Calumet City by Charlie Newton Page A

$38,000. Half the room consisted of women and children, all first- or second-generation Mexican-Americans. The men didn’t move. He asked again, then tossed them the grenade and started shooting.

Seven of the dead were male, ranging in age from 54 to 20, all armed with a gun, knife, or razor. The two women were both minors. It was a crystal meth deal gone awry. A matter of honor, the Gypsy Vikings said.
     
    And here he comes, shouldered by two titanic guards, neither touching him. One looks me over, more with respect than A-male dick wagging. The other introduces himself. I decide that prison guards are not accurately portrayed in the movies or professional wrestling. The prisoner, on the other hand, is right out of Central Casting.
    Danny del Pasco is a shaved-head white male of about forty, lean at 200 pounds, corded and vascular in belly chains and Aryan tattoos. The unadorned portions of his skin are a lighter shade of the worn wood that will separate us. Two tears are tattooed under his left eye—badges for prison murders. He moves with confidence, not swagger. His eyes are bright but quiet, reserved, not wary. I’ve seen a number of overamped thugs who have committed murder, and he is not one. This is a
stone
killer.
    We sit, twenty-four inches apart. The only defense I have is to duck. The guards retreat and close the door. One stays outside, his hand hidden in the vicinity of the doorknob. Comforting, but likely too far to stop Danny D’s first move if he makes it. Danny’s eyes are steel blue and on me, but not a glare, not a threat. I’m game faced, showing him nothing, semi-slouching in an uncomfortable plastic chair. We’re two people having coffee at Art’s on Ashland, no more, no less. At least that’s what I’m faking.
    "So what’s up, Danny?"
    He smiles. It doesn’t make him less threatening, but that seems to be what he’s shooting for, a prison version of nice. He leans in and I force myself not to move. The guard turns the knob, hesitates, then when nothing happens steps back.
    Danny whispers. I can’t hear and have to lean forward. This is an old lockup trick that almost never ends well for the cop doing the leaning. I lean in anyway.
    Danny whispers again. "FBI had interesting questions this morning. Backed ’em with an offer—I talk about you and Richard Rhodes and anybody else connected to this, and maybe they can work somethin’ out."
    I wait for more, but he doesn’t elaborate. He adds another smile, an honest one that’s hard to place in this environment.
    "C’mon," he says. "You gotta remember. It’s me, Danny."
    I stare, clueless. No way I wouldn’t remember. From
somewhere
.
    "Danny boy. The bat."
    I snap back. My neck and face flush.
    The door jerks open. "All right, Miss?"
    DON’T FAINT. Words don’t form, so I nod, then wave
thanks, no problem
until the guard believes me and leaves. Danny watches me, but it’s not the snake eyes you see on the street.
Holy shit—the
Danny del Pasco and I
do
know each other. All I can say is,
    "How you doing, Danny?"
    "You look better than the pictures. Think I like the one in
Chicago
magazine best; Paul Elledge took that, didn’t he?"
    The bomb’s still exploding. This is the Twilight Zone.
    "Little spooked, huh?" Danny gives me a smile that bunches the two tears by his eye. "Been a weird fuckin’ week, I’d imagine."
    Long exhale, deep breath. "Yeah."
    Danny starts talking. I hear words, but the memory has me by the neck. My first three days in the foster home. Danny D was the older boy who protected me. He scared off Richey, who immediately saw me as a punching bag. And he scared off Roland Ganz, who had worse intentions. Sixteen-year-old Danny coldcocked Roland with a baseball bat on the third day and ran when Annabelle called the cops.
    "…so that’s why."
    "I’m sorry, what?"
    Danny stares and suggests I take a deep breath, which I do, and continues talking, demonstrating education he likely got inside, an offset to the