Bobby locked his hands behind his head, resting from the pain. "When I hit the yard I knew what to do-not like when you and Virgil had to pull me up. I remembered what you told me. When the niggers rolled up on me, I acted like I didn't know what they were talking about- like I was scared. They told me to pull commissary the next day and turn it over." Bobby smiled, thinking about it. The smile would have scared a cop. "I turn over my commissary-I might as well turn over my body so they could fuck me in the ass. I get a shank for two cartons-just a file with some tape on the end for a grip. I work on the thing all night long, getting it sharp. In the morning, I pull my commissary. I put the shank in the paper bag with the tape sticking up. I walk out to the yard with the bag against my chest-like a fucking broad with the groceries. The same niggers move on me-tell me to hand it over. I pull the shank and plant it in the first guy's chest-a good underhand shot. It comes out of him when he goes down. I run to get room. Turn aroundand I'm alonethe niggers took off. I hear a shot and the dirt flies up right near me. I drop the shank and the screws come for me."

"You should of dropped the shank when you ran," I said.

"I know that now-didn't know it then. Things are different out there." Bobby ground out his cigarette on the garage floor, took one of his own, and lit it. "They put me in the hole. Out there, the fucking hole is like a regular prison-it's full of guys-guys spend fucking years in the hole. Only they call it the ' Adjustment Center.' Nice name, huh? There's three tiers on each side. Little tiny dark cells. The noise was unbelievable-screaming all the time. Not from the guards doing work on any of the guys-screaming just to be screaming.

"I was sitting in my cell, thinking about how much more time I'd get behind this, even if the nigger didn't rat me out. I mean, they caught me with the shank and all. Then it started. The niggers. 'You a dead white motherfucker!' 'You gonna suck every black dick in the joint, boy!' All that shit. I yelled back at the first one, but they kept it up, like they was working in shifts or something. And then one of them yelled out that the guy I stabbed was his main man-he was gonna cut off my balls and make me eat them. They were fucking animals, Burke. They never stopped-day and night, calling my name, telling me they were gonna throw gasoline in my cell and fire me up, poison my food, gang-fuck me until I was dead."

Bobby was quiet for a minute. His voice was hard but his hands were shaking. He looked at his hands-curled them into fists. "After a couple of days, I didn't have the strength to yell back at them. It sounded like there were hundreds of them. Even the trustee-the scumbag who brought the coffee cart around-he spit in my coffee, dared me to tell the Man.

"They pulled me out to see the Disciplinary Committee. They knew the score-even asked me if the niggers had hit on me. I didn't say a word. The Lieutenant told me stabbing the nigger was no big deal, but I'd have to take a lockup-go into P.C. for the rest of my bit. You know what that means?"

"Yeah," I said. "P.C." is supposed to stand for "protective custody." For guys who can't be on the main yard-informers, obvious homosexuals, guys who didn't pay a gambling debt-targets. To the cons, "P.C." means Punk City. You go in, you never get to walk the yard. You carry the jacket the rest of your life.

"They kept me locked down two weeks-no cigarettes, nothing to read, no radio-nothing. Just those niggers working on me every day. They never got tired, Burke-like they fucking loved that evil shit. Screaming about cutting pregnant white women open and pulling out the baby. One day it got real quiet. I couldn't figure it out. The trustee came with the coffee. He had a note for me-folded piece of paper. I opened it up-there was a big thick glob of white stuff inside. Nigger cum. I got sick but I was afraid to throw up-afraid they'd hear me. Then one of them whispered to me-it was so quiet it sounded like it was in the next cell. 'Lick it up, white boy! Lick it all up, pussy! We got yard tomorrow, punk. The Man letting us all out, you understand me? You lick it all up, tell me how good it was!' He was saying all this to me and all I could think of was, there was no way to kill myself in that lousy little cell. All I wanted was to die. I pissed on myself-I thought they could all smell it."

Bobby was shaking hard now. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he was lost in the fear. "I got on my knees. I prayed with everything I had. I prayed for Jesus-stuff I hadn't thought of since I was a kid. If I didn't say anything, I was dead-worse than dead. I looked at that paper with that nigger's cum on it. I went into myself-I thought about how it had to be. And I found a way to die like a man-all I wanted.

"I got to my feet. I stood up. My voice was all fucked up from not saying anything for so long, but it came out good and steady. It was so quiet everybody heard me. 'Tell me your name, nigger,' I said to him. 'I don't want to kill the wrong nigger when we go on the yard, and all you monkeys look alike to me.' As soon as the words came out of my mouth I felt different-like God came into me-just like I'd been praying for.

"Then they went fucking crazy-screaming like a pack of apes. But it was like they were screaming on some upper register…and underneath it was this heavy bass line, like in music. A chant, something. It was from the white guys in the other cells-some of them right next to me. They hadn't made a sound through all this shit, just waiting to see how I'd stand up. I couldn't hear them too good at first-just this heavy, low rumbling. But then it came through all the other stuff. 'R.B.! R.B.! R.B.!' "

Bobby was chanting the way he'd heard it back in his cell, hitting the second letter for emphasis…"R.B.! R. B.!"pumping strength back into himself.

"They kept it up. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were there. There for me. They didn't say anything else. I started to say it too. First to myself. Then out loud. Real loud. Like prayer words.

"When they racked the bars for us to hit the exercise yard-one at a time-I walked out. The sunlight hit me in the face-I almost couldn't see. I heard a voice. 'Stand with us, brother,' it said."

Bobby looked at me. His eyes were wet but his hands were steady and his mouth was cold. "I've been standing with them ever since, Burke," he said in the quiet garage. "If you got a beef with them, you got one with me."

49

I GOT TO my feet. Bobby stayed where he was. "I already told you-I got no beef with your brothers. I want to ask some questions, that's all. I'll pay my own way.

Bobby pushed himself off the floor. "You think you could find the Brotherhood without me?"

"Yeah," I told him, "I could. And if I was looking for them like you think, I wouldn't come here, right?"

He was thinking it over, leaning against the car, making up his mind. Bobby made a circuit around the Plymouth, peering into the engine compartment, bouncing the rear end like he was checking the shocks. "When's the last time this beast got a real tune-up, Burke?"

"A year ago-maybe a year and a half-I don't know," I said.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice soft and friendly, "you leave the car here, okay? I'll put in some points and plugs, time the engine for you. Change the fluids and filters, align the front end. Take about a week or so, okay? No charge."

"I need the car," I said, my voice as soft and even as his.

"So I'll lend you a car, all right? You come back in a few days-a week at the most-your car will be like new." I didn't say anything, watching him. "And while I'm working on your car, I'll make some phone calls. Check some things out, see what's happening with my brothers…"