Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [9]
The only sounds on the yard were the grunts of the iron–jockeys and the slap of dominoes on wood—and Bones's sad guitar. Then we heard a loud slap; the guitar went silent but the rest of the joint started to hum. The cold gray death–shark was swimming in the prison yard, but the guards on the catwalks didn't know it yet. Men were getting to their feet all over the yard, drifting over to where the punk was standing over Bones, holding the old man's guitar in his hands.
"This thing is nothing but an instrument to play slave music with, old man," the punk leered at him, holding the neck in one hand and the body in the other. "Maybe I'll just snap it over my knee—how you like that?"
"Don't do that, son," Bones pleaded with him.
The punk looked back at his friends for approval, all alone in his power–world now, never seeing the human wall closing around him. I looked past Bones to where Virgil, my cellmate, was closing in. Virgil wasn't raised to take up for blacks, but he'd back my play like he was supposed to when it went down. I hated Bagoomi—or whatever the fucking fool called himself—anyway. His revolutionary mission didn't stop him from raping fresh young kids when they first came on the cellblock.
But I was too late. The ancient guitar snapped across his knee as easily as a toothpick and he held one piece in each hand, his gold–toothed mouth grinning down at Bones. The old man's hand flashed and the fool's smile died along with the rest of him. By the time the guards smashed through the dense clot of prisoners, all they discovered was one more weasel who'd found the only true path to the Promised Land, a sharpened file sticking deep between his ribs. The guards paid no attention to Bones holding the pieces of his guitar and crying to himself. Their investigation determined that someone had settled a gambling debt with the punk, prison–style, and that the old man's guitar had been a casualty of the collection method.
I didn't know Flood when I was doing time—I didn't know there were women like her on this earth. I should have known that when love came to me, it would only be for a visit.
When the blues come down on you this hard, you don't want to be locked up. In prison, I had no choice. But in prison, I never had the blues like this. It was time to hit the streets.
4
I CALLED Pansy down from her roof, locked the place up, and climbed down the stairs to the garage. Sometimes when I get the blues I sit and talk with Pansy, but she was being a real bitch lately. She was in heat again—I didn't want to have her fixed—and every time she went into heat she'd rip up pieces of the office until she got over it. It didn't change the look much, and my clients aren't the particular type anyway.
The docks were quiet—a few sorry hookers hiding empty faces behind cheap makeup, a leather–laced stud hustler not smart enough to know the action didn't start until it got dark, a few citizens late for work. I was looking for Michelle, but I guess she'd taken the day off.
I thought about going up to the Bronx and scaring up the Mole, but I wasn't in the mood for a conversation about Israel today. The Mole loved the idea of Israel, but he'd never go.
Then I thought I'd find Max and go on with our gin game. We'd been playing almost a dozen years now, and he still had every single score–sheet. I was about forty bucks ahead. But the warehouse was empty.
The light at Bowery and Delancey held me up—long enough for one of the bums to approach the Plymouth with a dirty rag in one hand and a bottle of something in the other.
"Help me out, man?" the bum asked. "I'm trying to get together enough to get back home."
"Where's