Read Online Carlito's Way: Rise to Power by Edwin Torres - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edwin Torres
Tags: Crime Fiction
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it’s him; Tommy, you’re a Christian lad—make your peace with God; don’t let this bastard get away with this—give us a sign.”
Tommy rolled his head—left, right, left, right. Negative. Captain Shea, there’s your dyin’ declaration. The rattling in his throat was getting fierce. I couldn’t look at Tommy; I had tears in my eyes—fuckin’ wops—my nerves were going—got to make a move.
“Shea, you Irish motherfucker, you trying to frame me.”
Shea threw me a sucker right-hand which I caught on my chin—I laid down and let them carry me out. You almost had me that night, Shea, but you blew your cool.
That was a bad night—only time I ever doubted myself—what am I doing, where am I going? All that head-shrinker jive that fucks a man up—start asking questions and they got you, they into your skull. No way, Carlito;don’t let them get to your skull. You a natural-born hustler with iron balls—get the money and when they step up knock ’em down, that’s all there is to it. If you start thinking and wording, then they got you, ’cause they can outthink you and outword you; then you rolling with their dice—like society and humanity and all them other t’s that been trying to fuck you—no good. So you wronged a dude; how many times you been wronged? So he stood up—ain’t he supposed to, he’s a hodedor , ain’t he? Get out my face.
In the morning I was all right. Tommy was all right, too—he recovered. Then he went back to court on some motion. They put up a big bail for him and gave him a big party.
“Tommy, there was a roundtable just before you come out and Mr. A said you done the right thing—so we’re gonna move you up; you’re gonna go back on the piers but with six runners turning over to you—no more unloading bananas, you stay clean. So tomorrow you run over to Leighton’s, ask for Mel, tell him Mr. A sent you, get yourself five outfits—the works, look like a boss— madon —a donkey boss—Don Tomasino Dunferino— uomo di onore . Ha!”
They buried him in a lime pit. The suit had no labels but had to go for three yard easy.
Tommy, you went to your grave thinking, “That crazy Carlito tried to kill me—for no reason, spics are like that.” You chump, if you had any smarts you’d have pieced it together, but they dry-humped you with a couple of quarters—you was a nickel-and-dime hustler, Tommy, but you was a good boy.
* * *
I N THE J OINT, YOU STAY UP-TO-DATE ON EVERYTHING—THINGS you wouldn’t know on the street you know right away inside. Whose old lady ain’t putting the horns on who. Who’s teamed up with who. What crew brought in fifty keys. Who is double-crossing who. Hoodlums gossip worse than whores.
Myself, I didn’t want to know if one of my old ladies was cheating on me—’cause then you got to take an attitude, then where’s your packages and your visits? So I told these mothers, don’t be telling me nothin’ about my women. But you gonna find out anyway—like somebody’s old lady be visiting and you know she’s tight with your broad. “Hey, how’s my old lady doing?” Real whorelike, she’ll bow her head and bite her lip—“Don’t ask me, man, it ain’t none of my business what she’s doing.” Yeah, you get the message. I told all my broads when I split, “You’re on your own—don’t be saying how you gonna wait and all that bullshit. I ain’t waiting on you!” But they still come upstate to see you; they know you’re short-timing and the bread is still there—jive bitches. Lots of them drive up to the Joint with their new stud wearing your clothes and driving your car. Kiss you right on the lips too—make you a cock-sucker by proxy. Me, when I go in I don’t want to know from nothin’.
S O, LIKE I PAID MY DUES TO SOCIETY AND AM READY TO take my lawful place. Shee-it, now I’m really gonna double up, deal with both hands; got to catch up, makeup for that lost time—that’s what drives the penologists and
Tommy rolled his head—left, right, left, right. Negative. Captain Shea, there’s your dyin’ declaration. The rattling in his throat was getting fierce. I couldn’t look at Tommy; I had tears in my eyes—fuckin’ wops—my nerves were going—got to make a move.
“Shea, you Irish motherfucker, you trying to frame me.”
Shea threw me a sucker right-hand which I caught on my chin—I laid down and let them carry me out. You almost had me that night, Shea, but you blew your cool.
That was a bad night—only time I ever doubted myself—what am I doing, where am I going? All that head-shrinker jive that fucks a man up—start asking questions and they got you, they into your skull. No way, Carlito;don’t let them get to your skull. You a natural-born hustler with iron balls—get the money and when they step up knock ’em down, that’s all there is to it. If you start thinking and wording, then they got you, ’cause they can outthink you and outword you; then you rolling with their dice—like society and humanity and all them other t’s that been trying to fuck you—no good. So you wronged a dude; how many times you been wronged? So he stood up—ain’t he supposed to, he’s a hodedor , ain’t he? Get out my face.
In the morning I was all right. Tommy was all right, too—he recovered. Then he went back to court on some motion. They put up a big bail for him and gave him a big party.
“Tommy, there was a roundtable just before you come out and Mr. A said you done the right thing—so we’re gonna move you up; you’re gonna go back on the piers but with six runners turning over to you—no more unloading bananas, you stay clean. So tomorrow you run over to Leighton’s, ask for Mel, tell him Mr. A sent you, get yourself five outfits—the works, look like a boss— madon —a donkey boss—Don Tomasino Dunferino— uomo di onore . Ha!”
They buried him in a lime pit. The suit had no labels but had to go for three yard easy.
Tommy, you went to your grave thinking, “That crazy Carlito tried to kill me—for no reason, spics are like that.” You chump, if you had any smarts you’d have pieced it together, but they dry-humped you with a couple of quarters—you was a nickel-and-dime hustler, Tommy, but you was a good boy.
* * *
I N THE J OINT, YOU STAY UP-TO-DATE ON EVERYTHING—THINGS you wouldn’t know on the street you know right away inside. Whose old lady ain’t putting the horns on who. Who’s teamed up with who. What crew brought in fifty keys. Who is double-crossing who. Hoodlums gossip worse than whores.
Myself, I didn’t want to know if one of my old ladies was cheating on me—’cause then you got to take an attitude, then where’s your packages and your visits? So I told these mothers, don’t be telling me nothin’ about my women. But you gonna find out anyway—like somebody’s old lady be visiting and you know she’s tight with your broad. “Hey, how’s my old lady doing?” Real whorelike, she’ll bow her head and bite her lip—“Don’t ask me, man, it ain’t none of my business what she’s doing.” Yeah, you get the message. I told all my broads when I split, “You’re on your own—don’t be saying how you gonna wait and all that bullshit. I ain’t waiting on you!” But they still come upstate to see you; they know you’re short-timing and the bread is still there—jive bitches. Lots of them drive up to the Joint with their new stud wearing your clothes and driving your car. Kiss you right on the lips too—make you a cock-sucker by proxy. Me, when I go in I don’t want to know from nothin’.
S O, LIKE I PAID MY DUES TO SOCIETY AND AM READY TO take my lawful place. Shee-it, now I’m really gonna double up, deal with both hands; got to catch up, makeup for that lost time—that’s what drives the penologists and
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