get—five times that much.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t let me, motherfucker.”
“You know I really don’t like deceitful games. I like to come off the top of the deck with no hidden agenda.”
“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m seeing you. I know other people who are already here ripping and tearing … I don’t have to wait for ’em to get outta San Quentin. The problem is …”
“You’re scared to trust them with so much. The kind that might kill somebody instead of paying off.”
“Lotsa money on the table.” Greco smiled, his eyes twinkled. “But I trust you one hundred percent.”
“You know my track record.”
“So how many days you got?”
“Twenty-one and a getup.”
Greco filed it mentally and nodded. “You parole to L.A.?”
“No. To ’Frisco.”
“You’re from L.A. Born and raised among the rich and famous. I remember what you scratched on the wall in juvenile hall—Troy de Beverly Hills.”
The memory made them laugh so loud that the guard across the room frowned at them.
“You gotta go back to the county you came from. I got popped in ’Frisco.” Troy said. “That bull is still burning us.”
“I better go before they roust me for having too much fun in San Quentin. I’ll give you a number where you can leave messages.”
“I can remember it for right now—but I gotta write it down as soon as I leave the visiting room.”
“I better mail it to you.” Greco stood up. “I’ll leave off the area code.”
“They won’t pay any attention. Write down it’s Aunt Maude’s number, or something.” Troy stood up across from Greco. Troy looked to the other guard, who nodded okay for them to shake hands. “Glad you came, bro’,” he said.
“I’m glad I came, too. I think I’m gonna make some dough from the trip.”
Greco went to the exit and looked back and waved as the guard turned the key and pushed it open for him. Troy gave a little salute and thought about the Greek being amidst the North Beach neon when night came to San Francisco. “Damn,” he said, and headed back to the Big Yard.
Chapter 05
5
When Troy Augustus Cameron got out of bed on the morning of his release, his cell was already bare. The few things he was taking with him had already been checked into Receiving and Release. He would get them in a brown paper package with a wax seal—to make sure nothing was added after it was searched and packed. What he was leaving behind, he had already given away: his Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary , thesaurus, and a Columbia Encyclopedia that some private citizen had donated to the prison—and the library clerk peddled out the back door.
He’d shaved the night before. Now, as he brushed his teeth, he could hear the cellhouse coming awake. Flushing toilets, someone calling down the tier for a partner to bring the Chronicle at the unlock, and the idiot next door, who happened to be black, already had his TV turned on. Troy had given his own away a week earlier, as was standard practice. Convicts could buy thirteen-inch Sonys, and were required to donate them when paroled. The purchaser could donate it to a specific inmate, but when the recipient departed, he had to donate it to the prison, whereupon it was issued to someone without resources. Over the decade that TVs had been allowed, enough had come in so that now everyone had one, at least everyone who wanted one.
The tier tender came by, lugging the heavy water can with the long spout; it was used to pour hot water through the bars. The cell sinks ran only cold. The toilets used water from the bay, and occasionally someone found a small dead fish in the john.
“It’s all over, huh?” said the tier tender. He was a skinny white man in a T-shirt, his pale arms covered with blue jailhouse tattoos. He was in his early forties, which made him ancient by prison standards, serving a third term for trivial offenses.
“Yeah, I’ll be in Baghdad by the Bay this
“You didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t let me, motherfucker.”
“You know I really don’t like deceitful games. I like to come off the top of the deck with no hidden agenda.”
“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m seeing you. I know other people who are already here ripping and tearing … I don’t have to wait for ’em to get outta San Quentin. The problem is …”
“You’re scared to trust them with so much. The kind that might kill somebody instead of paying off.”
“Lotsa money on the table.” Greco smiled, his eyes twinkled. “But I trust you one hundred percent.”
“You know my track record.”
“So how many days you got?”
“Twenty-one and a getup.”
Greco filed it mentally and nodded. “You parole to L.A.?”
“No. To ’Frisco.”
“You’re from L.A. Born and raised among the rich and famous. I remember what you scratched on the wall in juvenile hall—Troy de Beverly Hills.”
The memory made them laugh so loud that the guard across the room frowned at them.
“You gotta go back to the county you came from. I got popped in ’Frisco.” Troy said. “That bull is still burning us.”
“I better go before they roust me for having too much fun in San Quentin. I’ll give you a number where you can leave messages.”
“I can remember it for right now—but I gotta write it down as soon as I leave the visiting room.”
“I better mail it to you.” Greco stood up. “I’ll leave off the area code.”
“They won’t pay any attention. Write down it’s Aunt Maude’s number, or something.” Troy stood up across from Greco. Troy looked to the other guard, who nodded okay for them to shake hands. “Glad you came, bro’,” he said.
“I’m glad I came, too. I think I’m gonna make some dough from the trip.”
Greco went to the exit and looked back and waved as the guard turned the key and pushed it open for him. Troy gave a little salute and thought about the Greek being amidst the North Beach neon when night came to San Francisco. “Damn,” he said, and headed back to the Big Yard.
Chapter 05
5
When Troy Augustus Cameron got out of bed on the morning of his release, his cell was already bare. The few things he was taking with him had already been checked into Receiving and Release. He would get them in a brown paper package with a wax seal—to make sure nothing was added after it was searched and packed. What he was leaving behind, he had already given away: his Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary , thesaurus, and a Columbia Encyclopedia that some private citizen had donated to the prison—and the library clerk peddled out the back door.
He’d shaved the night before. Now, as he brushed his teeth, he could hear the cellhouse coming awake. Flushing toilets, someone calling down the tier for a partner to bring the Chronicle at the unlock, and the idiot next door, who happened to be black, already had his TV turned on. Troy had given his own away a week earlier, as was standard practice. Convicts could buy thirteen-inch Sonys, and were required to donate them when paroled. The purchaser could donate it to a specific inmate, but when the recipient departed, he had to donate it to the prison, whereupon it was issued to someone without resources. Over the decade that TVs had been allowed, enough had come in so that now everyone had one, at least everyone who wanted one.
The tier tender came by, lugging the heavy water can with the long spout; it was used to pour hot water through the bars. The cell sinks ran only cold. The toilets used water from the bay, and occasionally someone found a small dead fish in the john.
“It’s all over, huh?” said the tier tender. He was a skinny white man in a T-shirt, his pale arms covered with blue jailhouse tattoos. He was in his early forties, which made him ancient by prison standards, serving a third term for trivial offenses.
“Yeah, I’ll be in Baghdad by the Bay this
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