CHAPTER THREE #2
I nodded, thinking of my Les Paul I hadn’t played in ten years. “Well, listen. This is gonna be a hard row to hoe. The guy he killed was a fellow inmate, a prison wolf who raped him, I imagine more than once.”
Erin went soft with camaraderie. “Oh, wow. I guess no one ever found out?”
“No. Some road dog took the rap for him.”
Gunning said, “That’s an awfully momentous thing to take the rap for. I wonder why the guy did it?”
I shrugged. “Probably already doing Buck Rogers time. Owed Alessio a solid.”
I knew this would set off Erin, and I always had to tread carefully about this kind of abuse. She blurted, “The US is the first place in history where more men have been raped in jail than women.”
Erin should know. She’d spent her last five years out of jail poring over books, cramming her head with facts.
Imprisoned for prostitution as a wayward teen, she had also been put in a cage, left to burn in the desert by guards with a particular sense of humor.
She’d swallowed a razor blade because no one wanted to hear what she had to say.
This was their punishment. “I just wanted a friend.”
So they put her uncovered cage into the 106-degree sun, no water, no bed. They laughed when she asked for water.
Only supposed to use the cage for two hours, the guards left her in there for ten, insulting her.
She burned her face against the metal. Fellow inmates, upstairs in the air-conditioned luxury of the cellblock, finally convinced admin to call an ambulance.
Her naked body was covered in burn blisters.
They say she was muttering something about Jay-Z and Beyoncé.
Her internal organs were cooking, her eyeballs like parchment.
That she recovered was miracle enough. That she lifted herself up to become my assistant was a revelation of the first order.
As a Mojave, we’d been half-assedly trying to find her real family for a couple of years. Wasn’t easy, with the separate and scattershot records the tribes kept. Erin still called herself a worthless junkie from time to time. I always told her she was an amazing person. And she was.
Both Erin and Gunning knew what it was like to be imprisoned in cages. Their devotion to each other, their solidarity was evident to me every day.
I had to close my eyes briefly. Squeezing the bridge of my nose as though I had a headache, when I opened my eyes I saw Gunning striding to the kitchen, to the exact cabinet where I’d hidden the wine.
I had to chuckle. He knew me well. I got up to join him, refilling my own glass.
That’s when I saw Alessio’s day bag on the floor.
“Thanks for bringing this,” I said. “I reckon I have to wash all of the clothes in there.”
Erin knifed her hand through the air. “All,” she proclaimed. “No doubt, all. That fucking bag reeked up Gunning’s car so bad. I hung out the window gagging.”
I bent to swipe up the bag in the crook of my arm. “I’ll do these right away.”
Erin stood. “I’ll do it, boss.”
I shook my head. “Just because you’re the woman doesn’t mean you automatically have to do the laundry.” Although she did do it quite a bit at the Establishment Club.
The washer and dryer were just steps away, in the room leading to that floor’s bathroom. Honestly? I probably just wanted to snoop in Alessio’s bag.
I heard Erin saying, “No one deserves the inhumane conditions Alessio endured in the Prison Farm.”
Gunning opined, “Problem is, when the transitional housing department finds out you were an addict, they’ll strike you from their lists.”
“All ex-cons are basically unemployable. We can’t even vote.”
Gunning chuckled. “But you’re not upset about not being able to serve on a jury.”
Erin spat. “Hell no! Don’t waste my time with that shit. Listening to divorce lawsuits or petty thefts? No thanks.”
“Well luckily, as a musician, his record shouldn’t stand too much in his way.”
Erin had been exaggerating about the stench of Alessio’s bag.
Or maybe I was so damn used to it at the Establishment Club.
A couple pairs of pants were fairly stiff, but I tossed it all in the washing machine with the required tablespoon of liquid soap.
One of the shirts was crunching, and I withdrew a letter—envelope, stamp, and all.
Addressed to Alessio—spelled Alesio Madina—at the halfway house he’d just come from, it originated at Wasco State Prison down near Bakersfield.
A guy named Groover. Whether that was his first name or last I had no clue, but of course I read it.
We didn’t honor privacy much at the Club, as part of our job was to assist them in the clean, healthy path, insofar as they were actually willing to do it.
Bunkie, it said, in blocky handwriting,
I am here in the Gen Pop. I acted like I was going psyk for awhile after that guard danced on the black top.
It didn’t add anything to my Buck Rogers time.
But now that I’ve got a body, I’ve got a big loyal car.
[A body was a kill. A car was a prison clique.
] My road dog Alesio! You must be free as a huricane by now.
Tell me when you can come? Sometimes I feel a back door parole [dying] is my only way out of here. But I know you are good for yr promise.
Your road dog, Groover
Your promise? Promise for what . . .
Without hemming and hawing, I showed the letter to Gunning and Erin. She leaned over Gunning’s shoulder to read. They both reached the end at the same time.
“’Your promise’?” I demanded. “What does he mean by—”
Almost as one, my assistants retorted.
“Breaking him out.”
“Busting him out.”
Oh. Duh. Why didn’t I think of that? “Are you serious? You think Alessio would risk something that stupid? And now it’s a guard he killed, not just a fellow inmate.”
Their faces were adamant, jaws jutting.
“For taking the fall for him, yeah.”
“For taking the fall for him.”
I felt like a scream in the middle of a dinner party. My associates looked so matter-of-fact, interpreting the letter that way. They gazed at me, expectations high. What did they want me to say? I felt like throwing stuff all over the room.
Instead, I took a gulp of wine and sputtered. “Well, he can’t bust him out. How can he do that? Does anyone do that anymore?”
Gunning stood from the table, pointing at the letter. “Look at the date on that envelope. It’s over a month ago. Alessio probably already answered him. The plot is probably already in progress.”
I sputtered some more, and Erin said, “Groover really did him a good solid. Can you blame him for wanting to return the favor?”
“Yeah, but . . . yeah . . . but . . . “
“Truman!”
It was the raggedy roar of the parolee, yelling from my bed.
I shot into action. On my way upstairs, taking them two at a time, I realized my swift response made me look like an asshat. Gunning and Erin knew me well. They’d be looking sideways at each other right now, grinning, withholding guffaws.
Oh, who gives a shit!
Alessio lay on his back on my mattress, clutching his concave stomach. One knee up, the sheet draped it like a statue they didn’t want you to see. I flew to the bed, practically bowling him over when I landed, palms on his arm.
“Alessio! What’s wrong?” What a dumb question.
He ground the words out between his clenched teeth. “I have . . . to get through this.”
“You do!”
“Only one more night! Right?”
Well, it depended on how long he’d been using—this time. Every day, a month at the halfway house? “Yes, just tonight. Then you’re in the clear.”
Flinging his free arm above his head, he faced me. Suddenly his eyes seemed clear, devoid of clouds, oily globes deep and infinite. He spoke crystalline, like he was onstage. “I believe you.”
I smiled. Squeezed his bicep. “You’ll make it, Alessio. Then you can get back to your music.”
A renewed spasm clenched his stomach as he shut his eyes. I strode to the bathroom to whip open a med cabinet. Removing some OTC sleep aid, I shook three into my palm and marched back to the bedroom—my bedroom.
“Here.” I managed to get Alessio to sit up long enough to gulp the pills with the glass of water from the nightstand.
I made him sit up a bit longer to ensure the pills made it into his empty stomach.
Threading my fingers through his damp hair, I combed it, massaging his skull.
I dared to place my other palm on his chest, by his clavicle.
The heat his body generated was astounding.
“You’ll do fine, buddy. Once you’re over this, you can start composing again, get back to the studio, make albums.”
He exhaled sharply, as though he’d been holding his breath, collapsing back onto the puffy bolster of pillows. He grasped my wrist and muttered, “Come. Come with me.”
Not sure what he meant, I raised my legs onto the bed and lay down on one arm next to him. He slithered an arm under my neck, cradling me closer until my lips touched his hot neck. His breathing was rapid, heart strong and vigorous, maybe a hundred and ten beats per minute.
He seemed to be fading into the desired oblivion. I dared to move my palm down to his silken chest, thumbing a spray of the slick obsidian hair.
I felt like a black hole, absorbing his light and crushing it. Alessio was far superior to me. I’d never deserve him.