I lit a smoke, leaning against the side of the Plymouth. I let my eyes wander around the garage but kept my feet where they were. I knew what was in the back.

46

I HEARD a door slam somewhere and Bobby came out of the darkness, hands in the pockets of his coveralls. A big, husky kid-with his long hair and mustache, he looked like an ex-college football player. He came on slowly, not hesitating, just careful. The fat guy was saying something about the Plymouth, but Bobby wasn't listening.

He got close enough to see. "Burke! That you?" he yelled.

"It's me," I said in a quiet voice, knowing what was coming.

The kid crushed me in a bear hug, almost lifting me off my feet. "Brother!" he yelled. "My brother from hell!" I hate that stuff, but I hugged him back, mumbling some words to make it okay.

Bobby turned to the fat guy. "This is my man. Burke, say hello to Cannonball."

"We met," I told him.

"Yeah…right. What's happening, man?"

"He wants some nitrous…" the fat guy said.

"My brother don't want no nitrous…do you, Burke?" Bobby said in a superior tone.

"No," I said, watching the fat guy. Bobby's eyes dropped to my right hand. It was balled into a fist, the thumb extended, rubbing a tiny circle on the Plymouth 's fender. The jailhouse sign to get lost.

"Take a walk, Cannonball," Bobby told him.

"You oughta get the nitrous, man," Cannonball said by way of goodbye. He went off into the darkness in the back.

Bobby reached into my coat, patting around like he was doing a search. I didn't move. He pulled out my pack of cigarettes, lit one for himself. A prison-yard move-okay if you were tight, a spit in your face if you weren't.

"You want to move cars?" Bobby asked. The back of his garage was a chop shop. He took stolen cars and turned them into parts in a couple of hours. A good business, but it takes a lot of people to make it work.

"I'm looking for a couple of your brothers, Bobby," I told him.

The garage got quiet. "You got a beef?" he asked.

"No beef. I'm looking for somebody they might have done some work for. That's all."

"They're not in it?"

"They're not in it," I assured him.

"What is in it?" he wanted to know.

"Money," I told him.

"Same old Burke," the kid said, smiling.

I didn't say anything, waited. "You got names?" the kid asked.

"All I got is this, Bobby. One of them had the lightning bolt on his hand. Big guy. And they did some work for a woman. Older woman. Delivering money.

"With her?"

"Yeah. Bodyguard work."

"We do that…" he mused, thinking. Bobby rubbed his forehead- saw my eyes on his hand. The hand with the twisted lightning bolts- twisted into something that looked like a swastika.

"You never joined us," he said, no accusation in his voice. Just stating a fact.

"I joined you," I reminded him.

47

BOBBY'S FIRST day on the Big Yard, he was just off Fish Row, where they lock all the new prisoners. A happy kid despite the sentence he was just starting. Not state-raised-he didn't know how to act. Virgil and I were standing in the shadow of the wall, waiting for some of our customers who had miscalculated the results of the World Series. Bobby walked in our direction, but he was cut off at the pass by a group of blacks. They started some conversation we couldn't hear, but we knew the words. Virgil shook his head sadly-the stupid kid even let a couple of the blacks walk around behind him. It was every new kid's problem-they test you quick and there's only one right answer. The next time he hit the yard he'd better be packing a shank-or spend the rest of his bit on his knees.

The whole yard was watching, but the kid couldn't know that. "Take my back," said Virgil, and started over to the group. Virgil was a fool-he didn't belong in prison.

Virgil strolled over to the group, taking slow, deliberate strides, not in a hurry, keeping his hands where you could see them. I was two steps behind-he was my partner.

"Hey, homeboy!" Virgil shouted out. The blacks turned to face us. Their eyes were hot, but they kept their hands empty. The kid looked at Virgil, a blank, scared look on his face.

Virgil shouldered in next to the kid, put his arm on the kid's back, guiding him out of the circle. One of the blacks stepped in his way. "This is your man?" he asked.

"He surely is," said Virgil, his West Virginia accent like the coal he used to mine-soft around the edges but hard enough to burn inside.

"This your homeboy too?" the black guy asked me, sarcasm dripping from his lips. One of his boys chuckled. The yard was quiet-we all listened for the sound of a rifle bolt slamming a shell home, but even the guards were just watching.

"That's my partner," I told him, nodding at Virgil.

"You sure he's not your jockey?" the black guy sneered, forcing it.

"Find out," I invited him, stepping back, hearing footsteps behind me, unable to look for myself.

But the black guy could-right over my shoulder.

"Not today," he said, and walked off, his boys right behind.

I shot a glance behind me-a gang of warrior-whites were rolling up. They didn't give a flying fuck about me personally, but even the off-chance of a race war got them excited. When they saw the black guys walk away they stopped. Stood there with arms folded. They knew, but the kid didn't. He came back over to the wall with me and Virgil and we started to school him right then about what he had to do.

48

BOBBY TOOK a seat on the hood of the Plymouth. "I remember," he said. "You calling in the marker?"

"There is no marker, Bobby. I'm asking an old friend for a favor, that's all."

"The guys you want to meet-you know who they are?"

"Yeah," I told him.

"Say the name," Bobby shot at me, a lot of memories in his eyes.

I put it on the table. "The Real Brotherhood," I said, my voice quiet in the empty garage.

"You didn't say it right, Burke. It's the Real Brotherhood."

"That's how you say it, Bobby."

"That is how I say it. That's how it is."

"I told you I got no beef with them. I just want to talk."

I let it hang there-it was his play. He reached into my pocket and helped himself to another smoke. I saw the pack of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his coveralls-we were still friends. Bobby took the fired wood match I handed him, lit up. He slid off the fender until he was sitting on the garage floor, his back against the Plymouth. The way you sat in prison. He blew smoke at the ceiling, waiting. I hunkered down next to him, lit one of my own smokes.

When Bobby started to talk his voice was hushed, like in church. He bent one leg, resting his elbow on the knee, his chin in his hands. He looked straight ahead.

"I got out of the joint way before you did. Remember I left all my stuff for you and Virgil when they cut me loose? I got a job in a machine shop, did my parole, just waiting, you know? A couple of guys I know were going to the Coast. See the sights-fuck some of those blondes out there-check out the motors, right? I get out there and everybody's doing weed-like it's legal or something. I fall in with these hippies. Nice folks-easygoing, sweet music. Better than this shit here. You see it, Burke?"

"I see it," I told him. And I did.

"I get busted with a van full of weed. Two hundred keys. Hawaiian. And a pistol. I was making a run down to L.A. and the cops stopped me. Some bullshit about a busted taillight."

He took a drag of the smoke, let it out with a sigh. "I never made a statement, never copped a plea. The hippies got me a good lawyer, but he lost the motion to suppress the weed and they found me guilty. Possession with intent. Ex-con with a handgun. And I wouldn't give anybody up. They dropped me for one to fucking life-do a pound before I see the Board."