I want it to be my bare hands that rip this guy apart.
I sit on top of Ronny’s chest, tuck my legs under me as I straddle his stomach. And then I just start pummeling him. I bring my fist down, hard, against his cheek. He keeps reaching for me with both hands, but I’ve got the advantage of pinning him down, so I take another jab, then another, to his jaw. Blood starts gushing from his nose, and he’s stammering, playing defense with wild arms and loose fists.
But before I can take another blow, I’m lifted off him in one fell swoop and thrown headfirst into the table. I hit the ground with a thud, my lungs slapping against the hard tile of the mess hall. I roll over, but all I see are legs towering over me, a shadow splayed across my features. I close my eyes out of instinct, raise my hands to block my face—
But then the shadow’s gone. I scramble to the table’s bench a few feet away to steal a breath. Who had my back? I grip the edge of the bench, steadying myself, and stand.
And then I’m face-to-face with my cell mate, Howie Matthews.
His hands are up like a boxer’s, his brow stitched, and his mouth open mid war cry, and for a second I wonder if I’ve somehow managed to get double-teamed—that I have both D Street and the Shaws after me—but then Howie turns around and starts pummeling some dark-haired greaser behind him.
The fight has ballooned, at least ten, maybe twenty, men sparring and swatting at one another, the D Street boys who flew to Ronny’s side, and yes, yes, yes, the Shaws to mine. I take quick stock of the scene, at the smattering of brawls—two young guns locked together like wrestlers on the ground. A sinewy older man whaling on some lanky teenager. A fistfight at the nearby table.
The place is chaos.
“Goddamn it, you half-wits!” a prison guard shouts above the noise. He smacks my table with his baton, and a deep boom clangs through the mess hall. “ENOUGH!”
Everyone stops moving and turns to look at him. Everyone, except for Ronny. Ronny crawls off the floor slowly and stands. And then like a wounded dog that won’t stay down, he lunges for me. I duck out of the way, as the guard steps in and shoves his baton into the thick of Ronny’s stomach. Three other guards approach from my left side, guns and batons out. They surround our table, pistols drawn and pointed into the crowd.
And then you can’t hear anything but deep breathing and the clanking of spoons from the mess hall workers in the nearby kitchen.
*
We’re all filed back into our rooms, doors locked behind us, outdoor privileges forfeited for the day. I know I just painted a mark on my back for D Street’s target practice, but I also know that it was worth it.
Because that night, for the first time, Howie speaks to me. He waits until we’ve both washed up and are in our separate cots.
“That was a hothead move, Danfrey,” he says from the top bunk, “taking on that D Street prick solo.”
My heart starts beating overtime. He’s talking to me. I did it. It begins. I study the bottom of his bunk, trying to figure out the best way to play this, to use his comment as a wedge to prop open the door.
“Maybe,” I say as coolly as possible. Bring it home, win him over. “But that thug was making claims he had no right to make. I don’t owe D Street anything.”
I hear Howie’s bed squeak above me. “Well, that’s a damn wop for you. Invite him over for dinner, he’ll try to screw your wife, then have the balls to stay for breakfast.”
I laugh, the laughter coming easy, a bubble of relief. “Isn’t that the truth?”
It’s a while before Howie speaks again. “So you really severed all ties with the D Street Outfit? ’Cause I might’ve thought, like father like son, even after those lowlifes sold him out to the Feds—”
“I don’t care if it was a couple of no-names or Boss Colletto himself who gave up my father,” I interrupt, my excitement getting the better of me. I regroup, add more quietly, “It happened under Colletto’s watch, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s Colletto’s wrong. I’d never work for him. D Street’s a big fat hole on my map.”
Howie laughs—the kind of long, deep laugh I’ve heard him belt out in the mess hall when he’s around friends. And I take it as a good sign. Not a sign to let my guard down, but a sign that things are moving in the right direction. “Hell, I understand. When someone wrongs me, I never get over it.”
“Some two-bit fogey who plays lapdog to Colletto tells me that I owe them a cut of what I run?” I add. “If I had my way, each and every D Street wop would be dead.”
Then there’s silence for a long while. But I can hear Howie breathing.