The Blade Itself

10

Danny recognized the boots. They were the same battered black work boots Evan had worn that night, seven years and a lifetime ago. Steel toes with a rigid sole that made far more noise than the jogging shoes Danny had preferred. But that wasn’t what concerned him now. What concerned him was that he’d stepped into his apartment to find them propped on his kitchen table.

The retro clock on the wall seemed loud. Danny thought of loud. Danny thought of gunfighters in the old West, the silence before the storm of bullets. He dropped his bag on a stool, tossed his keys on the counter. Kept his voice calm as he spoke – “Make yourself at home.” His fingers tingled with adrenaline, but it was too late to back out now. It wasn’t just dogs that could smell fear; criminals had a pretty good nose for it, too.

“What’s with the Heineken in the fridge?” Evan leaned back in his chair, rocking it up on two legs, the picture of comfort. There were three empty green bottles on the table already, a fourth well on its way.

“Karen’s.”

“Tastes like piss.”

Danny glanced around casually. If there were any other surprises planned, he wanted to know about them. The table sat in an alcove beneath the window, bright with afternoon sun. The rest of the kitchen didn’t offer much cover, just a small counter and a pantry on the far side. The pantry was maybe large enough for a person, but the bifold doors would make for an awkward exit. How long had Evan been here? And how had he known Danny would be the first one home, and not Karen? “Didn’t seem to slow you down any.”

Evan shrugged. “Been a while since I’ve been able to enjoy cold beer. I’m still catching up. Of course,” his eyes now hard, “you’ve had plenty of time, haven’t you?”

Something tightened in Danny’s gut, that humid stirring through his entrails, like the wind preceding the subway. It was an old feeling, familiar, but not missed.

He turned away, went to the fridge. Grabbed a bottle for himself, thought of the cooler move, took another. Popped the caps and handed one to Evan as he sat down.

Evan finished the beer he’d been working on in one open-throated swallow. The black T-shirt he wore traced the lines of his muscles. The upper curves of a blue-black tattoo extended just past the collar. The design was ragged and messy. Ink from inside always was. Tricky to be precise with a straight pin and a ballpoint.

Danny played at being casual as he undid the top button of his oxford and rolled the cuffs, but his mind crackled and hummed. There was no good angle from which to see Evan breaking into his house. It ramped the tension between them, elevated it to action. The disrespect would have been intentional. Only one conclusion to draw.

Evan was stepping things up.

Which made cool all the more important. Cool was currency. Cool suggested a lack of fear, an equal footing. He raised the beer. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They clinked bottles, looking into each other’s eyes, neither acknowledging the tension. “Just like old times, huh? Two friends bullshitting over a beer.” Evan’s tone was jovial. “You know what it reminds me of?”

Danny smelled a setup, chose to play along. “What’s that?”

“This con I knew in Stateville. Chico. Chico was a prison queer, shaved his chest and wore his jumpsuit half open. You remember the type? Suck your cock for two packs of smokes, or one pack of menthols. He belonged to Lupé, this big Norteño Mexican, but they had an understanding. Chico could work to keep himself in luxuries, long as he split the take.”

Evan paused, holding his beer by the neck, eyes still drilling into Danny. Didn’t seem like he’d blinked yet. Danny met the gaze, knew better than to look away. The tension in his gut grew worse.

“I’d been in a couple months when Chico got a new cellie, some eighteen-year-old transfer. Word round the yard said it was love, that Chico’d been hitting his knees for this new boy with no smokes required. Truth be told, Lupé might have tolerated that – he wasn’t a fag so much as a player – but Chico took it too far. Told Lupé they were through. He’s a changed woman, and not working anymore.”

Evan paused to take a sip of beer. “You know what? I’m coming around on this Heineken.”

Danny said nothing, glanced at the clock. Karen would be home soon. If he heard her key in the door, he wasn’t going to have a choice but to raise the stakes himself. He’d been too concerned with her reaction to tell her about Evan’s return. It wasn’t the idea of getting caught that scared him. He just had no intention of letting the two of them be in the same room. Ever.

“Anyway, a couple days later, Chico and Boyfriend are in their cell splitting pruno when Lupé and his crew come for them. The pruno, that’s what reminded me. You know the stuff? Prison liquor. You steal fruit from the mess, mash it up with ketchup, some water. Put it in a bag to ferment for a couple weeks. The color of the mold on top depends on the fruit you use; sometimes it’s green, sometimes this sick orange. But if you skim that off, the liquid that’s left will get you fucked up. Shit’s worse than Mad Dog, though. It’ll give you a headache make you wish you were dead.” He smiled. “Nothing like the imported beer you’ve been drinking.”

Where was this going? Was he just flexing to show how hard he’d become? Hardly necessary – Evan looked like if you drove a truck into him, you’d just end up with a busted rig. There was a larger point, Danny knew. He just didn’t see it yet.

“So Lupé’s guys are serious gangbangers. By the way, you know what the bangers call a youth fall? Gladiator school. Nice, huh? Anyway, they get hold of our lovebirds, and right away they’ve got the gags in. Lupé’s last into the cell. He makes sure that Chico is watching, and then he paroles Boyfriend. Leaves the shank sticking out of the man’s throat.”

Danny couldn’t taste the beer. He tried to keep his face a mask, to stay above it. The ticking clock made him think of time bombs, explosions straining to escape.

Evan leaned forward, corded forearms bunching. He smelled of beer and cigarettes. “Then Lupé touches Chico’s face real soft. Smiles at him, turns, and walks out.

“Chico senses what’s coming, starts struggling. You can tell he wants to kill these guys, but he’s just a prison queer. What he wants isn’t important. After all, these three are gladiators. One gets him in a chokehold, and another lifts his foot up on the bunk, stretches the leg out straight. The bangers are laughing, two of them arguing who gets to do it, like Chico isn’t even there. He’s turning white and shit, but they don’t pay him any attention. Finally the one on the bed holds Chico’s leg taut, the joint locked. The third winds up, then stomps down, just bam, down, like snapping firewood, right on the knee. Chico howls, I mean, you can hear it through the gag. And no fucking wonder, because bone is sticking out the back of his prison blues. The bangers hoot, and slap each other on the back while Chico shrieks. Whole thing took maybe a minute. Guards find the pruno, the blade, Boyfriend’s body, they choose to write it off as a lover’s quarrel between the cellmates. Easier than actually looking into it. That’s the mentality on the inside.”

Danny’s mouth was dry, and the tension in his stomach had curdled into something sour. There wasn’t a hint of emotion on Evan’s face, none. Just the intense stare between them that he didn’t dare break. He swallowed slowly.

“After that,” Evan spoke softly now, “Chico didn’t walk so good. But I’ll tell you what.” He paused, and then the mask of his face cracked into a smile, thin-lipped and cruel. “He never again forgot what he was. Or who he belonged to.”

Danny leaned the chair back, feet on the ground. His palms swamped up with sweat. He struggled for the remnants of his cool, and took a swallow of beer. It flowed warm and flat down his throat. “Bad luck for Chico.”

Evan smiled broadly at that, but with none of the comradely warmth Danny remembered from their childhood. “I thought about your offer.”

Here it comes.

“Fold it sideways and shove it up your ass.”

Danny shrugged, finished his beer.

“You owe me, Danny. But I’ve thought of a way to square us. And you’re going to help, like it or not.”