Derailed

EIGHTEEN

Hello, Charles.”

It was 10:15 Wednesday night. I was sitting in the den, where I’d been standing guard over the telephone. It was unnerving — every time it rang I’d pick it up and wait to see who’d say hello. The fastest answering machine in the West — one ring and it was sitting in my hand. I knew he’d be calling; I didn’t want Deanna picking it up first.

“Why were you outside my house? ” I said.

“Was that me?”

“I’m asking you what you were doing here.”

“Must have been taking a walk.”

“What do you want? What?”

“What do you want?”

Okay, I was a little taken aback — this answering a question with a question.

“What do I want?”

“That’s right. You tell me.”

Well. For one thing, I wanted Vasquez to stop coming by my house. For another thing, I wanted him to stop calling my house. That would be nice.

“I want you to leave me alone,” I said.

“Okay.”

“I’m not clear what you mean. . . .”

“Something about okay you don’t understand? You said you want me to leave you alone, I said okay.”

“Great,” I said, stupidly letting some vague tenor of hope enter my voice, even though I knew, I knew—

“Just give me some more money.”

More money.

“I gave you money,” I said. “I told you — ”

“That was then. This is now.”

“No.” The till was empty, the cupboard bare. I’d taken once from Anna’s Fund. No more.

“You fucking stupid?”

Yes. Probably.

“I don’t have any more money for you,” I said.

“Look,Charles. Pay attention. We both know you got the money. We both know you’re gonna give it to me, ’cause we both know what’s gonna happen if you don’t.”

No, I didn’t know. But I could guess.

So I asked him how much he was talking about. Even though I didn’t really care how much he was talking about, because it was already too much.

And Vasquez said: “Hundred thou.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

That was inflation for you—ten thousand to a hundred thousand in the blink of an eye. But then—how much is a life worth, exactly? Are three lives worth? What is the going rate for a wife and daughter these days? For being able to look them in the eye without seeing disgust staring back? Maybe a hundred thousand was cheap. Maybe I was getting a bargain here.

“I’m waiting,” Vasquez said.

He would have to keep on waiting. It was a bargain I simply couldn’t afford.

Besides, it was never going to stop here anyway. Wasn’t that the point of blackmail? Wasn’t it governed by its own immutable laws, like the universe itself, and, just like the universe, never ending? Vasquez might say it would stop, but Vasquez was lying. It would stop only when I stopped Vasquez. A simple truth even an idiot could understand—even someone fucking stupid could grasp that. Only I couldn’t stop Vasquez — I didn’t know how. Other than to say no and take my chances.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

And hung up the phone.

When Winston delivered my mail the next morning, he found me slumped over the desk.

“Are you dead,” Winston asked me, “or just pretending?”

“I don’t know. It feels like I’m dead. Could be.”

“Can I have your computer, then?”

I looked up, and Winston put up his hands and said: “Just kidding.” Since the night in the office, Winston had been exactly like the Winston before the night in the office. No tiptoeing around, no bowing and scraping, no false humility. If I’d scared Winston straight, you wouldn’t have exactly known it. On the other hand, I hadn’t heard about any missing computers lately, so maybe Winston had reformed.

“Seriously,” Winston said, “something wrong?”

Where to begin? Then again, much as I might want to, I couldn’t tell Winston a thing.

“What was it like?” I asked him instead.

“What was what like?”

“Prison?”

Winston’s face darkened — yes, a definite change from sunny to cloudy, with possible thunderstorms lurking in the area. “Why are you asking?”

“I don’t know. Just curious.”

“It’s hard to describe unless you’ve been there,” he said flatly, maybe hoping I’d just say okay and leave it at that.

But I didn’t say okay. And though Winston was under no obligation to answer me, maybe he saw himself as having an obligation to me now. Because he did answer me.

“You really want to know what prison was like?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like? It was like . . . walking a tightrope,” he said, letting that simple statement lie there for a while. “Walking a tightrope, but you can’t get off. All that concentrating on not falling and getting yourself killed. Constantly—twenty-four hours a day, understand? You tried to not get involved in things—that was your mantra, because if you did get involved in things, it was almost always trouble. So you tried to ignore everyone, to walk around with your head up your ass. But that takes enormous concentration. To act like you’re blind. Because all kinds of shit is going on around you—the worst kind of shit. Rapes, beatings, stabbings—all this gang warfare. You try to be invisible. You know how hard it is to be invisible?”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“No, man, you can't imagine. It is the hardest possible thing to do. It’s not doable. Sooner or later, you’re going to get involved, because someone is going to make you get involved.”

“And someone made you?”

“Oh yeah. I was prime meat in there. I was unaffiliated, and so I was prime meat.”

“You were . . . ?”

“Bitched up? No. But only because I fought someone who tried, and did two months in lockup. You can’t go out of your cell. Except for showers. No rec. Nothing. Which was kind of okay, since I knew when I did get out of my cell, I was in trouble, since the guy I fought was affiliated.”

“So what did you do?”

“I got affiliated.”

“With who?”

“A gang. Who do you think runs things in there?”

“Just like that?”

“No. I had to earn it — you don’t get anything for nothing there, Charles. There’s always a price.”

“What was the price?”

“The price? The price was I had to stick a shank in someone. Like a blood initiation, only the blood was someone else’s. That’s how you get into a gang. You make someone else bleed.”

“Who were they?”

“Who was who?”

“The gang?”

“Oh, just a bunch of guys. Nice guys, really, you’d like them. They had some very pronounced beliefs, though. Like for instance, they believe all blacks are subhuman. And all Hispanics — them, too. They don’t like Jews much, either. Other than that — they’re terrific.”

And now I noticed something again. Winston’s tattoo. AB. Maybe not Amanda Barnes after all.

“You got that tattoo in prison, didn’t you?”

Winston smiled. “Can’t put anything over on you. Proud member of the Aryan Brotherhood. We have a handshake and everything.”

You had to admire Winston, I thought. He found himself in a terrible situation, and he did what he had to. Maybe there was a lesson in that.

“See you this afternoon,” Winston said. “But no more questions about prison, okay? It kind of ruins my day.”