One evening Dose had the wit to say: “This one’s free, man.”
Raf narrowed his eyes: No arrears was the message flashing in them. Don’t play me, man.
“Just don’t mail it right away, okay? Show it around to the brothers.” Raf sat at the Bloods’ table at dinner, an unapproachable zone of latent violence. “Say who did it for you.”
Raf smiled now, getting it. “Aight, Dog. I could do that f’you.”
Dose hadn’t taken long to see that the hand-drawn posters and logos and primitive porn scotch-taped to so many bunk walls were the work of just a few prisoners, and the rest of the population customers of those few. No reason not to crack this wider market-his cards for Raf were head and shoulders above the usual crap, which mostly resembled tracings from 1950s comic books. Graffiti stylings, those were what elicited the oohs and ahs.
Sure enough, a little promotional savvy brought the flood. Dose found himself doodling borders for any number of love letters-the sheer flood of woo being pointlessly pitched from behind stone walls and steel bars could make you dizzy if you dwelled on it. Every one of these retrofitted paramours was a former ho-slappin’ mack daddy, now down on one knee. Dose tried not to learn too much about who was really getting mail back, or visitors, or even their phone calls answered.
But Valentines were only a feature of the market: Dose did hand-over-fist business in cardboard frames for photographs of loved ones, and burner-style name tags on notebook sheets for personalizing bunk spaces-anyone who saw one would say Yo, I gotta get down with that, and get in line during next rec. He manufactured custom porn, homemade Tijuana Bibles featuring, for instance, Crockett and Tubbs nailing Madonna, whatever the customer wanted, the customer was always right. He drew prototypes for tattoos, which ballpoint-pen tattooists transferred to biceps and thighs and chests. Dose would see men he didn’t know in the commissary line, wearing his tags on their bodies. Call him King of Elmira. Sometimes it threw him back to Boy Scout days, as if he could get a merit badge for Tit Art or Tattoo.
A Puerto Rican kid asked Dose to personalize one of the system’s standard-issue white T-shirts. He wanted a cartoon of himself, palms turned outward in an expression of helplessness, and the slogan TEN TO LIFE?!? Sad but true, the kid wished to wear it, so Dose knocked it out, bestowed the kid big oval Felix the Cat eyes, not bad if he said so himself. The next day an older black CO named Carroll, ordinarily a stand-up dude, appeared at Dose’s cell.
“Stand out for search,” said Carroll.
“What up, man?”
“Put a sock in it and stand out.”
Carroll emerged from his bunk search with all of Dose’s art supplies, plus ten packs of coffin nails Dose had stockpiled. “I have to seize these materials and write you up,” he said. “Holding more than six packs is an infraction.”
“Dang, take the butts, but that’s my drawing shit.”
“Listen, Rude. You make this shirt?” Carroll showed Ten-to-Life’s T, which he’d had balled in his back pocket.
“What if I did?”
Carroll shook his jowly head, weary with all he’d seen in his days. “You’re risking seven years for attempted escape for altering a garment.”
Dose started over, assembling new materials on credit, and leaving all garments unaltered this time around. The second assault on his enterprise came a few weeks after he resumed, at the hands of the Astacio brothers: two older Hispanic jailhouse artists, either real brothers or not, maybe cousins. No one knew, though both were short and chubby, and both wore their hair in a net with an oily knot at the neck. The Astacios worked in a truly pathetic Coney Island-tattoo style, their lettering of any slogans or monikers as crude as a woodcut. Without troubling to notice, Dose had been suffocating their livelihood, so the brothers began stepping up on him, in the food line, in the commissary line, on the yard. They’d growl animalistically, something about quit stealing their customers-as if Dose was expected to screen requests: You don’t happen to be clientele of the esteemed Astacios?, some shit like that. Dose only pretended not to understand, like they were speaking Spanish. Then Ramon Astacio stepped up on him at a urinal, in an abruptly vacated F-gallery shower.
Ramon hemmed in near to Dose, now seeming not to have the use of language at all, only body English. He opened his smile and showed why: he was twirling a razor blade in his mouth, flipping it with his tongue like a cheerleader knuckling a baton.
Dose flipped, a year’s accumulated fear brimming in him, the first rage he’d opened himself to feel since expelling the bullet in Senior’s direction. He threw an elbow and hung Ramon on the jaw, causing him to bite on the ritually displayed blade. The move was triumphant and a mistake. As in a yoking, there were rules to follow, an art of encounters. Threat had a rhetoric. Ramon might have a mouthful of his own blood, but Dose had surrendered the rudder of the moment.
A man didn’t just hit another man unless he could go all the way and kill him, and this was not the place Dose had staked out for himself.
Now he rushed from the shower, past Noel, the other brother, sentry at the door.
At dinner that night Ramon was absent and the word buzzing through the hall was he was getting his mouth sewn. Noel sat at the Nietas’ table and he and some of the Nietas were offering heavy glares. Dose knew he would have to move eventually and saw no margin in waiting, so he went right at the unthinkable, and approached the Bloods’ table. Not directly to Raf, but to the place where King Blood sat. It took gulping back his heartbeat to do it.
“I want to apologize for disturbing your meal,” he told King Blood. “But I’ve got trouble and I have to ask if I could speak to Raf.”
King Blood didn’t look from his tray, as if they were all working from a script too familiar to bother dramatizing.
“This a question of mercy, or you looking to do business?”
“Business,” said Dose.
“Go ahead,” said King Blood, only after an appreciable pause, time enough for any pair of eyes in the room to see it was Dose who’d come to them and been made to wait trembling for an answer.
So it was that Raf became Dose’s protector and broker, taking fifty percent out of any payment, and stockpiling a certain vein of big-titted poster work for private dispersal among the Bloods network. In an unseen deal some top-level Blood had a word with some top-level Nieta and the Astacios melted away. The brothers only shot Dose dartlike glances when they were certain no one saw, Ramon salaciously licking his teeth with his scarred tongue, wanting Dose to see the badge he’d awarded and consider its implications.
But Raf was big and strong, and devoted, and so Dose’s safety at Elmira was secured. Dose was one of his several mules; the others dealt “trees”-tight-rolled cheeba sticks, cut with mentholated tobacco to stretch the ingredient-and he would slip Dose a fistful of these once in a while, a small perk. Dose had arrived at a policy of no dope inside, witnessing the rapid spiral of arrears this led to, but getting stoned on the gratis trees was a safe exception. Raf also turned out not to be so faithful to the recipient of his incessant Valentines that he didn’t want his dick sucked a couple of times, and then to suck Dose’s in return once they trusted one another. The Bloods had a broom closet permanently bought for more or less this exact purpose. Dose learned to admire how Raf could want to stretch a suckjob out to defeat time, like relishing a shaggy-dog story. If he even came to crave it a little, in both directions, find himself as entranced by the tensing in Raf’s lifter’s thighs as he was by the avidity of a mouth, that was fine, neither here nor there, not particularly telling. If there was one thing Dose had learned from his father-the Love Man resting on his laurels, lazily taking what came to the house, Horatio’s women or, on occasion, Horatio-it was that it wasn’t a big deal to suck a little dick now and then, so long as nobody girled you out. That had been Dose’s understanding the day Barrett Rude Junior walked in on his son with Dylan Ebdus: there were more things under the sun than what cats might get up to with one another if there were no women on the scene.