A Bomb Built in Hell

“Oh, so that's it. Who’re you going to listen to, this Board or a bunch of prisoners?”

“But I thought...”

“Now we may parole you anyway, but you shouldn’t listen to—”

“See! I knew you were just kidding me, man.”

“This hearing is concluded. Return to your unit!”

The note from the Board said he was being denied parole at this time because of “poor institutional adjustment.”

24/

They let Wesley go on a Tuesday. He was among eight men going home that day, but the only one who wasn’t being paroled. He noticed one already nodding from his morning fix and wondered if the pathetic sucker would find the stuff as easy to score on the street as he had Inside.

The State provided transportation to the Port Authority Terminal in Manhattan, a suit, and twenty-five dollars. The factory-reject suit screamed PRISONER! as loudly as black-and-white stripes would have, and Wesley’s dead-white face made sure the impression stayed with any cops who wanted to look. But nobody was looking. Wesley saw at once why Carmine had told him to learn from Lester—the terminal was a swirling river of predators and prey.

He thought about getting some fresh clothes, but he knew Israel wouldn’t care what he looked like.

The Greyhound to Cleveland cost $18.75. Fifteen hours later, Wesley grabbed a cab in Public Square, and he was in front of the King Hotel just before midnight. Wesley watched the whores shriek to passing cars for another fifteen minutes before he went inside, up to the desk clerk.

“I’ve got a message for Israel.”

“He not here, man.”

“I’ll wait.”

The clerk went to the back and, in about ten minutes, a husky man with a blue-black face and a full beard came down the stairs.

“I’m Israel,” the man said. “Come on up to my room.”

They walked upstairs to 717 and went inside. The man motioned Wesley to a chair near the window and pulled a short-barreled pistol from his inside pocket in the same motion. The gun was pointed negligently, only vaguely in Wesley’s direction, but his eyes were locked into Wesley’s face.

“What are you here for?”

“I’m Carmine’s son.”

“And...”

“I’m here to pick up what he left.”

“You know what that is?”

“He said Israel would show me.”

“He tell you anything else?”

“That I’d be doing a job of work for you.”

“You know who?”

“No.”

“You care?”

“No.”

“If you’re Carmine’s son, you must know the only color he hates.”

“A cop.”

“Yeah, a cop. A pig-slob dirty motherfucking cop. He—”

“I don’t care what he did. You going to get me everything I need?”

“Which is?”

“A place to stay, some correct clothing, a street map of this town, some folding money to get around with, a couple of good pieces, some tools, some information.”

“I can get all that. Shit, I got all that already.”

“Okay. Show me where I can sleep.”

“You want me to drive the car?”

“What car?”

“He’s a foot patrolman—that’s about the only way you’ll get a shot at him.”

“I work by myself—I’ll think of something.”

25/