Strega (17 page)

44

I
SLOWED the Plymouth into a quiet, mechanical cruise when I hit the Inter–Boro. A dark, twisting piece of highway, paved with potholes. Abandoned cars lined the roadside, stripped to the bone. I lit a smoke, watched the tiny red dot in the windshield, feeling the tremor in my hands on the wheel. Not knowing if I was sad or scared.

The blues make a rough blanket, like the ones they give you in the orphanage. But they keep out the cold. I shoved a cassette into the tape player without looking, waiting for the dark streets to take hold of me and pull me in, waiting to get back to myself. When I heard the guitar intro I recognized the next song, but I sat and listened to the first call–and–answer of "Married Woman Blues" like the fool I was.

Did you ever love a married woman?
The kind so good that she just has to be true.
Did you ever love a married woman?
The kind so good that she just has to be true.
That means true to her husband, boy,
And not a damn thing left for you.

That wasn't Strega. She wasn't good and she wasn't true—at least not to her husband. I popped the cassette, played with the radio until I got some oldies station. Ron Holden and the Thunderbirds singing "Love You So." I hated that song from the first time I'd heard it. When I was in reform school a girl I thought I knew wrote me a letter with the lyrics to that song. She told me it was a poem she wrote for me. I never showed it to anyone—I burned the letter so nobody would find it, but I memorized the words. One day I heard it on the radio while we were out in the yard and I knew the truth.

I never had to explain things like that to Flood. She knew—she was raised in the same places I was.

There was too much prison in this case—too much past.

I tried another cassette—Robert Johnson's "Hellhound on My Trail" came through the speakers. Chasing me down the road.

45

B
Y THE next morning, the magnum was back in my office and all but five thousand of the money was stashed with Max. I told him most of what happened the night before—enough so he could find the redhead if things didn't work out. I couldn't take Max with me on this trip—he was the wrong color.

I took Atlantic Avenue east through Brooklyn, but this time I rolled right on past the Inter–Boro entrance, past the neighborhood called City Line and into South Ozone Park. In this part of Queens, everybody's got territory marked off—the gangsters have their social clubs, the Haitians have their restaurants, and the illegal aliens have their basements. When you get near J.F.K. Airport, you move into the free–fire zone—the airport is too rich a prize for anyone to hold it all.

I pulled into the open front of a double–width garage. A faded sign over the door said "Ajax Speed Shop." A fat guy sat on a cut–down oil drum just inside the door, a magazine on his lap. His hair was motorcycle–club–length; he had a red bandanna tied around his forehead. He was wearing a denim jacket with the arms cut off, jeans, and heavy work boots. His arms bulged, not all from fat. He'd been a body–builder once; now he was slightly gone to seed.

A candy–apple–red Camaro stood over to my right, its monster rear tires filling the rear tubs under the fenders. The garage specialized in outlaw street racers—guys who made a living drag racing away from the legal strips. The back of the joint was dark.

I didn't wait for the fat guy. "Bobby around?" I asked.

"What do you need, man?" he wanted to know, his voice still neutral.

"I want to try a nitrous bottle. Bobby told me he could fix me up.

"For this?" he wanted to know, looking at the Plymouth's faded four doors. Street racers use nitrous oxide—laughing gas—for short power–bursts. You need a pressurized tank, a switch to kick it in, and enough
cojones
to pull the trigger. They're not illegal, but you want to fix things up so your opponent won't know you're carrying extra horses. The Plymouth didn't look like his idea of a good candidate—or maybe it was the driver.

I pulled the lever under the dash and the hood was released—it popped forward, pivoting at the front end. The fat guy went around to the passenger side as I got out, and we lifted the entire front end forward together. The whole front–end assembly was Fiberglas—you could move it with two fingers.

The fat guy looked into the engine bay, nodding his head.

"Three eighty–three?" he wanted to know.

"Four forty," I told him, "with another sixty over."

He nodded sagely. It was making sense to him now. One four barrel?" he asked—meaning, Why just one carburetor for so many cubic inches?

"It's built for torque—got to idle nice and quiet."

"Yeah," he said, still nodding. The Plymouth wasn't for show—just the opposite. He walked around the car, peering underneath, noting that the dual exhausts never reached the bumper. The rear undercarriage puzzled him for a minute. "It looks like an I.R.S. Jag?"

"Home–built," I told him. Independent rear suspension was better for handling, but it wouldn't stand up to tire–burning starts—drag racers never used it.

And that was his next question. "Whatta you run with this…thirty–tromp?"

You can race from a standing start or side–by–side at a steady speed and then take off on the signal. Thirty–tromp is when each driver carries a passenger—you reach thirty miles an hour, make sure the front ends are lined up, and the passenger in the left–hand car screams "Go!" out the window and both cars stomp the gas. First car to the spot you marked off is the winner.

"Twenty's okay," I told him. "It hooks up okay once you're rolling."

"You want the nitrous bottle in the trunk?"

"Where else?" I asked him. I opened the trunk to let him look inside.

"Motherfucker! Is that a fuel cell?"

"Fifty–gallon, dual electric pumps," I told him. The kid who built it would have been proud.

The fat guy's suspicions were gone—he was in heaven. "Man, you couldn't run this more than one time—it's a fake–out
supreme
! Where do you race?"

"Wherever," I said, "as long as they have the money."

"What do you duel for?"

"A grand—minimum," I said.

The fat guy scratched his head. He was used to guys spending thousands and thousands to build a car and then racing for fifty–dollar bills. Guys who put a good piece of their money into the outside of their cars—like the Camaro sitting there. He'd heard about guys who treated the whole thing like a business—no ego, all for the bucks—but he'd never seen one before. "I'll get Bobby for you," he said, "wait here."

I lit a smoke, leaning against the side of the Plymouth. I let my eyes wander around the garage but kept my feet where they were. I knew what was in the back.

46

I
HEARD a door slam somewhere and Bobby came out of the darkness, hands in the pockets of his coveralls. A big, husky kid—with his long hair and mustache, he looked like an ex—college football player. He came on slowly, not hesitating, just careful. The fat guy was saying something about the Plymouth, but Bobby wasn't listening.

He got close enough to see. "Burke! That you?" he yelled.

"It's me," I said in a quiet voice, knowing what was coming.

The kid crushed me in a bear hug, almost lifting me off my feet. "Brother!" he yelled. "My brother from hell !" I hate that stuff, but I hugged him back, mumbling some words to make it okay.

Bobby turned to the fat guy. "This is my man. Burke, say hello to Cannonball."

"We met," I told him.

"Yeah…right. What's
happening
, man?"

"He wants some nitrous…" the fat guy said.

"My brother don't want no nitrous…do you, Burke?" Bobby said in a superior tone.

"No," I said, watching the fat guy. Bobby's eyes dropped to my right hand. It was balled into a fist, the thumb extended, rubbing a tiny circle on the Plymouth's fender. The jailhouse sign to get lost.

"Take a walk, Cannonball," Bobby told him.

"You oughta get the nitrous, man," Cannonball said by way of goodbye. He went off into the darkness in the back.

Bobby reached into my coat, patting around like he was doing a search. I didn't move. He pulled out my pack of cigarettes, lit one for himself. A prison–yard move—okay if you were tight, a spit in your face if you weren't.

"You want to move cars?" Bobby asked. The back of his garage was a chop shop. He took stolen cars and turned them into parts in a couple of hours. A good business, but it takes a lot of people to make it work.

"I'm looking for a couple of your brothers, Bobby," I told him.

The garage got quiet. "You got a beef?" he asked.

"No beef. I'm looking for somebody they might have done some work for. That's all."

"They're not in it?"

"They're not in it," I assured him.

"What
is
in it?" he wanted to know.

"Money," I told him.

"Same old Burke," the kid said, smiling.

I didn't say anything, waited. "You got names?" the kid asked.

"All I got is this, Bobby. One of them had the lightning bolt on his hand. Big guy. And they did some work for a woman. Older woman. Delivering money.

"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

B
OBBY'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

B
OBBY 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, like in church. He bent one leg, resting his elbow on the knee, his chin in his hands. He looked straight ahead.

"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. They knew the score—even asked me if the niggers had hit on me. I didn't say a word. The Lieutenant told me stabbing the nigger was no big deal, but I'd have to take a lockup—go into P.C. for the rest of my bit. You know what that means?"

"Yeah," I said. "P.C." is supposed to stand for "protective custody." For guys who can't be on the main yard—informers, obvious homosexuals, guys who didn't pay a gambling debt—targets. To the cons, "P.C." means Punk City. You go in, you never get to walk the yard. You carry the jacket the rest of your life.

"They kept me locked down two weeks—no cigarettes, nothing to read, no radio—nothing. Just those niggers working on me every day. They never got tired, Burke—like they fucking
loved
that evil shit. Screaming about cutting pregnant white women open and pulling out the baby. One day it got real quiet. I couldn't figure it out. The trustee came with the coffee. He had a note for me—folded piece of paper. I opened it up—there was a big thick glob of white stuff inside. Nigger cum. I got sick but I was afraid to throw up—afraid they'd hear me. Then one of them whispered to me—it was so quiet it sounded like it was in the next cell. 'Lick it up, white boy! Lick it all up, pussy! We got yard tomorrow, punk. The Man letting us all out, you understand me? You lick it all up, tell me how good it was!' He was saying all this to me and all I could think of was, there was no way to kill myself in that lousy little cell. All I wanted was to die. I pissed on myself—I thought they could all smell it."

Bobby was shaking hard now. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he was lost in the fear. "I got on my knees. I prayed with everything I had. I prayed for Jesus—stuff I hadn't thought of since I was a kid. If I didn't say anything, I was dead—worse than dead. I looked at that paper with that nigger's cum on it. I went into myself—I thought about how it had to be. And I found a way to die like a man—all I wanted.

"I got to my feet. I stood up. My voice was all fucked up from not saying anything for so long, but it came out good and steady. It was so quiet everybody heard me. 'Tell me your name, nigger,' I said to him. 'I don't want to kill the wrong nigger when we go on the yard, and all you monkeys look alike to me.' As soon as the words came out of my mouth I felt different—like God came into me—just like I'd been praying for.

"Then they went fucking
crazy
—screaming like a pack of apes. But it was like they were screaming on some upper register…and underneath it was this heavy bass line, like in music. A chant, something. It was from the white guys in the other cells—some of them right next to me. They hadn't made a sound through all this shit, just waiting to see how I'd stand up. I couldn't hear them too good at first—just this heavy, low rumbling. But then it came through all the other stuff. 'R.B.! R.B.! R.B.!' "

Bobby was chanting the way he'd heard it back in his cell, hitting the second letter for emphasis…"R.
B
.! R.
B
.!"pumping strength back into himself.

"They kept it up. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were there. There for
me
. They didn't say anything else. I started to say it too. First to myself. Then out loud.
Real
loud. Like prayer words.

"When they racked the bars for us to hit the exercise yard—one at a time—I walked out. The sunlight hit me in the face—I almost couldn't see. I heard a voice. 'Stand with us, brother,' it said."

Bobby looked at me. His eyes were wet but his hands were steady and his mouth was cold. "I've been standing with them ever since, Burke," he said in the quiet garage. "If you got a beef with them, you got one with me."