Read Online Angel Baby: A Novel by RICHARD LANGE - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: RICHARD LANGE
Tags: thriller
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blades with duct-tape grips.
“I can get bigger,” El Punisher says. A tattoo of two dogs fucking covers his bare chest.
“I bet you can,” Jerónimo says, reaching for the pick. He tests the point with his thumb.
“Seriously. You need a gun, give me an hour,” El Punisher says.
“This’ll do,” Jerónimo says. He drops a twenty-dollar bill onto El Punisher’s bunk, stashes the pick in his sweats, and leaves the cell. Glancing up at the skylight in the ceiling of the corridor, he sees that night has come down.
He did a year in the federal pen at Juárez for the TVs. With no money coming in from outside, he had to find a way to rent a bunk and buy decent food, because everything costs in a Mexican prison, right down to the guards charging fifty centavos a day to mark you present at head count.
A stroke of luck saved him from having to shine shoes or wash clothes or fetch meals for the more well-off inmates. His second day in, a vato from L.A. who didn’t like his Inglewood tattoos jumped him. Jerónimo managed to twist the shank out of his hand and turn it on him. Dude was dead and Jerónimo was back playing dominos before the guards knew what was happening.
Vincente, El Príncipe’s brother, saw it all go down and was impressed by how Jerónimo handled himself. He was doing time for shooting a judge and had a thriving drug business in the prison. He summoned Jerónimo to his cell and offered him a job delivering heroin to his customers. You didn’t say no to someone like Vincente, so Jerónimo spent the rest of his time in Juárez running tar and coming down hard on junkies who fell behind on their payments.
When he was released, Vincente gave him a thousand-dollar bonus and told him to see his brother in Tijuana if he needed work. A month later Jerónimo joined El Príncipe’s crew. By day he acted as muscle for the Prince, collecting on loans he had on the street, and at night he lay in his tiny, noisy room—a room no bigger than his cell had been—and tried to figure out what next. Because death was closing in on him, he was sure of it. There were no old gangsters. You were considered ancient if you made it to forty, and Jerónimo wanted to live longer than that, didn’t want to be shot down doing someone else’s dirty work. Staring up at the ceiling, his mind aflame, he prayed and made promises. “Help me change the end of my story,” he begged.
The central corridor of A Block is called Revolución, after Tijuana’s main drag. The inmates congregate there, playing cards on the picnic tables and sitting stoned against the concrete walls, seeing nothing and everything. Music blares out of a hundred radios, and cons stand in the middle of the corridor and carry on shouted conversations with other prisoners in the three tiers of cells towering above them. Jerónimo nods to a couple of acquaintances as he moves through the chaos. He keeps his circle small. The fewer motherfuckers who know your business, the better, especially if you’re trying to avoid trouble.
When he reaches the guard station at the end of Revolución, he motions to the pig inside to get his ass up from his desk and come to the window.
“Hey, boss,” he says. “I need to take a walk.”
“So?” the pig replies. Tío Pelón, the inmates call him, Uncle Baldy. He has a thing for young cons, trades them cigarettes and Cup O’ Noodles for blow jobs. Jerónimo unfolds a twenty and presses it to the scratched and smeared Plexiglas that separates them. Baldy waves him to the door. When the buzzer sounds, Jerónimo steps into the sally port. Baldy is waiting for him there. He takes the money and signals another guard in the office through a barred window. Another buzzer goes off, and Baldy pushes the door that opens onto the yard.
“How long?” he says to Jerónimo.
“Fifteen minutes,” Jerónimo says, stepping outside.
Baldy stands in the doorway and whistles. The guard in the east tower waves his rifle.
“I can get bigger,” El Punisher says. A tattoo of two dogs fucking covers his bare chest.
“I bet you can,” Jerónimo says, reaching for the pick. He tests the point with his thumb.
“Seriously. You need a gun, give me an hour,” El Punisher says.
“This’ll do,” Jerónimo says. He drops a twenty-dollar bill onto El Punisher’s bunk, stashes the pick in his sweats, and leaves the cell. Glancing up at the skylight in the ceiling of the corridor, he sees that night has come down.
He did a year in the federal pen at Juárez for the TVs. With no money coming in from outside, he had to find a way to rent a bunk and buy decent food, because everything costs in a Mexican prison, right down to the guards charging fifty centavos a day to mark you present at head count.
A stroke of luck saved him from having to shine shoes or wash clothes or fetch meals for the more well-off inmates. His second day in, a vato from L.A. who didn’t like his Inglewood tattoos jumped him. Jerónimo managed to twist the shank out of his hand and turn it on him. Dude was dead and Jerónimo was back playing dominos before the guards knew what was happening.
Vincente, El Príncipe’s brother, saw it all go down and was impressed by how Jerónimo handled himself. He was doing time for shooting a judge and had a thriving drug business in the prison. He summoned Jerónimo to his cell and offered him a job delivering heroin to his customers. You didn’t say no to someone like Vincente, so Jerónimo spent the rest of his time in Juárez running tar and coming down hard on junkies who fell behind on their payments.
When he was released, Vincente gave him a thousand-dollar bonus and told him to see his brother in Tijuana if he needed work. A month later Jerónimo joined El Príncipe’s crew. By day he acted as muscle for the Prince, collecting on loans he had on the street, and at night he lay in his tiny, noisy room—a room no bigger than his cell had been—and tried to figure out what next. Because death was closing in on him, he was sure of it. There were no old gangsters. You were considered ancient if you made it to forty, and Jerónimo wanted to live longer than that, didn’t want to be shot down doing someone else’s dirty work. Staring up at the ceiling, his mind aflame, he prayed and made promises. “Help me change the end of my story,” he begged.
The central corridor of A Block is called Revolución, after Tijuana’s main drag. The inmates congregate there, playing cards on the picnic tables and sitting stoned against the concrete walls, seeing nothing and everything. Music blares out of a hundred radios, and cons stand in the middle of the corridor and carry on shouted conversations with other prisoners in the three tiers of cells towering above them. Jerónimo nods to a couple of acquaintances as he moves through the chaos. He keeps his circle small. The fewer motherfuckers who know your business, the better, especially if you’re trying to avoid trouble.
When he reaches the guard station at the end of Revolución, he motions to the pig inside to get his ass up from his desk and come to the window.
“Hey, boss,” he says. “I need to take a walk.”
“So?” the pig replies. Tío Pelón, the inmates call him, Uncle Baldy. He has a thing for young cons, trades them cigarettes and Cup O’ Noodles for blow jobs. Jerónimo unfolds a twenty and presses it to the scratched and smeared Plexiglas that separates them. Baldy waves him to the door. When the buzzer sounds, Jerónimo steps into the sally port. Baldy is waiting for him there. He takes the money and signals another guard in the office through a barred window. Another buzzer goes off, and Baldy pushes the door that opens onto the yard.
“How long?” he says to Jerónimo.
“Fifteen minutes,” Jerónimo says, stepping outside.
Baldy stands in the doorway and whistles. The guard in the east tower waves his rifle.
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