The other two men were black. While they got ready, one of them touched glances with Troy and gave a slight nod that Troy returned with a smile. After that there was no communication between Troy and his companions, although they talked to each other, and one of them muttered about how the clothes made them look like clowns. The man was nervous, fidgeting with his belt buckle and sleeve buttons; his focus was on his clothes, but his real worry was about going from one world to another. The fear upon release after years in prison is similar to the fear upon entering prison in the first place. Troy recognized the symptoms and it made him smile.
At the administration building they were given “gate money,” parole papers, and bus tickets. From there a guard walked them to a prison van and drove them to the Greyhound bus depot in San Rafael. The guard watched them enter before driving off. That was the moment they were free. The two black men spotted the liquor store next door and went to get a couple of short dogs.
Troy stood looking out the window. It was weird. Twelve years was such a long, long time. Confronting it made it seem like life, but now, the moment it was over, it was the past and of small importance. No, that was a partial truth. Twelve years of monasticism in San Quentin prison was more than that. It was where he had learned such words as monasticism from years of nights roaming the universes of the written word, and days studying human nature stripped of façades in a world of thieves and killers, madmen and cowards. Still, it was now behind him and he would not look back except to guide his path forward.
Should he step out on the sidewalk and wait for Diesel there? What about the bar across the street? No, he might miss the big guy that way. Where is that fool, he thought rhetorically.
A flashy blue convertible with the top down pulled up to the curb. Diesel was behind the wheel. Before he could get out, Troy exited the terminal door. “Hey, boy!”
Diesel broke a grin and leaned over to open the passenger door. Troy came over, eyed the pale blue car with the white leather upholstery, and stepped back for an appreciative appraisal. “What is this, homeboy?”
“Brand new motherfuckin’ Mustang GT. Five fuckin’ liters of engine. It kicks ass and takes names. Get in.”
Troy slid into the passenger seat, noting that Diesel’s short-sleeved golf shirt exposed myriad blue tattoos down his arms and on the backs of his hands. Such self-defacement was virtually a rite of passage in reform school. Troy had avoided using his body for graffiti. Now he could remember why. Later on he would tell Diesel to wear long-sleeved shirts. Every cop in California knew that blue india ink tattoos came from jail. They were a sign that announced, “I am a thug.”
“Throw those things in the backseat,” Diesel said, indicating the brown paper package and shoebox with the string around it. Troy did so. He turned back and fastened the seat belt.
“Here we go,” Diesel said. “Check this ride.” He punched the gas and popped the clutch. The five liters of V8 power threw them back against the seat and the car burned rubber as it catapulted into the traffic. “Heigh-ho, Silver!” Diesel said, “the masked men ride again.” He pointed toward the glove compartment. “Open it. It’s your coming home present.”
Troy did so. Inside was a blue steel automatic in a belt-clip holster. Troy pulled the pistol free and looked it over. Browning .380. Nine quick shots—ten if you jacked one into the chamber and added another to the clip. It was an expensive weapon.
“It’s clean, too,” Diesel said. “Won’t trace to nobody. The ammo’s in the glove compartment, too.”
Troy took out two flat, hard, transparent packages. Hot loads with a coating of an alloy that would penetrate bulletproof vests.
“Thanks,” Troy said, fitting the weapon inside his waistband with the holster clip attached to his belt. It gave him a sense of power.
“Where you takin’ me?” he asked.
“I thought we’d go into the city and get you some clothes.”
“Whatsamatter? You ashamed of me?”
“No … but I remember how you always dressed real sharp. You ain’t changed, have you?”
“Nope.”
“So that’s what we’ll do. Then we’ll get a steak and have some drinks and make some plans. I’ve got a lotta things to tell you.”
“Sounds good. But somewhere today I gotta call the Greek in L.A.”
“We can do that right now.” From between the white leather bucket seats, Diesel retrieved a flip-open phone. “Cellular,” Diesel said, pushing the on button. “Just dial. I got it hooked up yesterday.”
“I’ll wait,” Troy said. “Let’s go do some shopping. What’s your schedule? Anything you gotta do?”
“Uh-uh. I’m at your disposal.”
“How’s the old lady and the kid?”
“He’s great … she’s a standard naggy bitch. ‘Where you goin’? What are you going to do? Stay away from that guy. He’ll get you in trouble.’”
Troy laughed at Diesel’s squeaky mime of his wife’s voice. Diesel looked over and grinned. “Man, I’m so glad you’re out.”
“Me, too.”
“The Greek came to see you.”
“Yeah. He had lawyer ID. Walked right in.”
“I asked Tony Citrino—”
“What’s he doing?”
“He tends bar in the Mission District in the city. We’ll go by there if you want.”
“I’d like to see Tony. He’s a good dude.”
“He hung up the gloves. Said he couldn’t do the time anymore. What I started to tell you was that the Greek’s supposed to be rich handlin’ that go-fast shit. I think he’s got a lab and makes it.”
“Lotta money in methamphetamine, especially if you make it. Goddamn, it smells bad when you manufacture it. You can smell it for a mile.”
“I never got to know the Greek very well. Everybody says he’s a stand-up dude.”
“Yeah, he is. Solid as a rock. And he’s got some drug dealers lined up for us to rip off. How’s that for a game plan?”
“I like that … motherfuckers who can’t yell copper. All they wanna do is kill a sucker—and that sure ain’t nothin’ new. They been tryin’ to kill me all my life. I hope they’re niggers.”
“No, no, bro’. This is equal opportunity.”
“Yeah. Equal opportunity. I like that.”
Ahead, through an opening in the rolling hills, the huge orange pillars of the Golden Gate flashed momentarily in the noonday sun. Within minutes they were on the grade leading to the bridge.
In the city, Diesel parked in a garage near Union Square and they walked to the London Men’s Shop, one of San Francisco’s better stores, featuring Brioni, Cornelini, Raffalo, and Hickey-Freeman suits. The shoes were Bally, Cole-Haan and Ferragamo. Men’s style had changed in Troy’s lost decade. From trim single-breasted suits and slim slacks without pleats, fashion had returned to pleated and draped pants and double-breasted suits with wide lapels and solid backs. It could have been 1950.
“When did you start getting sharp?” Troy asked. “You were a jeans and tank top man.”
“Hey, brother, it wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasn’t? I’ve got pictures.” Troy laughed at Diesel’s blush and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “How’d you find this place?”
“Those union guys. They love to be sharp. They try to outdress each other.”
Troy looked through the rack of size 43 jackets. The prices had risen considerably during his absence. It was going to cost far more than he had expected to dress the way he wanted. After trying on several jackets, he selected a dark blue Italian cut (no back vent), a single-breasted cashmere blazer, and pearl gray flannel slacks. He would have them cuffed. For dress shoes he took a pair of cordovan slip-ons with tassels from Cole-Haan. He added a wool turtleneck in burgundy, plus an ecru pinpoint oxford with spread collar and a necktie that the salesman recommended. The single outfit cost sixteen hundred dollars. In the mirror, he was a handsome personification of a Princeton lithograph. Nobody would ever
look at him and think he was a hoodlum. He tried his boyish smile. He’d often wondered why those outside the law often assumed a style that marked them. Even now the young thugs wore baggy pants and floppy shirts, turned cap bills backward, and left their shoelaces untied. Children of the bourgeoisie copied the fashion, but its origins came from reform school where clothes were oversized, and to the police it aroused the same hostile suspicion that zoot suits and ducktail hairdos had two generations earlier. Troy preferred to look as if he belonged in Newport, Palm Beach, or the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Anyone he wanted to know that he was a criminal knew him personally; all others he wanted to think he was a born-again Christian Republican. Or at least rich. That was what he saw in the mirror.
When measurements for alterations were taken (he could cuff the slacks himself), Diesel pulled out a fat roll of one-hundred-dollar bills and counted out cash. The manager took the money, but he also eyed the tattoos, and Troy was sure he thought they were drug dealers. Nobody else paid that much cash. Check or credit card was how the squares did it. Troy would have to get the big green American Express card and either Visa or MasterCard. You had to have those to fulfill the façade.
When they walked back onto the sunny street, he carried the clothes in a bag on a hanger. He would be dapper enough for anywhere they went—dressed for success, he thought with a smile. If he had nowhere else to dress so expensively, he would certainly wear the outfit on capers. A talisman? Not quite. When he was in reform school and already half-committed to crime, he saw a photograph of his idol, Legs Diamond, when the gangster was killed. Face and head were blown away, but the elegance of the three-piece Glen Plaid was plain—and the shoes were high-topped kangaroo skin. Very comfortable, very expensive. That was when Troy decided to get as sharp as possible before going on a caper. If he got busted, he wouldn’t arrive in jail looking like a bum. Very particularly he wouldn’t return wearing the “hot dog” dress-out shoes issued on release. Men who returned wearing dress-outs were ridiculed and laughed at.
At a Macy’s, he picked up everyday clothes, twill pants and chambray shirts, sweaters and Rockport walking shoes. As they headed toward the Mission District, they pulled over and gave a homeless begger the bundle of prison issue.
“You hungry, brother?” Diesel asked.
“Yeah.”
“Remember Paul Gallagher?”
“Was doin’ time for illegal abortions?”
“That’s him. He owns a steakhouse not far away.”
“Sounds good.”
“He won’t let us pay either.”
“Sounds even better.”
The beef tenderloin parted under light pressure from the steak knife, reminding him of the once-a-year rib steaks served in prison. Tough to start with, they were cooked to a texture approaching leather, but still, they were in demand. Extra guards were put in the mess hall to keep convicts from doubling back for seconds—and when the serving lines ran out before everyone had eaten, it was a tense moment. If they disliked the ham steaks in replacement, stainless-steel trays could sail across the mess hall like a cloud of Frisbees. As Troy savored another bite, he remembered a preference for pork chops when he was young—before he knew better.
“Great steak, huh?” Diesel said.
“Very good.”
“Lemme tell you what bein’ state-raised does. I used to think that you had to cook a steak well done. I didn’t know any better until I was out about a year.”
“Who pulled your coat?”
“Jimmy the Face.”
“How’re you and the old mafioso getting along?”
“We’re ace deuce. I beat the shit out of who he says, and he gives me money for it.” Diesel glanced around to make sure nobody else could hear; then he tilted his head closer. “About a year ago, he gave me a contract. I think some of those guys back east—Brooklyn or Jersey—sent it to him. The guy was on bail on one of those RICO laws and they were scared the feds would roll him over into a Valachi. In a way it was easy because I locked my mind and didn’t fuckin’ think about it. Afterward it fucked with me for a couple weeks. The old lady even noticed how fuckin’ jumpy I was.” Diesel paused. Troy watched the big, beefy face and sensed that Diesel had never mentioned a word of his worries to anyone else. To whom else might he confide? “I’ve fucked up a lot of dudes,” he continued. “I hurt that one guy pretty bad, that nigger that tried to stick me in the joint. He still walks like a drunk. But this one I’m tellin’ you about, that’s the first I ever knocked out of the box.
“They set him up. Sent for him. I was waitin’ in the parking lot with a twenty-two and a silencer. He went and knocked on the door. They weren’t there. When he went back to his car, I stepped up behind him and put one right in his head. He dropped. Boom.” Diesel snapped his fingers to illustrate how quick. “Then I put a Baggie around his head so he wouldn’t leak in my trunk. He’s up there in the mountains under the dirt with a sack of lime. Ain’t much left now except maybe his teeth.
“Afterward I started thinking about going to hell … all that crazy ass shit that those fuckin’ nuns and priests stuck on me. I know it’s bullshit … but it’s hard to get away from ’em.”
Over Diesel’s shoulder, Troy saw Paul Gallagher approaching and was glad for the interruption. It was poor underworld protocol to talk about one’s crimes if unsolved, and this was especially true of murder, which had no statute of limitations. If you knew nothing, nobody could wonder if you might snitch. Troy preferred to know nothing unless it involved him, and Diesel’s contract for Jimmy Fasenella failed the criterion. He indicated with his eyes that someone was near. Diesel stopped talking as Paul Gallagher arrived with a grin. “You don’t get steaks like that in the penitentiary. How ya doin’, big T?”
“Doin’ great today, my man. You’ve got a nice joint here.”
“Yeah … but people don’t eat red meat like they used to.”
“You look like you’re doing okay. All the tables are full.”
“It’s the first time in weeks. We only did twenty dinners last night.”
“Like I told you,” Diesel said, “if things get too bad, we can always repaint the place.”
“What’s a paint job gonna do for business?” Troy asked, making both men grin. “Okay, hit me with it,” he said.
“Tell him,” Gallagher said.
“You buy the paint and thinner and you start painting—and there’s an accident that starts a little fire. You open the doors to get the smoke out. A tarp falls on a hot stove top, a can of thinner gets kicked over. All of a sudden it’s too big to handle. No way they can say it was deliberate. Cool, huh?”
Nodding, Troy asked, “You thought of it?”
“Hell, no! The mob does that shit all the time back east … so why not out here?”
“Sounds like a winner to me,” Troy said—and it did. Without a confession there was no way to disprove an accident. It was much better than setting a fire in the night. The police could prove that in five minutes.
Gallagher insisted on their having dessert and coffee. Troy thought it was the best coffee he’d ever tasted.
“Man,” said Diesel, “I remember you knocking down that instant coffee. What were you, a Nestlé’s man or a Maxwell House?”
“Maxwell House. But after this, I don’t know if I could drink it again.”
“Hell,” Gallagher said, “they sell coffee now they didn’t even have back then.”
“I know. This has a great taste.”
“Hawaiian Hazelnut.”
Diesel glanced at his watch and let out a sound.
“What’s up, bro’?” Troy asked.
“Oh shit. The old lady expected me to call two hours ago.”
“Go call her. Blame me.”
“I don’t have to do that. She’ll blame you all by herself. Are you sure you don’t wanna come home with me? Wait’ll you see my kid. He’s fuckin’ big, man. Tough, too, and mean …” Diesel spoke with pride; being tough and mean were virtues
in his view of the world. It was what he had been taught throughout his life.
“I’ll see him,” Troy said, “but not tonight. I kinda wanna be loose. Walk around the city. You know Gigolo Perry?”
“Uh-uh. I know who he is by reputation, but he left the joint a long time before I got there. He owns a club on the other side of Market, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve got the address.”
“Want me to drop you there?”
“No. I was thinking about that Holiday Inn in Chinatown. I can walk to North Beach.”
“Hey, bro’, North Beach ain’t what it used to be.”
“Nothing’s like it used to be. What time can you come for me tomorrow?”
“Whenever you say.”
“We gotta drive to Sacramento and hook up with Mad Dog.”
“We gotta do that, huh?”
The voice inflection was not lost on Troy. He looked at the hard set of Diesel’s face and started to ask questions, but Gallagher arrived. The meal was on the house, but they should tip the waiter. He walked them to the door and gave Troy a hug of affection by way of good-bye.
The long summer twilight was still on the city. A clock in a jeweler’s window said seven-thirty. In San Quentin the evening meal was over. Shower unlock was in progress, and in the cells the convicts were watching the Giants-Dodgers game on the little TVs that prison officials used for mental pacifiers. Some left it on throughout the test patterns in the night and the predawn morning citrus report. Troy had once smashed a cell partner’s TV. The fool never shut it off; he was fixated on “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune” and other audience participation programs, so much so that he had to answer the questions aloud, and was usually wrong. It distracted Troy. Subtle comments were unavailing, so finally Troy waited for unlock, carried the TV out of the cell, and threw it over the tier. “If you don’t have a cell move tomorrow morning, you go with the TV.” “Hey, man, I didn’t know you took it personal.” The cell partner moved, but Troy carried a shiv and magazines for body armor for a few days, just in case it wasn’t over. He wished he hadn’t lost his temper. He watched movies and sporting events, football, basketball and boxing, and public service programs. When he tallied the hours, he thought they were mostly a waste, junk food for the mind. How many more books could he have read? Not that the printed word was panacea; most popular novels were pablum, too. During his decade in prison, his taste had changed immeasurably.
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