Dog Eat Dog (27 page)

“Yeah. They’re tryin’ to give him life for stealin’ a tire off the back of a truck. He’s fightin’ it like a murder beef. He says they may get him, but he’s gonna cost ’em a million before they do. It said in the
Times
they’re gonna build twenty more prisons in the next ten years. They oughta put a fence topped with barbed wire around the whole motherfuckin’ state.

“Oh, yeah, you know Sluggo?” Vidal continued.

“I know three of ’em, two Mexicans and one crazy honky from Louisiana.”

“The peckerwood—Sam whatever his name is. He was in here the other day. He’s hooked on junk and been boostin’. He had one of those MAC whatever, those little stubby semiautomatics, not very accurate but they fire a lotta lead quick as you can pull the trigger.”

“I know what they are.”

“He said if they’re gonna give him life for shopliftin’, he might as well get it for robbin’ banks and killin’ cops. They changed him the wrong way. They took a shoplifter and made him a maniac. I love it,” Vidal said. “I love the fuckin’ chaos.”

“What about you? How many strikes do you have?”

Vidal shook his head and held up thumb and forefinger in a circle denoting zero. “Where you staying?”

Troy shook his head.

“You ain’t homeless, are you?”

“I don’t have a spot, but I’m not homeless. I’m going up north and see Big Diesel Carson.”

“The fighter?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, I remember that fight in the lower yard on Field Meet Day … him and that nigger. What was his name? Spotlight Johnson?”

Troy nodded. Vidal rocked back and forth in his laughter. Then came a light knock on the door. In the TV monitor they saw Tootie and the waitress, Delia. She had a tray with their drinks.

Vidal pushed a buzzer under the desk and Tootie pushed open the door. Delia came in and put the tray on the desk. “Who gets what?” she asked.

“The bourbon’s here,” Troy said.

She had to lean over the desk to put it in front of him. Vidal was looking at her ass. “Oh, my God, so fine. I’m gonna have a heart attack!” He grabbed his chest in mock pain. Tootie laughed and Troy smiled. He was looking into her eyes. Was she saying something without speaking?

“Delia … Delia … oh, baby,” Vidal said.

She turned and smiled and shook her head. “Vidal, stop it. You know Chita is my friend.”

He threw his hands to the air. “What am I gonna do? What would you do?” he asked Troy.

“I dunno … but I can sympathize.”

“I’m leaving,” she said—but as she opened the door and it blocked Tootie and Vidal, she winked at Troy in a way that was either invitation or he was crazy. Then she closed the door and was gone.

“Hey, Troy … she asked about you,” Tootie said. “She’s interested.”

“She’s got a fine brown frame, no doubt of that,” Troy said.

“She’s got
tres
,” Vidal said, holding up three fingers and meaning three children.

“Damn, I only expected two,” Troy said.

“I just thought I’d tell you.”

Troy grinned and winked. The gesture said whatever Vidal read into it.

“What about Jimmy Baca?” Troy asked. “Have you seen him since he beat that murder beef?”

“Yeah. He’s got cancer … in the liver.”

The statement made Troy’s heart jump a beat. Jimmy Baca! He was the toughest man Troy had ever met—and Troy had known many of the toughest men in America. None were tough as Jimmy. All men were mortal, but it was hard to think that Jimmy’s body would betray him. His mind had never done so.

“He’s not that old,” was all he could say.

“I know,” Vidal said. “It’s a bitch. Sonny Ballesteros—”

“That’s my pal,” Troy said.

“Yeah, I know. He’s got it, too, but they say he’s gonna make it okay.”

Death and cancer in friends were not what Troy wanted to think about, although they had taken his mind off Mad Dog for now, and when he thought of Mad Dog again, the horror would have slightly faded.

They were silent as they drank from their glasses. Through the walls vibrated the sound of banda.

“What’s happenin’ in the joint?” Tootie asked. “Give us some news.”

“They finally killed Sheik Thompson.”

“They got his ass, huh? Oh, man, what a fuckin’ animal he was,” Tootie said.

“Sheik Thompson?” asked Vidal. “Should I know him?”

“You should know about him. But I think he was in Folsom or Vacaville when you were there. He was some kind of throwback.”

“A nigger?”

“Yeah … they made the word nigger for fuckers like him.”

“How’d they get him?” Tootie asked.

“He was coming out of the coach’s office. Slim and Motormouth Buford, they broke his leg with a baseball bat, and when they had him down, they cut his throat.

“Check this,” Troy continued. “They busted ’em right away, and took ’em to the Captain’s Office to question ’em. Later on, when it was time for lockup, every convict in the joint was lined up, and they bring Slim and Motormouth out of the Captain’s Office, taking ’em to the hole. Every convict in the yard started cheering and applauding ’cause they killed Sheik.”

“I know Motormouth,” Vidal said. “Little black
vato
, used to be key man in the South Block.”

“That’s him,” Troy said.

“How come everybody hated Sheik so much?”

“’Cause the fool wasn’t human,” Tootie said.

“Lemme tell you about him,” Troy said. “He used to work in the stone quarry, up that road you can see from the lower yard. It’s about two miles and it’s got a little grade. He used to run to work with some little sissy on his shoulders. On Field Meet Day, when they used to have that, he used to run the four-forty, eight-eighty, and the mile … in the morning. Then in the afternoon, he would fight for the middleweight, light heavyweight, and heavyweight title. Sometimes he’d get a boxing lesson, but
nobody
ever knocked him out. He had the worst attitude.”

“Yeah,” inserted Tootie. “He used to spit in people’s faces.”

“That’s dangerous in prison. And they stabbed him so many times. Mapa hit him in the head with a weight bar, hit him so hard it popped one of his eyes out—it was hanging by some kind of tendon. They tucked it back in and three weeks later he was on a fight card. Death Row Jefferson and a couple others jumped him with shivs. He beat the shit out of all three of ’em—and then went out and testified. Death Row Jeff went to Death Row for it. That’s where he got his nickname.

“Then there was the fight he had with Johnson, in Folsom. It was around behind number-one building, and three gun-towers opened up on ’em. They were gettin’ hit with thirty-thirties and thirty-ought-sixes … and they’d get knocked down by bullets, and jump up at the other guy. Johnson bit Sheik’s ears off—and swallowed ’em. When they finally broke it up and got ’em to the hospital, the loudspeakers asked for blood donors. Not one dude in all of Folsom would give Sheik any blood. They went over and said they’d give Johnson some blood, but fuck Sheik Thompson. Except one guy who was HIV tried to donate, but after they checked him they didn’t take it.”

“It’s funny I never heard of him,” Vidal said.

“He was probably in Folsom when you were in Quentin.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Vidal glanced at his watch. “Me and Tootie gotta go take care of some business pretty soon. You can stay here and party, you can come with us …”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Troy said. “I gotta get on the road myself.”

“Where you gonna spend Christmas?” Tootie asked.

“Up north, ’Frisco.”

“You’re coming back down, aren’t you? This is hometown, right?”

“Uh huh. I’ll be back next month sometime.”

“Man, I’m glad to see you,” said Vidal. “Lemme give you my card.” From the desk drawer, he pulled a business card from a stack fastened with a rubber band; he passed it over to Troy, who put it in a shirt pocket, said his good-byes, and departed. As he came out of the short hallway into the main room, he stopped and looked around. Delia was at a booth, taking an order. Troy walked up and stopped. She looked around to see who it was.

“When do you get off?” he asked.

“About two-thirty,” she said.

“Wanna get some breakfast?”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Good.”

He went out. Thinking about her aroused him. What time was it? He thought it was about ten-thirty but he had no watch. Back in the car, News 98 said it was nine-twelve. Five hours plus. He would eat and go to a movie. He’d noticed
Pulp Fiction
on a downtown marquee. It was the only movie he had any real desire to see.

At 2:15
A.M.
, Troy turned onto Huntington Drive from Eastern Avenue. He immediately spotted the spinning blue lights atop the police cars—several of them, plus an ambulance, outside Vidal’s club.

A uniformed officer was standing in the street with a flashlight. Flares were down. Part of the street was marked off and two officers were looking for spent cartridges on the asphalt. “So much for pussy tonight,” Troy muttered, moving over to the far lane and following the car ahead. The policeman waved them to keep going. As Troy went past, a flashbulb went off. A body was lying on the pavement near the curb. A drive-by? Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to see Delia tonight. “’Bye, baby,” he said, and started thinking about the quickest way to a freeway. Any of them would take him to Interstate 5.

16

It was midafternoon of the next day when Troy turned down the street of small tract homes. The development was three years old and most of the houses had landscaping, although the trees were still small. Some had lawns turned winter yellow, while others were green with rye grass. Several houses remained unsold, their front yards still bare dirt.

In the middle of the street, half a dozen boys played touch football. They moved aside for the car. Troy saw Diesel’s Mustang in the driveway. Troy pulled in behind it. Diesel had put in a lawn without subsequently caring for it. It was yellow brown except near a dripping faucet, where it was green and dandelions grew tall. The garage door was open; Troy could see the rear end of Gloria’s new car, the one Diesel had told him about over the phone. Before exiting the car, Troy removed his pistol and clip holster and put them under the seat.

From the house, Diesel saw the Jaguar pull in. He went out to meet his friend. “I see you found it, bro’,” he said, extending a hand. “Glad you’re here. You’re gonna spend Christmas with us.”

“What’s the old lady say about that?”

“Fuck her. I run this pad, y’know what I mean? When the bitch can whip me, then she can call the shots.”

“Naw, naw, bro’. I don’t wanna be the focus of a family squabble. I’ll spend Christmas in the city.”

“Suit yourself. That’s tomorrow. This evening I’m gonna barbecue some sirloin for you. I don’t want no bullshit about that.”

“Okay, I’ll go for that.”

“We gotta go to the market. Wait here while I go tell the old lady.”

Diesel went inside. Troy stood outside and watched the touch football game. A minute later, Diesel came out. They took Troy’s car because it was the easiest to back out. As he started the engine, the boys playing football started to horseplay. The one with the ball zigzagged and cut back, finally trying to keep the car between himself and his pursuers. Diesel rolled down the window to say something when the two boys in pursuit went around both sides and the boy being chased had to take off across the street.

Wilson Walter Williams, night manager of the Safeway market, was in the upstairs office above the meat section. Down below, the market was filled with shoppers. His eye went to the two men as if to a magnet. The big one pushing the cart wore a short-sleeved shirt that displayed countless blue handmade tattoos. To the night manager, the big man seemed jittery and suspicious. The store had recently suffered an inordinate amount of loss from shoplifting, especially meat and cigarettes. The other man matched the description of someone the morning box boys had chased but had gotten away a few days earlier.

Wilson Walter Williams reached for the telephone. The number for the police station was under glass on his desk.

Down below, Diesel selected a big cut of sirloin and dropped it in the cart. He had a list Gloria had given him. “I gotta get all this shit, too.”

“Do your duty, brother. I’m gonna go sit in the car.”

“I won’t be long.”

On the way out, Troy picked up a package of mini-doughnuts. He also got some Pepto-Bismol for the heartburn. While waiting in the express lane, he picked up a
People
magazine to look at while he waited in the car. He paid the cashier and walked out to the car.

Behind the market, a police car with two officers, one white female, one black male, pulled up to the loading dock. The manager was waiting. “The big one is still inside. The other guy is out in the car, a burgundy Jaguar. I didn’t get the license number.”

“Did you see him take anything?” Officer Lincoln asked.

“No … but the one in the car was here last week. He got away with half a case of cigarettes.”

The black male officer was on the passenger side. “I’ll check out the big guy in the store.”

Officer Melanie Strunk waited until the two men disappeared through the loading dock door. Then she drove slowly down the alley and turned toward the parking lot.

Inside the market, Diesel was pushing the cart piled high with Gloria’s list and whatever else caught his eye. His pistol was working its way out of his waistband under his sweater. He looked around. So many people were shopping on Christmas Eve. Still, he couldn’t have it falling out on the floor. He pushed the cart down the last aisle and looked around. Nobody was able to see him there, so he lifted his sweater and moved the .357 Python to a better position.

Up above, Officer Lincoln and Mr. Wilson Williams saw the suspicious movement. Officer Lincoln also saw the blue India ink tattoos on the big man’s hands. The Training Academy had taught him that those blue tattoos were put on in reform school or prison. He unsnapped his walkie-talkie and flipped it on. “Say, partner, we might have a pair of boosters.”

“Should I call for backup?”