armed robbery. He was promised a ten-year top.
Wesley thought about this. He had a lot of time to think, since he was locked in his cell twenty-three-and-a- half hours a day. They gave the prisoners in the isolation unit showers every two weeks, unless they had a court date, and Wesley always used his half-hour of exercise to watch and see if the dead man’s friends were any more loyal than the Marine’s had been.
He reasoned it out as best as he could. Even if he slid on the homicide, he had robbed the liquor store; he could sit in the Tombs for another couple of years and still pull major time, so he accepted the now-frantic PD’s offer. The thought of going to trial before a jury was making the lawyer lose a lot of sleep.
The judge asked Wesley, “Were any promises made to you, at this time or at any other time, on which you are relying in your plea of guilty to these charges?” When Wesley answered “Yes,” the judge called a recess.
The lawyer patiently explained that statements like Wesley’s couldn’t be allowed to appear on the transcript. When Wesley asked why that was, the lawyer mumbled something about a “clean record.” Wesley didn’t get it, and figured he wasn’t going to.
After a couple of rehearsals, Wesley finally got it straight, said the magic words, and was rewarded with a flat dime in Auburn.
14/
He spent the required thirty days on Fish Row and hit the New Line with about forty-five other men. Without friends on the outside, without money in his commissary account, and without any advanced skills in stealing from other prisoners, Wesley resigned himself to doing some cold time. He computed his possible “good time” and reckoned he could be back on the street in six-plus, if he copped a good job inside prison.
He put his chances at about the same as those of copping a good job on the street.
The job he wanted was in the machine shop. It wasn’t one of the preferred slots, like the bakery, but the inmate clerk still wanted five packs of cigarettes to get Wesley assigned—otherwise it would be license plates. Wesley had several offers to lend him the packs, at the usual three-for-two-per-week, but he passed, knowing he wasn’t ever going to get his hands on anything of value Inside without killing someone.
He returned to the clerk’s office, expecting to get the plate-shop assignment and preparing to keep a perfectly flat face anyway. But the slip the clerk handed him said “Machine Shop” on top.
“How come I got the shop I wanted?” Wesley asked.
“You bitching about it?” the clerk responded.
“Maybe I am—you said it cost five packs.”
“It does cost five packs—your ride is paid for.”
“Who paid?”
“Whadda you care?”
“I got something for the guy who paid,” Wesley said, quiet-voiced. “You want me to give it to you instead?”
“Carmine Trentoni, that’s who paid, wiseass ... now take your beef to him. I got work to do.”
It took Wesley a couple of days to find out who Trentoni was without asking too many questions, and almost another week before he could get close enough to him to speak without raising his voice. Trentoni was on the Yard with three of his crew, quietly playing cards and smoking the expensive cigars that the commissary carried at ridiculous prices. Wesley waited until the hand was finished and came up slowly, his hands open and in front of him.
“Could I speak with you a minute?” he asked.
Trentoni looked up. “Sure, kid, what’s on your mind?”
“This: I’m not a kid. Not your kid, not anybody’s. I killed a man in the House over that. I haven’t got the five packs to pay you back now. If you want to wait for them, okay. If not, you won’t see me again.”
Trentoni looked dazed; then he looked vicious ... and then he laughed so hard the tower guard poked his rifle over the wall, as if the gun could see what was going on and report back to him. The other three men had been silent until Carmine broke up, and then they all joined in. But it was obvious they didn’t know what they were supposed to be laughing at.
Carmine got to his feet—a short, heavily built man of about fifty-five whose once-black hair had turned grey some years ago. He motioned to Wesley to follow him along the Wall, away from the game. He deliberately turned his back on the younger man and walked quickly until he was about a hundred feet away from anyone else.
Wesley followed at a distance; he knew nothing ever happened on the Yard unless there was a cover-crowd or a man went psycho, but he couldn’t understand the laughter either. Carmine wheeled to face Wesley, his mouth ugly with scorn.
“Punk! Filthy, guttersnipe punk! Raised in garbage so it’s only fucking garbage you understand, huh? Yeah, I sent the five packs to that weasel of a clerk, but what I want from you,
The vehemence of Trentoni’s speech knocked Wesley back, but his habits had been formed way before that day, so he just asked, “Why?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why: I know why you’re here, which is more than you know, right? I know what happened in the House. I laid those five fucking packs on the clerk because I
“Yes.”
Wesley turned and walked to his cell, not looking back. It took him another ten days to learn that Carmine was serving three life sentences, running wild, for three separate gang murders, committed more than twenty years ago. He had stood mute at his trial, refusing to even acknowledge the judge and his own court-appointed attorney. At the sentencing, the judge asked if he had anything to say for himself. Carmine faced the judge with a pleasant
