He knew the ropes and quickly became a snitch, alerting the prison cadre to fights and rapes and riots before they occurred, in return for food and favor. He wasn't surprised when his contact, a guard whose unique aura had won him the nickname Stink, pulled him out of the chow line one day and took him to a storeroom, ostensibly to clean it but really to receive a new assignment.
Stink told Gomez that a guy called Emerson had tried to shoot President Sol, had been condemned to death but later reprieved and his sentence commuted to life at hard labor. That hadn't ended the President's surprising clemency—an order had come down from HQ instructing the warden to make sure that Emerson survived in prison.
"Easy to say," Stink shrugged, and Gomez nodded.
They both knew the score. To the criminals, Emerson would be fresh meat. To the politicals, he'd be the fool whose ill-considered attempt on Sol's life had gotten them arrested during the worldwide roundup of subversives that followed. Because of the roundup the prison was jam-packed, with endless opportunities for somebody to plant a shank unseen. The crowding forced two men to share every futon, and Stink instructed Gomez to become Emerson's bunkmate, watch over him, and preserve him from harm.
"You can screw him if you want to," he added generously. "Just don't hurt him none."
At first glance Gomez saw that he could do as he pleased with Andy. The guy was small, skinny, badly battered, and so new to the system that he still wore a bandage on the back of his neck where his ID chip had been implanted. To judge from his collection of half-healed scars, he must be pretty dumb, too—probably tried to be a goddamn hero when they were using muscle on him, instead of saying whatever they wanted to hear at the beginning, and saving himself grief.
Gomez had no objection to prison-style sex when nothing better was available, yet didn't do what he could so easily have done. He had an abstract hatred of big shots, all big shots everywhere, and looked with something like awe at this skinny kid who had tried to kill the biggest shot of them all. So instead of raping Andy, he adopted him—called him Li'l Brudda, stuck close by his side, and warned anybody trying to mess with him, "Bet I pull your effin heart out and effin feed it to you."
Andy was surprised and grateful—becoming some guy's punk was the only humiliation life had so far denied him, so he'd rather expected it to happen—and he worked hard to learn the lessons Gomez taught him. They weren't easy to master. Gomez told him to watch out for a guard the cons called Sneak, but Andy was used to solitary musing and had to learn the hard way how the man got his name. One day when he was with a gang working in the cornfield, instead of pretending to hoe weeds like the others, he sat on the ground in a posture resembling Rodin's Thinker, brooding about the mysteries of life and fate.
That was when Sneak materialized out of the tall green stalks and used a bamboo cane he carried like a swagger stick to beat him bloody. The cons wore only straw hats, khaki shorts, and flip-flops cut from old tires, so he had a lot of skin to work on, and made the most of it. Andy was sore for a month, sorer because he'd burned in the tropical sun and already resembled a medium-rare steak when Sneak attacked him.
But he'd learned the hard way to stay alert every waking moment. Other useful lessons followed. Keeping the cons half-starved was the cadre's simplest and cheapest method of maintaining control, but Gomez taught him how to steal handfuls of food without getting caught when he was on kitchen police. Working in the rice fields gave him a condition called paddy foot that made him feel as if he'd been walking all day on hot coals instead of cool slimy mud. But Gomez rubbed his soles with an antibiotic ointment he'd scrounged from a trusty who worked in the dispensary, the skin healed, and in time Andy's feet toughened and became as
Stink told Gomez that a guy called Emerson had tried to shoot President Sol, had been condemned to death but later reprieved and his sentence commuted to life at hard labor. That hadn't ended the President's surprising clemency—an order had come down from HQ instructing the warden to make sure that Emerson survived in prison.
"Easy to say," Stink shrugged, and Gomez nodded.
They both knew the score. To the criminals, Emerson would be fresh meat. To the politicals, he'd be the fool whose ill-considered attempt on Sol's life had gotten them arrested during the worldwide roundup of subversives that followed. Because of the roundup the prison was jam-packed, with endless opportunities for somebody to plant a shank unseen. The crowding forced two men to share every futon, and Stink instructed Gomez to become Emerson's bunkmate, watch over him, and preserve him from harm.
"You can screw him if you want to," he added generously. "Just don't hurt him none."
At first glance Gomez saw that he could do as he pleased with Andy. The guy was small, skinny, badly battered, and so new to the system that he still wore a bandage on the back of his neck where his ID chip had been implanted. To judge from his collection of half-healed scars, he must be pretty dumb, too—probably tried to be a goddamn hero when they were using muscle on him, instead of saying whatever they wanted to hear at the beginning, and saving himself grief.
Gomez had no objection to prison-style sex when nothing better was available, yet didn't do what he could so easily have done. He had an abstract hatred of big shots, all big shots everywhere, and looked with something like awe at this skinny kid who had tried to kill the biggest shot of them all. So instead of raping Andy, he adopted him—called him Li'l Brudda, stuck close by his side, and warned anybody trying to mess with him, "Bet I pull your effin heart out and effin feed it to you."
Andy was surprised and grateful—becoming some guy's punk was the only humiliation life had so far denied him, so he'd rather expected it to happen—and he worked hard to learn the lessons Gomez taught him. They weren't easy to master. Gomez told him to watch out for a guard the cons called Sneak, but Andy was used to solitary musing and had to learn the hard way how the man got his name. One day when he was with a gang working in the cornfield, instead of pretending to hoe weeds like the others, he sat on the ground in a posture resembling Rodin's Thinker, brooding about the mysteries of life and fate.
That was when Sneak materialized out of the tall green stalks and used a bamboo cane he carried like a swagger stick to beat him bloody. The cons wore only straw hats, khaki shorts, and flip-flops cut from old tires, so he had a lot of skin to work on, and made the most of it. Andy was sore for a month, sorer because he'd burned in the tropical sun and already resembled a medium-rare steak when Sneak attacked him.
But he'd learned the hard way to stay alert every waking moment. Other useful lessons followed. Keeping the cons half-starved was the cadre's simplest and cheapest method of maintaining control, but Gomez taught him how to steal handfuls of food without getting caught when he was on kitchen police. Working in the rice fields gave him a condition called paddy foot that made him feel as if he'd been walking all day on hot coals instead of cool slimy mud. But Gomez rubbed his soles with an antibiotic ointment he'd scrounged from a trusty who worked in the dispensary, the skin healed, and in time Andy's feet toughened and became as
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