He said it a few times, just to get the rhythm of it and let his words echo down the cell block. After a while he tired of religion and pulled out his paperback copy of The Dreadful Lemon Sky. That was the Travis McGee book he and Eddie's two-man book club was reading this week. What he liked most about it, Lemon Sky, as compared with the Koran, was you didn't have to underline or highlight anything.
You just got swept along by the master himself. There he goes, there's old Trav again, locking up the Busted Flush, setting the alarm, saying good-bye to his pal the Alabama Tiger, before going out on a knight's quest with Meyer, to find some poor woman's killer, after she showed up one night with ninety large and gave it to Trav for safekeeping. How's the Koran going to compete with literature like that? Or even the Bible for that matter? Luke, Matthew, and John-those guys put together couldn't hold a candle to John D. MacDonald.
He got to page fifty-one, couldn't keep his eyes open, his mind concentrated on all this advice all these fanatic Arab cats were all so hepped up about. He was open-minded, hell, he'd tolerate just about anything, but he couldn't see what these people, these radical Muslims, these al Qaeda and Taliban suicidal underpants-bombing maniacs, what had they ever, and he meant ever, done to deserve anybody's attention, much less respect.
Let's see, he said to himself, holding up his hand with all five fingers raised. Had they ever built a single road, dammed up a single river, dug a single well to produce one damn bucket of water? No. Generated one single watt of electricity, built a single car, plane, boat, train, bicycle, or skateboard? No. Two fingers down. Okay, had they funded a single bank, constructed a single home, manufactured a single lifesaving medicine, hell, even a single product, written a single Pulitzer Prize-winning article, or a novel? Nope. Three down. Or maybe even composed one single damn song, choreographed one damn dance? Nope. Four down. Won a single election or even given a piano recital in all of their whole, long, bloody history?
No. Five down.
They killed people, that's it.
Stoke made a solemn promise to himself, right there in his cell. If he could, as long as he was still able and strong, he'd kill them first. He'd find the heart and rip it out. At least before they could kill any more of his own people.
Remember America? Folks had plain forgotten what that word stood for.
People who had a justifiable right to be proud of what they'd done. People who'd broken Hitler's back. Freed countless millions from the Soviets. Got Gorby to tear down that effing Wall. People who'd tried to make the world a better place. Fed billions of starving people around the world. Built homes for ones lost in floods or fires. Sent billions and billions of dollars of food and medicine all over the world, took on the dictators who wanted nothing but power. Fought for the right stuff. Fought for freedom. For the right of every man, woman, and child to be free.
Independence.
That's what he was talking about.
He wasn't talking about religious or political nuts who just wanted to blow airplanes out of the sky or put six million Jews into the oven, gas all those Kurds just because they were Kurds. No. He was talking about plain old patriotic Americans, simple as that.
With those semi-deep thoughts very much on his mind, Stokely Jones edged nearer to sleep.
First night in the Glades, Stoke slept like a baby in his mama's arms.
Second and third nights, not so much.
THIRTY-NINE
STOKE'S FIRST FEW DAYS IN THE SLAM passed pretty much without incident except for the time Chief Johnny Two Guns called Stoke's sainted mother a bad name and ended up in the prison hospital. Well, actually two guys ended up in the hospital that day. Chief Two Guns and the white-bread, butt-head Aryan who called himself the Bonecrusher.
This was to be the day Stoke learned that 'clubbin' with the cons' wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Especially the con he'd nicknamed 'Mr. Clean.'
Bonecrusher was one crazy 1950s vintage cat, looked exactly like that good old TV Mr. Clean guy, now on steroids, even with the little gold hoop earring in his left ear. Stoke could still hear that jingle in his head: 'Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute.'
Man was seriously juiced now, a violent, disturbed individual, and you didn't need a degree in shrinkology to notice he wasn't doing windows anymore.
Also, seemed like the Bonecrusher just plain didn't like black folks for some reason or other. Could have been something traumatic in his childhood. Peed in his jammies every night when Mommy tucked him in and turned out the light. Boom. Black. Scary. Or maybe he was just a natural-born dumb shithead from the day he was born. Anyway, Stoke had seen him around the yard surrounded by his crew, the White Aryans. He didn't seem like the type you just walk up to and say, 'Hey, just a darn minute there, Mr. Bonecrusher, I don't understand why can't we all just get along.'
What exactly happened that day was that Stoke was out in the part of the yard fenced off for lifting weights, minding his own damn business, when this Seminole Indian chief walks up and tells Stoke his time on the bench was up, and why didn't he go shoot hoops with the rest of the goddamn niggas?
Stoke naturally ignored him, kept bench-pressing, feeling the burn, really into it. The sun was brutal, and it had to be way over a hundred degrees out in the baking concrete yard. He didn't mind it. In fact, he'd decided to use his free time in the Glades to get back in shape. Serious shape.
He was doing the complete U.S. Navy SEAL physical training routine in his cell every night, and already he could feel his aging body starting to kick ass again. Feeling the SEAL edge, they called it. Stoke had a navy drill instructor when he was in special training down in the Keys; guy said something one day Stoke would never forget as long as he lived.
'The difference between combat and sport is that in combat you bury the guy who comes in second.'
'You deaf, homes?' the Chief said to him, leaning over to pick up a twenty-pound dumbbell in his right hand.
'Try and keep your shit together, man, I don't want any trouble. I'll be done here in five minutes. Maybe less. Then it's all yours.'
The Chief looked at Stoke like he was a new arrival from Mars.
'Hey! Sometimes, nigga, you get trouble whether you want it or not,' the guy said, tossing the iron weight from one hand to the other like a tennis ball.
'That's true. Sometimes you do.'
'Like, you got trouble now.'
'I do? Me? I don't think so.'
'You don't?'
'Nope.'
'You don't think I could bring this dumbbell down on your ugly head so hard your brains squirt out your ears?'
'You're Johnny Two Guns, aren't you?' Stoke said, pumping out three fast reps in blinding succession.
'You got it, man.' He pronounced it 'main,' trying to sound street. This from a swamp dog who'd killed his own mother with a tourist-shop tomahawk.
'How'd you get that name, Two Guns, I wonder?' Stoke asked, speaking now with some little effort between presses.
'My arms, man, look at 'em, you punkass bitch, what the hell you think? Chief Johnny Two Guns. That was the name I fought under. I'm the guy that knocked out Trevor 'the Animal' Garcia in the first round at the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas, man. Televised, man, high def.'
'Really? That was you?'
'Bet your ass.'
'I'm surprised.'
