"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
BOBBY'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
BOBBY 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."