Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [67]
"With her?"
"Yeah. Bodyguard work."
"We do that…" he mused, thinking. Bobby rubbed his forehead— saw my eyes on his hand. The hand with the twisted lightning bolts— twisted into something that looked like a swastika.
"You never joined us," he said, no accusation in his voice. Just stating a fact.
"I joined you," I reminded him.
47
BOBBY'S FIRST day on the Big Yard, he was just off Fish Row, where they lock all the new prisoners. A happy kid despite the sentence he was just starting. Not state–raised—he didn't know how to act. Virgil and I were standing in the shadow of the wall, waiting for some of our customers who had miscalculated the results of the World Series. Bobby walked in our direction, but he was cut off at the pass by a group of blacks. They started some conversation we couldn't hear, but we knew the words. Virgil shook his head sadly—the stupid kid even let a couple of the blacks walk around behind him. It was every new kid's problem—they test you quick and there's only one right answer. The next time he hit the yard he'd better be packing a shank—or spend the rest of his bit on his knees.
The whole yard was watching, but the kid couldn't know that. "Take my back," said Virgil, and started over to the group. Virgil was a fool—he didn't belong in prison.
Virgil strolled over to the group, taking slow, deliberate strides, not in a hurry, keeping his hands where you could see them. I was two steps behind—he was my partner.
"Hey, homeboy!" Virgil shouted out. The blacks turned to face us. Their eyes were hot, but they kept their hands empty. The kid looked at Virgil, a blank, scared look on his face.
Virgil shouldered in next to the kid, put his arm on the kid's back, guiding him out of the circle. One of the blacks stepped in his way. "This is your man?" he asked.
"He surely is," said Virgil, his West Virginia accent like the coal he used to mine—soft around the edges but hard enough to burn inside.
"This your homeboy too?" the black guy asked me, sarcasm dripping from his lips. One of his boys chuckled. The yard was quiet—we all listened for the sound of a rifle bolt slamming a shell home, but even the guards were just watching.
"That's my partner," I told him, nodding at Virgil.
"You sure he's not your jockey?" the black guy sneered, forcing it.
"Find out," I invited him, stepping back, hearing footsteps behind me, unable to look for myself.
But the black guy could—right over my shoulder.
"Not today," he said, and walked off, his boys right behind.
I shot a glance behind me—a gang of warrior–whites were rolling up. They didn't give a flying fuck about me personally, but even the off–chance of a race war got them excited. When they saw the black guys walk away they stopped. Stood there with arms folded. They knew, but the kid didn't. He came back over to the wall with me and Virgil and we started to school him right then about what he had to do.
48
BOBBY TOOK a seat on the hood of the Plymouth. "I remember," he said. "You calling in the marker?"
"There is no marker, Bobby. I'm asking an old friend for a favor, that's all."
"The guys you want to meet—you know who they are?"
"Yeah," I told him.
"Say the name," Bobby shot at me, a lot of memories in his eyes.
I put it on the table. "The Real Brotherhood," I said, my voice quiet in the empty garage.
"You didn't say it right, Burke. It's the Real Brotherhood."
"That's how you say it, Bobby."
"That is how I say it. That's how it is."
"I told you I got no beef with them. I just want to talk."
I let it hang there—it was his play. He reached into my pocket and helped himself to another smoke. I saw the pack of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his coveralls—we were still friends. Bobby took the fired wood match I handed him, lit up. He slid off the fender until he was sitting on the garage floor, his back against the Plymouth. The way you sat in prison. He blew smoke at the ceiling, waiting. I hunkered down next to him, lit one of my own smokes.
When Bobby started to talk his voice was hushed,