Dog Eat Dog (7 page)

“I don’t think so. Diesel Carson and Mad Dog McCain.”

Greco shook his head.

“They’re from up north, San Francisco and Sacramento. They’re okay. One of ’em is crazy, but what the fuck’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Here’s the deal with the lip. He wants twenty-five percent.”

“Twenty-five percent! Bullshit! If I gave up twenty-five, I’d have to rob him afterward or feel like a damn fool. He’d be in bed with his old lady while I’m risking my ass.”

Greco gestured for Troy to calm down as he raved. When Troy finished, he said, “We get first count … and he has no idea
what
we took. We give him twenty-five percent of what we say. We might get—five times that much.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t let me, motherfucker.”

“You know I really don’t like deceitful games. I like to come off the top of the deck with no hidden agenda.”

“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m seeing you. I know other people who are already here ripping and tearing … I don’t have to wait for ’em to get outta San Quentin. The problem is …”

“You’re scared to trust them with so much. The kind that might kill somebody instead of paying off.”

“Lotsa money on the table.” Greco smiled, his eyes twinkled. “But I trust you one hundred percent.”

“You know my track record.”

“So how many days you got?”

“Twenty-one and a getup.”

Greco filed it mentally and nodded. “You parole to L.A.?”

“No. To ’Frisco.”

“You’re from L.A. Born and raised among the rich and famous. I remember what you scratched on the wall in juvenile hall—Troy de Beverly Hills.”

The memory made them laugh so loud that the guard across the room frowned at them.

“You gotta go back to the county you came from. I got popped in ’Frisco.” Troy said. “That bull is still burning us.”

“I better go before they roust me for having too much fun in San Quentin. I’ll give you a number where you can leave messages.”

“I can remember it for right now—but I gotta write it down as soon as I leave the visiting room.”

“I better mail it to you.” Greco stood up. “I’ll leave off the area code.”

“They won’t pay any attention. Write down it’s Aunt Maude’s number, or something.” Troy stood up across from Greco. Troy looked to the other guard, who nodded okay for them to shake hands. “Glad you came, bro’,” he said.

“I’m glad I came, too. I think I’m gonna make some dough from the trip.”

Greco went to the exit and looked back and waved as the guard turned the key and pushed it open for him. Troy gave a little salute and thought about the Greek being amidst the North Beach neon when night came to San Francisco. “Damn,” he said, and headed back to the Big Yard.

5

When Troy Augustus Cameron got out of bed on the morning of his release, his cell was already bare. The few things he was taking with him had already been checked into Receiving and Release. He would get them in a brown paper package with a wax seal—to make sure nothing was added after it was searched and packed. What he was leaving behind, he had already given away: his
Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary
, thesaurus, and a
Columbia Encyclopedia
that some private citizen had donated to the prison—and the library clerk peddled out the back door.

He’d shaved the night before. Now, as he brushed his teeth, he could hear the cellhouse coming awake. Flushing toilets, someone calling down the tier for a partner to bring the Chronicle at the unlock, and the idiot next door, who happened to be black, already had his TV turned on. Troy had given his own away a week earlier, as was standard practice. Convicts could buy thirteen-inch Sonys, and were required to donate them when paroled. The purchaser could donate it to a specific inmate, but when the recipient departed, he had to donate it to the prison, whereupon it was issued to someone without resources. Over the decade that TVs had been allowed, enough had come in so that now everyone had one, at least everyone who wanted one.

The tier tender came by, lugging the heavy water can with the long spout; it was used to pour hot water through the bars. The cell sinks ran only cold. The toilets used water from the bay, and occasionally someone found a small dead fish in the john.

“It’s all over, huh?” said the tier tender. He was a skinny white man in a T-shirt, his pale arms covered with blue jailhouse tattoos. He was in his early forties, which made him ancient by prison standards, serving a third term for trivial offenses.

“Yeah, I’ll be in Baghdad by the Bay this afternoon.”

“Good luck.” He reached through the bars to shake hands and continued down the tier, pouring water.

The morning unlock began, top tier down, with a crashing volley as eighty cells were slammed shut. Trash rained down as the convicts trudged toward the stairs, kicking over what they had swept from their cells.

Troy picked up the shoebox with toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few letters and waited for the security bar to raise.

Instead of going to breakfast, he stepped out of line in the Big Yard and waited while the mess halls emptied. Soon his few close friends arrived for a last embrace and handshake and wish of good luck.

At 8:00
A.M.,
the work whistle blew, seagulls flew from their rooftop perches, and the yard gate opened. Convicts spilled forth, heading to their jobs. Troy walked down the road toward Between Gates. Receiving and Release was across from the visiting room.

A skinny old sergeant with stooped shoulders and rheumy eyes, nicknamed Andy Gump by the convicts, took Troy’s ID card, found his papers in a short pile, and handed them to one of the convict clerks. The convict brought the hanger with his dress-out clothes. The two other men being released were already changing. Everyone got the same issue, khaki pants, black Navy-style shoes, and a short-sleeved white shirt. The one difference was in the color of the windbreaker.

The other two men were black. While they got ready, one of them touched glances with Troy and gave a slight nod that Troy returned with a smile. After that there was no communication between Troy and his companions, although they talked to each other, and one of them muttered about how the clothes made them look like clowns. The man was nervous, fidgeting with his belt buckle and sleeve buttons; his focus was on his clothes, but his real worry was about going from one world to another. The fear upon release after years in prison is similar to the fear upon entering prison in the first place. Troy recognized the symptoms and it made him smile.

At the administration building they were given “gate money,” parole papers, and bus tickets. From there a guard walked them to a prison van and drove them to the Greyhound bus depot in San Rafael. The guard watched them enter before driving off. That was the moment they were free. The two black men spotted the liquor store next door and went to get a couple of short dogs.

Troy stood looking out the window. It was weird. Twelve years was such a long, long time. Confronting it made it seem like life, but now, the moment it was over, it was the past and of small importance. No, that was a partial truth. Twelve years of monasticism in San Quentin prison was more than that. It was where he had learned such words as monasticism from years of nights roaming the universes of the written word, and days studying human nature stripped of façades in a world of thieves and killers, madmen and cowards. Still, it was now behind him and he would not look back except to guide his path forward.

Should he step out on the sidewalk and wait for Diesel there? What about the bar across the street? No, he might miss the big guy that way. Where is that fool, he thought rhetorically.

A flashy blue convertible with the top down pulled up to the curb. Diesel was behind the wheel. Before he could get out, Troy exited the terminal door. “Hey, boy!”

Diesel broke a grin and leaned over to open the passenger door. Troy came over, eyed the pale blue car with the white leather upholstery, and stepped back for an appreciative appraisal. “What is this, homeboy?”

“Brand new motherfuckin’ Mustang GT. Five fuckin’ liters of engine. It kicks ass and takes names. Get in.”

Troy slid into the passenger seat, noting that Diesel’s short-sleeved golf shirt exposed myriad blue tattoos down his arms and on the backs of his hands. Such self-defacement was virtually a rite of passage in reform school. Troy had avoided using his body for graffiti. Now he could remember why. Later on he would tell Diesel to wear long-sleeved shirts. Every cop in California knew that blue india ink tattoos came from jail. They were a sign that announced, “I am a thug.”

“Throw those things in the backseat,” Diesel said, indicating the brown paper package and shoebox with the string around it. Troy did so. He turned back and fastened the seat belt.

“Here we go,” Diesel said. “Check this ride.” He punched the gas and popped the clutch. The five liters of V8 power threw them back against the seat and the car burned rubber as it catapulted into the traffic. “Heigh-ho, Silver!” Diesel said, “the masked men ride again.” He pointed toward the glove compartment. “Open it. It’s your coming home present.”

Troy did so. Inside was a blue steel automatic in a belt-clip holster. Troy pulled the pistol free and looked it over. Browning .380. Nine quick shots—ten if you jacked one into the chamber and added another to the clip. It was an expensive weapon.

“It’s clean, too,” Diesel said. “Won’t trace to nobody. The ammo’s in the glove compartment, too.”

Troy took out two flat, hard, transparent packages. Hot loads with a coating of an alloy that would penetrate bulletproof vests.

“Thanks,” Troy said, fitting the weapon inside his waistband with the holster clip attached to his belt. It gave him a sense of power.

“Where you takin’ me?” he asked.

“I thought we’d go into the city and get you some clothes.”

“Whatsamatter? You ashamed of me?”

“No … but I remember how you always dressed real sharp. You ain’t changed, have you?”

“Nope.”

“So that’s what we’ll do. Then we’ll get a steak and have some drinks and make some plans. I’ve got a lotta things to tell you.”

“Sounds good. But somewhere today I gotta call the Greek in L.A.”

“We can do that right now.” From between the white leather bucket seats, Diesel retrieved a flip-open phone. “Cellular,” Diesel said, pushing the on button. “Just dial. I got it hooked up yesterday.”

“I’ll wait,” Troy said. “Let’s go do some shopping. What’s your schedule? Anything you gotta do?”

“Uh-uh. I’m at your disposal.”

“How’s the old lady and the kid?”

“He’s great … she’s a standard naggy bitch. ‘Where you goin’? What are you going to do? Stay away from that guy. He’ll get you in trouble.’”

Troy laughed at Diesel’s squeaky mime of his wife’s voice. Diesel looked over and grinned. “Man, I’m so glad you’re out.”

“Me, too.”

“The Greek came to see you.”

“Yeah. He had lawyer ID. Walked right in.”

“I asked Tony Citrino—”

“What’s he doing?”

“He tends bar in the Mission District in the city. We’ll go by there if you want.”

“I’d like to see Tony. He’s a good dude.”

“He hung up the gloves. Said he couldn’t do the time anymore. What I started to tell you was that the Greek’s supposed to be rich handlin’ that go-fast shit. I think he’s got a lab and makes it.”

“Lotta money in methamphetamine, especially if you make it. Goddamn, it smells bad when you manufacture it. You can smell it for a mile.”

“I never got to know the Greek very well. Everybody says he’s a stand-up dude.”

“Yeah, he is. Solid as a rock. And he’s got some drug dealers lined up for us to rip off. How’s that for a game plan?”

“I like that … motherfuckers who can’t yell copper. All they wanna do is kill a sucker—and that sure ain’t nothin’ new. They been tryin’ to kill me all my life. I hope they’re niggers.”

“No, no, bro’. This is equal opportunity.”

“Yeah. Equal opportunity. I like that.”

Ahead, through an opening in the rolling hills, the huge orange pillars of the Golden Gate flashed momentarily in the noonday sun. Within minutes they were on the grade leading to the bridge.

In the city, Diesel parked in a garage near Union Square and they walked to the London Men’s Shop, one of San Francisco’s better stores, featuring Brioni, Cornelini, Raffalo, and Hickey-Freeman suits. The shoes were Bally, Cole-Haan and Ferragamo. Men’s style had changed in Troy’s lost decade. From trim single-breasted suits and slim slacks without pleats, fashion had returned to pleated and draped pants and double-breasted suits with wide lapels and solid backs. It could have been 1950.

“When did you start getting sharp?” Troy asked. “You were a jeans and tank top man.”

“Hey, brother, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t? I’ve got pictures.” Troy laughed at Diesel’s blush and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “How’d you find this place?”

“Those union guys. They love to be sharp. They try to outdress each other.”

Troy looked through the rack of size 43 jackets. The prices had risen considerably during his absence. It was going to cost far more than he had expected to dress the way he wanted. After trying on several jackets, he selected a dark blue Italian cut (no back vent), a single-breasted cashmere blazer, and pearl gray flannel slacks. He would have them cuffed. For dress shoes he took a pair of cordovan slip-ons with tassels from Cole-Haan. He added a wool turtleneck in burgundy, plus an ecru pinpoint oxford with spread collar and a necktie that the salesman recommended. The single outfit cost sixteen hundred dollars. In the mirror, he was a handsome personification of a Princeton lithograph. Nobody would ever look at him and think he was a hoodlum. He tried his boyish smile. He’d often wondered why those outside the law often assumed a style that marked them. Even now the young thugs wore baggy pants and floppy shirts, turned cap bills backward, and left their shoelaces untied. Children of the bourgeoisie copied the fashion, but its origins came from reform school where clothes were oversized, and to the police it aroused the same hostile suspicion that zoot suits and ducktail hairdos had two generations earlier. Troy preferred to look as if he belonged in Newport, Palm Beach, or the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Anyone he wanted to know that he was a criminal knew him personally; all others he wanted to think he was a born-again Christian Republican. Or at least rich. That was what he saw in the mirror.