ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story)

by Glenn Langohr

  In the bathroom I looked in the mirror, and, through the tears that had started again, saw the pain in my eyes, the window to the soul. Mine look tortured. I hated how vulnerable I felt so I pulled out my speed. I chopped up a ridiculously large line and snorted it. I watched my eyes in the mirror harden and seal off the emotions that threatened me. I kept studying myself in the mirror and told myself I wasn’t weak. A weak person would consider suicide. I needed to find a cause worth dying for. I took one last look in the mirror and remembered my brother’s words. “You look possessed.”

  I left the bathroom deciding focused was a better word. My relatives were trained observers and many of them noticed the difference in me. My grandfather pulled me back under his wing and into the fold and asked me what my plans were. I spracked out all of my business ideas to turn my illegal business into a legal one.

  One of the New Yorker’s nodded his head and said, “Sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do huh? With those plans kid, just be ready to learn some hard lessons. The rackets aren’t what they used to be.”

  He went on to explain that since the feds got organized and turned the five families against each other along the east coast, it hadn’t been the same since. He summed it up that it took the feds turning into criminals to break everything up and now everyone runs their mouths without any honor.

  I nodded my head at how smart he was and listened some more.

  “That’s okay, though, because we found a home in the stock market with a few interests in construction and sanitation… Hey Pete, maybe we should have the kid move to New York with us. We could put him to work in the district at a restaurant or something.”

  I watched my grandfather shake his head no. He looked like he was considering what to say carefully.

  He said, “No… I don’t like that idea. He’s still got a court case to deal with in California. Plus he loves his younger brother too much to move that far away. Now, if he took care of his court case and then decided to… I’d be okay with it then.”

  I studied my grandfather’s face and then my relatives from New York. I couldn’t tell if they were in cahoots trying to dangle a carrot over me to get me to turn myself in. I thought, good try, but I’ve got to make some money first to have something to come back to other than poverty.

  At the airport my grandfather pulled me aside in front of the American airline terminal. “You’re not going to turn yourself in are you Benny?” It wasn’t a question, he already knew.

  I shook my head once and said, “No sir.”

  My grandfather pulled out a silver necklace with a silver cross and put it around my neck. Then he gave me a ring made of Italian gold with a nice size diamond. I put it on my finger and realized it was an old ring.

  “That’s to give you the same kind of love from above I seemed to have when I was struggling. Now listen to me carefully, boy, cause I’m telling you the Truth. Drug business is bad business. Nothing good can come from it. If you keep messing with that business you’ll only be digging a deeper hole for yourself. The family I was affiliated with wouldn’t allow any drugs to enter our rackets. After all of the dust cleared they’re the only ones who made it. Do yourself a favor and put all of that energy into a legal business. And remember, your Mom is up there watching you.”

  CHAPTER 68

  I got back to Paul’s house and it felt like I was so lost that I didn’t know which way was up or down. I remembered always telling myself when things were bad, that life couldn’t possibly get any worse than it is now. It seemed that it always did. I repeatedly asked God, “Why are you putting me through all of this? What did I do?”

  Paul saw the tormented look in my eyes and I noticed the authentic worry and concern in his. I had to snort line after line of speed to get over the feelings. Who wants to feel this vulnerable? Plus, I have a reputation to keep up! The speed worked its way into the gaping hole in my chest but it wasn’t working. My emotions were stronger.

  Paul pulled out a big wad of cash and gave me my portion. It was $500 more than I expected. For the first time in my life I looked at the cash for what it was, just paper. It didn’t do anything for me. I saw myself going outside and throwing it into the wind. Then I put it away and focused on Paul. He had just given me something I could build on, truth. I would have expected him to give me a little less than I had coming with some logical reasons to back up the shortage. He’d given me $500 more and I couldn’t understand how that was even possible. What a true friend! My heart found solace in Paul’s gesture. If I stay true, and Paul stays true, and Bob stays true…

  Paul kept the Momentum going by showing me the homework he’d done on our empire building. He pulled out his notebook and we went over the numbers on what it was going to cost to open a mechanic shop. A lease for a shop the size we needed was going to cost $4,000 a month, he estimated electricity and other associated fees would be another $250 a month. Then he showed me insurance would cost us up to another $1000 a month, workers compensation would be another $1,000 a month. He added up the rest of the California “fuck you” fee’s and came up with a grand total of approximately $7,000 a month we’d need.

  Exciting! I felt like I could fill that black hole in my chest with some hope! I manufactured a purpose for what my Mom had always told me. “Everything happens for a reason. God will never give you more than you can carry.” I thought about that and saw myself just barely able to stand. It felt like my legs were on the verge of buckling. Was God showing me the way? I remembered what my grandfather told me at the airport. “Start yourself a legal business.” This had to be it! I looked up toward the heavens and imagined my Mom looking down on me with God.

  I jumped on this hopeful direction and told Paul, “I can make that much money a month in overhead myself! Plus, with what you can bring in there is no stopping us! Let’s do it!!”

  Paul ruined my high by sticking out his hand like a stop sign. “Hold on there, soldier.”

  He flipped to the next page in his notebook and we went over the numbers. There was a list of tools we’d need that included machinery to work on transmissions and engines. The list added up to over $200,000! Paul explained that he had seen those machines sell for pennies on the dollar in the past when business owners went out of business. He planned to keep an eye out for those kinds of fire sales. Or, we could look into borrowing the money and buying everything brand new.

  We went over it and my hope ran into the curb. Which of us was going to get the credit for a couple hundred grand put in their name? Neither of us was that creditworthy. Credit stopped looking like an option. I had to manufacture some hope… I saw my rules and regulations… I saw Bob cooking speed for us… I saw Paul finding the machines at pennies on the dollar within six months or so…

  Paul turned the pages in his notebook and showed me his other business plan. Buying and selling used cars. He had a list of government seized auctions that promised a lineup of newer cars, exotic cars and great deals on them. After all, they’d been seized by the government, they should be pennies on the dollar, right? We were all set to go to the first government seized auction on the list.

  CHAPTER 69

  As the day approached I started to have second thoughts. Where was the future in buying a used car and tying up that kind of money while you wait for a buyer? It really didn’t look any different than buying our other products. But with our other products there was an unquenchable demand for them.

  We got to the auction and ran into problems immediately. The advertisement for the auction had said we’d have a half hour to check out 200 vehicles. Paul and I had planned to find vehicles that were low profile, that everyone else wouldn’t want, but that we could still turn a nice profit on. We were going to check those vehicles out during that half an hour to write down the mileage, look under the hood and check the tires. The guy running the auction on the bull horn told everyone that things were running late and that half an hour was cut down to 2 minutes! With our pens in the air over blank paper like
all the other hungry buyers, we got pushed out of the bullpen. We got shuffled into our seats and accepted the placard to hold up to bid on cars. I looked at the number 123 placard I had in my hand and at Paul with his Kelly blue book.

  The cars started to roll through in front of us. One right after another cars went by and people around us put their placards in the air to bid.

  It looked like the best of the vehicles were coming down the line first. Clean looking Mercedes Benzes’ went by that were a few years old… Clean looking B.M.W.’s went by…

  Paul whispered, “Those are out of our price range.”

  A Camaro with the 5.7 engine I’d always wanted went by. I raised my placard. Paul urged me to lower it. I did.

  We looked at his blue book to see what the buyer saved. Not much.

  The same thing happened with a corvette. The buyer didn’t save that much money.

  A Lexus went by that everyone wanted. The winner paid what the blue book said it was worth.

  I told Paul. “There are too many rich people here! Everyone wants to leave with a vehicle and there’s a bunch of impulse buyers driving the prices too high.”

  A limo went by, then an Audi, then a Jeep Cherokee, then a Porsche, then a Cadillac. I looked to Paul for guidance. He shook his head no.

  As half of the cars went by, the cheaper ones started showing. Honda Accords rolled through and on by. Acura Integra’s, Mitsubishi’s, and some trucks started to appear. I felt the impulsiveness of the situation wrap around me. My mind started telling me that this legal avenue isn’t happening. Then I looked at the mechanic shop and was depressed that it was just out of reach also. I’ve got to buy a car and get us started!

  A Mustang went by and I found myself wanting it. I raised my placard. Paul lowered it.

  After the Mustang, a tiny looking blue car with three antennas on it rolled through. Paul urged, “This is the one! Nobody will want it, raise the placard!”

  I looked at him like he was crazy. This had to be a joke. A little Ford Festiva.

  Paul was serious, “Nobody will want to bid on it! We’ll get it for pennies on the dollar!”

  I asked Paul, “What’s up with those three antennas?”

  Paul found it in the blue book and showed me. A two year old 1993 Ford Festiva went from $6,900 to $8,200.

  I raised my placard. The only placard against me was a Vietnamese looking guy. The epic battle was beginning. West against East.

  The auctioneer on the bullhorn asked, “Do I have $1,100?”

  I shot my 123 placard in the air assertively!

  The Vietnamese guy didn’t hesitate at $1,200 and his number 8 placard lifted. I studied my adversary. He looked like a veteran of the Vietnam war. His eyes slit even further under his glasses like he was bunkering down.

  A plan quickly formulated in my mind. He was studying me as much as I was studying him. I’d have to give him the impression I was reckless and careless with my money.

  The auctioneer on the bull horn asked, “I have $1,200, I have $1,200… Do I have $1,300?”

  I rose my 123 placard and announced, “$1,500!!” Swearing to myself I’d go no higher.

  That Vietnamese war veteran looked like a gangster dude. He was looking right at me with impossibly focused but nearly closed eyes. I got the feeling he had the same theory as Paul had. This is the car that nobody else will want. I have to get it! He raised his number 8 placard at “$1,600.”

  The thing I had at the top of my neck was no longer a brain, it was just an impulse message sender. I shot my 123 placard in the air and announced, “$1,900!!”

  The Vietnamese veteran gangster dude’s eyes popped open as much as western eyes and I read his mind as he put his placard down against his chair. “These dumb white people are driving the prices up too high for any bargains to be had!”

  I nodded his way and thought, I resemble that sentiment. I looked at the little blue Ford Festiva with the three conspicuous antennas and wondered. We are at a government seized auction… Was that car a drug runner? I asked Paul if he thought it was but he was busy factoring in the profit if we sold it for $4,900.

  With the auction over, we went to take care of the $1,900 to get our Ford Festiva. Standing in line we learned that you had to put down some money for your vehicle and come back for it on Monday.

  We also overheard angry buyers finding out that there were a number of unexpected associated fees. Big government was blessing everyone with a $250 fee that, in itself, was a limited insurance policy against theft. All of the major parts had the VIN numbers etched into them and supposedly were impossible to remove. The limited policy explained that if the car was stolen and not returned to you within 30 days, thanks to these etched in VIN numbers, you the buyer would get an additional $2,500. The auction itself added in another $250 fee for administrative purposes. Then another similar one for $150. Then another one for $100.!

  Paul and I stood facing the receptionist and she pointed out a spot on the third page of fine print where it informed the buyer of these fees. I told her, “What a scam you guys run! The government seizes the cars for free and then you give us this fine print right when we get ushered into the bull pen to look at 200 cars for 2 minutes, then get ushered back to bid on the cars immediately! There wasn’t any time to read this fine print!”

  The receptionist replied, “I take it this is your first time to one of these auctions. That’s pretty much how it works, I’m sorry.”

  Then she pointed to the bottom of the third page of fine print. It said we could excuse ourselves from the purchase for a $250 penalty.

  Paul and I conferred over it. He pointed to the blue book. $6,900 to $8,200. I wasn’t going to peel off $250 for a penalty to drive away with an empty dream. The receptionist added in the taxes and licenses on top of the other “fuck you” fees for a total of $2,990. I thought of the Vietnamese guy, I might of won the battle but it looked like he was winning the war. I put down a payment and we left.

  CHAPTER 70

  Over the rest of the weekend Paul and I went over things. We were going to list the Ford Festiva in a number of free advertisements and one that you paid a onetime fee for. He helped me see this first acquisition as a learning experience. Next time we could go to a government seized auction in a more remote area where there wasn’t so many rich people, like Temecula, or Chula Vista. Paul also suggested we check out auctions that tow yards offered. That made sense.

  On Monday we showed up to get the Ford Festiva. I paid the rest of the money and waited for the car. We waited and waited and watched everything close down around us. Finally a Mexican brought the Festiva out of the gate and handed me the keys and some paperwork. I watched him get in another car parked along the street and drive away. I opened the Festiva’s door and got in. The first thing I looked for was the mileage on the odometer. 187,000 miles!!

  “Paul!! Look at this shit!! It’s got 187,000 miles on it!!”

  I got out and Paul got in. He couldn’t even look at me and said, “How in the hell can you put 187,000 miles on a car that’s only two years old?”

  I saw that vision of the little blue Ford Festiva driving from Mexico with drugs through the U.S. in a nonstop circle 24-7. “It was a big time drug dealer’s car. That’s why it’s got three antennas on it. That’s why it’s at a government seized auction. We’re fucked.”

  Paul looked uncomfortable. He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry…”

  I lowered my head and said, “It’s not your fault. It’s the government’s and auction’s fault. You couldn’t have known.”

  “I should have listened to you when you wondered about all of those antennas.”

  I let him off the hook. “It’s not your fault. Let’s get out of here.”

  Paul got in his Mustang and drove away. I started the Festiva and had trouble getting it into first gear. Paul’s Mustang was turning the corner and out of view. I jammed the stick shift towards first gear and was met with grinding resistance. I played with the clut
ch and it didn’t feel right. I pushed the clutch in and out and finally got it into first gear. I drove a little way and couldn’t get it into second gear. The Ford Festiva was giving me 15 miles an hour at 5,000 r.p.m.’s, but not second gear. Grind, grind, and grind, sorry, no second gear.

  I made it around the first turn at almost 20 miles an hour with the r.p.m.’s close to red lining. I tried second gear again and felt the transmission fall out. The little blue Festiva bounced over it and angled right into the curb.

  I got Paul on the phone and he came back for me. We had to tow our little blue acquisition to his house and pull out the notebook to add another expense.

  CHAPTER 71

  Paul proved his worth as a penny on the dollar partner by finding a re-built transmission and clutch in Compton, L.A. I drove there to a Vietnamese owned shop and spent just under $800 for the parts. A couple of weeks later Paul had little blue running like new. I spent another $500 or so on six months of insurance and another $250 registering it. The notebook came out and gave me a grand total of $4,450 invested into little blue. With the kind of mileage it had I knew I couldn’t get more than half my money back. This legal shit sucks so far.

  CHAPTER 72

  A few weeks later Paul and Gina went to sleep and I realized I couldn’t. I thought, Paul’s not trying to keep up with me anymore. This was the second time he was going to sleep since I’d gotten back from the funeral. Not me. I was still bunkering down and pushing sleep away like a weakness. I looked at my watch and realized I’d spent the last hour on the couch figuring out how many days it had been since I’d slept in New Orleans. I finally came up with 23 days. I examined those 23 days in as much detail as possible as if I was outside of my body watching me struggle from a distance.