you a parole after
ten, well, you’d
have
to take that. But with the time
you’ve got, it doesn’t make any sense to expose
yourself.”
T he parole board was easier than I thought. J.C.
had told me a few tricks I could use to mess things up, but I didn’t need
any of them.
The parole people asked me if I felt any remorse for
the man who was killed inside the bank. I knew they didn’t mean Virgil. I
told them I had nothing to do with what happened, like J.C. told me to. One
lady on the board said I had to learn to take responsibility. She said that a
lot. I told her I didn’t do anything.
They all started yelling at
me, then. I didn’t answer them back. And I didn’t get the
parole.
W hen I’d paid everything they said I owed, they let me
out. J.C. was right—it wasn’t much longer than if I’d gotten
that parole.
Prison’s full of guys who have gotten out before,
and come back. They always complain that your clothes get old while
you’re locked up. So when you make it out, the first thing you need to do
is get some clothes that are in style.
I guess the good thing about the
kind of clothes I wear is that they don’t get old. I was glad of that,
because I only had the fifty dollars gate money they give you, plus sixteen
dollars on the books from my job on the cleaning crew in Four Block.
They pay your bus fare back to your hometown. If you don’t have a
hometown, you can go anyplace in the state you want, one-way.
I took
the bus west, just like J.C. said. At the end of the line, I walked over to the
highway and thumbed a ride. It didn’t matter to me where the guy was
going, but I remembered not to say that. All I really needed was to get to
another town, so I could get on another bus, and go back east, away from the
flatlands.
I did everything in order. First, I got a room. J.C. told me
how to find the place. It was in a part of town where everybody writes on the
walls. A four-story house, all busted up into tiny little rooms, not much
bigger than my cell.
The walls were gray, and the shade over the window
was the yellow things get from cigarettes after a long time. The shade was
taped in a lot of places. The bed had a big drop in the middle. The sheet was
the same color as the walls. There was a wire strung across the room on one
side, so you could hang your clothes. A little lightbulb swung down from the
ceiling—you had to reach up to turn it on or off.
I
couldn’t see a place in the wall to plug in a radio, if I had a radio.
The toilet was down the hall. Some of the people who used it must have been
drunk.
I asked the man downstairs if there was a phone. He said no. I
just walked around until I found one, outside a store. I called the number J.C.
gave me. It rang three times, then a girl’s voice came on.
“Hi. We’re out having fun. If you know how we can have some
more, leave us a message. Bye!”
I wasn’t surprised by this.
J.C. had told me it would be a machine.
“This is Eddie,” I
said. “I just got—”
“Are you staying where
you’re supposed to be?” a voice cut in. A man’s voice, but
not J.C.’s.
“Yes. I went right to—”
“Stay there,” the voice said. Then it hung up.
T hat
was almost four years ago. I’m a getaway man now. Seven jobs, every one
correct. We never got caught. Only got really chased once. And that was by a
city cop’s car—it didn’t have a chance. All I had to do was
to put a couple of corners between us, and we were gone.
We
don’t stay together, except just before a job and for a little while
after. The cops always expect us to run far, but we never do. That’s what
I mean about a couple of corners. We have other cars—switch cars,
they’re called—stashed.
Whatever car I drive, we drop that
one off quick, and jump into one of the switch cars. And even then, we only go
a little ways. There’s plenty of places to stash cars in this part of the
state, now that the plants
ten, well, you’d
have
to take that. But with the time
you’ve got, it doesn’t make any sense to expose
yourself.”
T he parole board was easier than I thought. J.C.
had told me a few tricks I could use to mess things up, but I didn’t need
any of them.
The parole people asked me if I felt any remorse for
the man who was killed inside the bank. I knew they didn’t mean Virgil. I
told them I had nothing to do with what happened, like J.C. told me to. One
lady on the board said I had to learn to take responsibility. She said that a
lot. I told her I didn’t do anything.
They all started yelling at
me, then. I didn’t answer them back. And I didn’t get the
parole.
W hen I’d paid everything they said I owed, they let me
out. J.C. was right—it wasn’t much longer than if I’d gotten
that parole.
Prison’s full of guys who have gotten out before,
and come back. They always complain that your clothes get old while
you’re locked up. So when you make it out, the first thing you need to do
is get some clothes that are in style.
I guess the good thing about the
kind of clothes I wear is that they don’t get old. I was glad of that,
because I only had the fifty dollars gate money they give you, plus sixteen
dollars on the books from my job on the cleaning crew in Four Block.
They pay your bus fare back to your hometown. If you don’t have a
hometown, you can go anyplace in the state you want, one-way.
I took
the bus west, just like J.C. said. At the end of the line, I walked over to the
highway and thumbed a ride. It didn’t matter to me where the guy was
going, but I remembered not to say that. All I really needed was to get to
another town, so I could get on another bus, and go back east, away from the
flatlands.
I did everything in order. First, I got a room. J.C. told me
how to find the place. It was in a part of town where everybody writes on the
walls. A four-story house, all busted up into tiny little rooms, not much
bigger than my cell.
The walls were gray, and the shade over the window
was the yellow things get from cigarettes after a long time. The shade was
taped in a lot of places. The bed had a big drop in the middle. The sheet was
the same color as the walls. There was a wire strung across the room on one
side, so you could hang your clothes. A little lightbulb swung down from the
ceiling—you had to reach up to turn it on or off.
I
couldn’t see a place in the wall to plug in a radio, if I had a radio.
The toilet was down the hall. Some of the people who used it must have been
drunk.
I asked the man downstairs if there was a phone. He said no. I
just walked around until I found one, outside a store. I called the number J.C.
gave me. It rang three times, then a girl’s voice came on.
“Hi. We’re out having fun. If you know how we can have some
more, leave us a message. Bye!”
I wasn’t surprised by this.
J.C. had told me it would be a machine.
“This is Eddie,” I
said. “I just got—”
“Are you staying where
you’re supposed to be?” a voice cut in. A man’s voice, but
not J.C.’s.
“Yes. I went right to—”
“Stay there,” the voice said. Then it hung up.
T hat
was almost four years ago. I’m a getaway man now. Seven jobs, every one
correct. We never got caught. Only got really chased once. And that was by a
city cop’s car—it didn’t have a chance. All I had to do was
to put a couple of corners between us, and we were gone.
We
don’t stay together, except just before a job and for a little while
after. The cops always expect us to run far, but we never do. That’s what
I mean about a couple of corners. We have other cars—switch cars,
they’re called—stashed.
Whatever car I drive, we drop that
one off quick, and jump into one of the switch cars. And even then, we only go
a little ways. There’s plenty of places to stash cars in this part of the
state, now that the plants
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