Chapter Eleven
Gangsters and Gentlemen
Sammy
It wasn’t often I received mail. Not many people knew the address, after all! So, the white envelope poking longways out of the box instantly drew my attention when I made it back to the house.
L. Zade
I skipped from the name on the return address to the bold red Correspondence from an Inmate stamped dead center across the top of the envelope.
“What the fuck–?” I didn’t know any Zade, or any inmate for that matter.
I let myself inside and shut the door behind me while I ripped the end of the envelope and slid the paper out. It was folded a few times the penmanship was neat but mostly printed.
Sammy,
Seems I missed your homecoming, love. I would have enjoyed seeing what a woman you’ve become. Your father could only be proud of a daughter who outranked him before thirty. How old are you now, sweetheart?
I’m not sure how well you remember me, but your brother said that you made it home safely, so I wanted to take a minute to welcome you back. As well as thank you for your service.
I don’t know any other chicks who went into that line of work, so I think it’s awesome as fuck. Did you get to see any cool shit out there? I guess you know from the envelope where I’m at, and likely where I ‘m heading from here.
Anyway, your brother said you were wanting to reacquaint yourself, but not really up to going out and hanging with people yet.
I can’t go out either, but I can write. I’m a good listener, especially when the person holding my attention is a pretty girl like you. I don’t expect visits, and I ain’t looking for commissary or any of that stupid shit. It’d be nice to pen someone once in a while, though. You know, to distract the mind and unleash my thoughts. What’s up? You game, beautiful?
Menace
I couldn’t help the snort that crawled from me. Wow. Just…
Wow.
I shook my head and tossed the letter onto the kitchen table. I had no intention of writing him back, but I still picked up a pencil and scribbled what I thought about Mr. Menace and his silver tongue.
Maybe writing down thoughts was useful, the more I wrote, the greater the ache became in my cheeks.
What a douchebag!
L. Zade,
What a simple fuck. Am I supposed to swoon because you called me girl? Should I be giddy that some jailbird thought of me between rounds of chow, shared showers, and discreet episodes of self-pleasure?
Yes, I could see how I overlooked my epic good fortune. The Gods surely smiled upon me the day some creature with a name like Menace deigned to put pen to paper and waste his last coffee-stained commissary envelope on me.
Forgive my ignorance, I truly am not worthy of your praise or the misogynistic attempts at flattery that dribble between the lines of your rationed parchment.
Now that we have that out of the way…
Let me address the meat of this correspondence. Thank you for the welcome back to Hell (I mean home). I had almost forgotten how much I missed Alby Street.
Do you always compliment a woman’s age before you know the actual number of years that she’s graced the earth? I’m twenty-two, by the way. Nowhere near thirty, but please, don’t let my age fool you. I’m not so dense as to believe that you want nothing.
You want to – Pen me.
I get it. You figured you’d start writing to women from the county, and maybe with a little luck you might have one lined up, ready to bend over by the time you make parole, am I right? I’ve seen how you guys operate; remember whose daughter I am?
What do you really want? And cut the shit, you sound like a fuck boy! If you expect me to write again, you had better miss me with that club shit. A real gentleman would have signed with his name, not his contribution to society.
Sammy