A Bomb Built in Hell

“Like what you said about the history books—that the winners write the stories after they win the wars?”

“Not just that—I’m talking about facts. How you make a bomb, what’s inside of a poison, how you fix guns, how much money a politician makes, what the fucking laws say....”

“There’s things you can’t learn from books.”

“Sure. Now you talking like a real chump. What ‘things’? You learning these things, kid?”

“In here? Sure.”

“You ever listen to Lester when he talks?”

“That fucking skinner. Who’d listen to that freak?”

“You would, if you had any sense. You think you’ll never be tracking a man in Times Square? You think people like Lester ain’t all over the place? If you going to run in the jungle, you’d better know all the animals.”

“How come you don’t study him?”

“I have studied him, Wes. But I don’t get too near, because I have to live in here the rest of my life. I can’t let motherfuckers think I’m changing my game after all these years or they get ideas. But if I was going out, I wouldn’t just be studying Lester, I’d be studying every freak, every maniac, every sick-ass in this joint, until I knew exactly what makes them run. And I’d use it on the street. Why you think the shrinks are always studying Lester? Anything the Man wants to know, you got to figure is worth knowing too, right?”

“How do I make him talk?”

“You don’t need to make him talk. Just forget your fucking image and listen—he’ll do all the talking you’ll ever want.”

“What about Logan?”

“Who’s that?”

21/

Another long year passed. With Wesley in the library, in the blocks, on the Yard ... listening and learning to say nothing, except when forced. And spending as much time as possible with Carmine, because the old man was obviously hanging on by a fine thread.

The Yard was nearly empty one dirty, grey morning. Carmine had told Wesley to meet him at their spot by 8:30, and Wesley stayed in the shadows until he saw the old man’s bulk come around the corner of the administration building.

“Morning, Pop.”

“I got no more time, Wes, so you listen to me as good as you ever did. I’m checking out of here. Maybe this morning, maybe tonight....”

“You’re not—”

“Shut up,” came the fierce whisper, “and listen: I made out my will and you the beneficiary. Sit down with me here against the Wall.”

The two men hunkered down against the wet wall. Wesley was stone-cold quiet, because he saw the old man wasn’t going to get up again.

“You got to remember all this, Wes—you can't be writing it down. When you wrap up you go to Cleveland, that's in Ohio. Take the bus in, but fly out, understand? And not from the big airport—that's Hopkins. They got a little commuter airline, like for businessmen, so be sure you got a suit on ... Israel, he'll fix you up with that. Anyway, if the wheels come off, remember you want Burke Airport. It's right on the lake—just tell any cabbie and they'll know.

“Okay, now when you get to Cleveland, you go to the King Hotel, that's at 55th and Central. You go there between midnight and two in the morning and you tell the Desk Clerk you got a message for Israel.”

“Like the country?”

“Yeah, like the country—but Israel is a man, a black man. You tell him you are Carmine’s son and you’re there to pick up what Carmine left. He’ll give you the name of someone to hit, and on this one you can’t say ‘no,’ you understand? You can’t say ‘no.’ ”

“I won’t.”

“Okay. After the hit, Israel is going to give you a package. You take what’s in there and go back to New York. You go to Mamma Lucci’s—it’s a restaurant near the corner of Prince and Sullivan Streets, on the south side of Houston. You ask to speak to Mr. Petraglia, okay? And you tell him you Carmine’s son and you came to New York to be with him. You give him the package. He will know who you are. This man, he will show you a building to buy.”

“How am I going to—?”

“Shut up, Wes, just listen. You’ll have the money. After you buy the building, you fix it up the way it needs to be. Pet will live there, too—he’s the last of us, kid, and one of the best. He can do things with cars you wouldn’t believe. And then you’re on your own.”

“What if Israel’s dead when I get there ... or Mr. Petraglia?”

“You got two years, four months, and eleven days to serve. They’ll both live that long. They been waiting for you—they won’t die.”

“But if—”

“If they do, call my wife at that number I gave you and tell her Carmine said to get