Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [68]
"I got out of the joint way before you did. Remember I left all my stuff for you and Virgil when they cut me loose? I got a job in a machine shop, did my parole, just waiting, you know? A couple of guys I know were going to the Coast. See the sights—fuck some of those blondes out there—check out the motors, right? I get out there and everybody's doing weed—like it's legal or something. I fall in with these hippies. Nice folks—easygoing, sweet music. Better than this shit here. You see it, Burke?"
"I see it," I told him. And I did.
"I get busted with a van full of weed. Two hundred keys. Hawaiian. And a pistol. I was making a run down to L.A. and the cops stopped me. Some bullshit about a busted taillight."
He took a drag of the smoke, let it out with a sigh. "I never made a statement, never copped a plea. The hippies got me a good lawyer, but he lost the motion to suppress the weed and they found me guilty. Possession with intent. Ex–con with a handgun. And I wouldn't give anybody up. They dropped me for one to fucking life—do a pound before I see the Board."
Bobby locked his hands behind his head, resting from the pain. "When I hit the yard I knew what to do—not like when you and Virgil had to pull me up. I remembered what you told me. When the niggers rolled up on me, I acted like I didn't know what they were talking about— like I was scared. They told me to pull commissary the next day and turn it over." Bobby smiled, thinking about it. The smile would have scared a cop. "I turn over my commissary—I might as well turn over my body so they could fuck me in the ass. I get a shank for two cartons—just a file with some tape on the end for a grip. I work on the thing all night long, getting it sharp. In the morning, I pull my commissary. I put the shank in the paper bag with the tape sticking up. I walk out to the yard with the bag against my chest—like a fucking broad with the groceries. The same niggers move on me—tell me to hand it over. I pull the shank and plant it in the first guy's chest–—a good underhand shot. It comes out of him when he goes down. I run to get room. Turn aroundand I'm alonethe niggers took off. I hear a shot and the dirt flies up right near me. I drop the shank and the screws come for me."
"You should of dropped the shank when you ran," I said.
"I know that now—didn't know it then. Things are different out there." Bobby ground out his cigarette on the garage floor, took one of his own, and lit it. "They put me in the hole. Out there, the fucking hole is like a regular prison—it's full of guys—guys spend fucking years in the hole. Only they call it the 'Adjustment Center.' Nice name, huh? There's three tiers on each side. Little tiny dark cells. The noise was unbelievable—screaming all the time. Not from the guards doing work on any of the guys—screaming just to be screaming.
"I was sitting in my cell, thinking about how much more time I'd get behind this, even if the nigger didn't rat me out. I mean, they caught me with the shank and all. Then it started. The niggers. 'You a dead white motherfucker!' 'You gonna suck every black dick in the joint, boy!' All that shit. I yelled back at the first one, but they kept it up, like they was working in shifts or something. And then one of them yelled out that the guy I stabbed was his main man—he was gonna cut off my balls and make me eat them. They were fucking animals, Burke. They never stopped—day and night, calling my name, telling me they were gonna throw gasoline in my cell and fire me up, poison my food, gang–fuck me until I was dead."
Bobby was quiet for a minute. His voice was hard but his hands were shaking. He looked at his hands—curled them into fists. "After a couple of days, I didn't have the strength to yell back at them. It sounded like there were hundreds of them. Even the trustee—the scumbag who brought the coffee cart around—he spit in my coffee, dared me to tell the Man.
"They pulled me out to see the Disciplinary Committee.