Read Online Keeplock by Stephen Solomita - Free Book Online Page A

assigned to that court for more than five years. A little birdie told us that Conte’s plannin’ somethin’ big, a little birdie Eddie tried to recruit. The birdie don’t know what Conte’s big score is, but Conte was talkin’ seven figures. Me and Rico, we’re businessmen, we’re willin’ to trade twenty street dealers for one big collar. You don’t wanna trade, you go back to Jack Camille. It’s up to you.”
    They left without another word. I struggled to my feet and managed to hobble over to a couch by the wall. I’d done a lot of shitty things in my life, but I’d never been a rat. Rats sit at the very bottom of the prison hierarchy, below the shorteyes and the rapos. That is, the known rats are at the bottom. Half the prisoners, if the truth be told, have given up a name or a date at one time or another. But this was different. Rico and Condon wanted me to set up Eddie Conte.
    Eddie and I had watched each other’s backs for six years, until he made parole five months before I came out. Eddie loved prison hooch and, by prison standards, I was a master brewer. On Saturdays, when nobody was working, our crew would gather on the courts after the morning count, cook up a spaghetti dinner, then eat, drink, and bullshit until dark. We usually kept away from the hustlers and the dealers in Cortlandt. Like most of the cons, we just wanted to do our time and get out. Eddie loved to talk about the big score he was going to make when the parole board finally cut him loose.
    “What I done wrong, cuz,” he’d say, “was takin’ on a lotta small jobs for the wise guys. I wanted to get in with the mob so bad, I would’a cleaned the fuckin’ toilets. Ya keep doin’ jobs, sooner or later you gotta get popped. You hear what I’m sayin’, cuz? That ain’t the way to go. I’m gonna set up one big fuckin’ score, then walk away.”
    I had Eddie Conte’s phone number in my pocket. He’d been luckier than most because his old lady had waited for him and he’d had someplace to go. It was a joke, really. If I had a home, I wouldn’t be trussed up on old McDonald’s couch. Meanwhile, my next address was going to be the House of Detention for Men on Rikers Island.
    They have a special jail in H.D.M. for parole violators. It’s not a happy place. There are no jobs and no activities. Everyone’s done hard time, and most of them are about to do hard time again. They scream, cry, curse. The air is filled with anger and the cells are filled with roaches. Prisoners only leave their cells for an hour a day, but they still make shanks and stab each other with monotonous regularity. Despite the shakedowns and the strip searches.
    Terrentini floated up to me. “Ya problem is that yiz don’t have values.” I heard the whoosh of erupting flame again. Smelled the turpentine. Five more years in hell. I couldn’t do the time, and I couldn’t be a rat, either. Fortunately, I had another option and it was real fucking simple. I could pretend to go along with Condon. Feed him bullshit until the job was done, then let the money take me as far away from New York as I could get.
    Condon and Rico came back fifteen minutes later. By that time my resolve had hardened. I’d been entertaining a ridiculous fantasy. I thought I could stay out of jail by avoiding crime.
    “You make up your mind, asshole?” Rico asked.
    “I got a couple of questions first.”
    Condon smiled and nodded to his partner. Rico backed away and took a seat off to one side of the room. They knew they had me. “What kinda questions?”
    “Suppose Eddie’s got his crew together. Suppose he already pulled off whatever he’s gonna do. Suppose he moved away and I can’t reach him. Do I have to testify if you bust him? Do you want me to wear a wire? Do—”
    “Awright, I get the picture.” Condon lit a cigarette and put it between my lips. “Look, Pete, the situation is real simple. You took somethin’ from us and you gotta give us somethin’ back. That