something. When it was near my time to leave, he schooled me about how to act in front of the Parole Board. When the Board set a release date for me, he gave me the hard stuff. Straight.
"You're short now, schoolboy. You know what that means? Thirty days to wait, and