Tony had always expressed his fear by trying to exterminate the supposed source. Now he kept as far away from me as possible, even though he renewed his war on the rest of the prison population. When we were together on the courts, he couldn’t even look me in the eye. I could have taken advantage of the situation, but I never tried. I was heavy into school at the time and glad to be left alone.
The truth hit me as I stepped into the shower, the same shower where I’d confronted old Calvin. Eddie Conte had begun planning this job before he left Cortlandt. While the rest of us were cutting up pepperoni for the spaghetti sauce, he was putting the pieces together. Tony Morasso had been one of those pieces, and it was no coincidence that he and Eddie left Cortlandt within a week of each other. I was a piece, too. That’s why Eddie had spent hours trying to convince me to call him as soon as I got out. Eddie needed someone to control Morasso and I was the man with the track record.
All my fantasies of a straight life went the way of the water when I turned the shower off. Right down the drain. It just wasn’t happening and that was that. I was back to being a criminal and the role felt as comfortable as an old pair of jeans. For the first time, I really felt like I’d gotten out of prison. Even though my head kept telling me that I was turning onto a dead-end street, I was rocked with emotion. Free at last. Free at last. Taking the easy way out. Made even easier by the simple truth that it was the only way out.
ELEVEN
I KNEW THAT FEELING (that illusion) of freedom would gradually die out, as it always had in the past, but I intended to enjoy it while it lasted. No cuffs, no shackles, no bars, no buzzers, no C.O.’s with their clubs and their attitudes. Only my fear of a new, straight life had kept me from enjoying it up till now, and fear, as we all know, is dishonorable.
I took a taxi up the West Side to Lincoln Center, near Central Park, and found an open coffee shop. It was going to be a beautiful day, warm and clear, especially for April. Central Park (at least the way I remembered it) would be packed—the jugglers and the hustlers would be out, the joggers and the bicycles. Magicians and street singers would perform behind upturned hats while the pockets of affluent, applauding New Yorkers were picked by their less fortunate brethren.
I ordered pancakes and scrambled eggs, home fries with bacon on the side, orange juice and coffee. It wasn’t the jazz brunch at Fat Tuesday’s, but at least the eggs were fresh instead of powdered. And I didn’t have to shuffle along behind the prisoner in front of me, wondering which one of the cooks had spit into the orange juice.
The waitress who took care of me was cute, thirtyish, and exhausted. I flashed her my best smile, willing her to ignore the scars, and shook my head sympathetically. “Long night? Hope you had a good time.”
“Yeah? Good time?” she squawked. “I been on since eleven last night. Fucking Greek bastard didn’t show up to relieve me and I won’t get outta here till four. The next time I see that cocksucker, I’m gonna do Lorena Bobbitt on his, dick. What kinda syrup you want on them pancakes?”
It was still early when I walked into the park. The New York I remembered didn’t wake up before noon on Sundays and it was barely ten o’clock when I strolled past the big statue at Columbus Circle and headed north along the road that circles the park. There were a few runners out, wearing their smartest outfits, the men bare chested despite the morning chill. The women were encased in shiny tights made from a fabric I’d never seen before and which I later found out was called Spandex. It looked like rubber.
Up near 72nd Street, I saw single-blade roller skates for the first time. Someone had set up a row of small traffic cones and the skaters were running them like a slalom, crisscrossing their skates as they went. The youngest, a girl, looked
The truth hit me as I stepped into the shower, the same shower where I’d confronted old Calvin. Eddie Conte had begun planning this job before he left Cortlandt. While the rest of us were cutting up pepperoni for the spaghetti sauce, he was putting the pieces together. Tony Morasso had been one of those pieces, and it was no coincidence that he and Eddie left Cortlandt within a week of each other. I was a piece, too. That’s why Eddie had spent hours trying to convince me to call him as soon as I got out. Eddie needed someone to control Morasso and I was the man with the track record.
All my fantasies of a straight life went the way of the water when I turned the shower off. Right down the drain. It just wasn’t happening and that was that. I was back to being a criminal and the role felt as comfortable as an old pair of jeans. For the first time, I really felt like I’d gotten out of prison. Even though my head kept telling me that I was turning onto a dead-end street, I was rocked with emotion. Free at last. Free at last. Taking the easy way out. Made even easier by the simple truth that it was the only way out.
ELEVEN
I KNEW THAT FEELING (that illusion) of freedom would gradually die out, as it always had in the past, but I intended to enjoy it while it lasted. No cuffs, no shackles, no bars, no buzzers, no C.O.’s with their clubs and their attitudes. Only my fear of a new, straight life had kept me from enjoying it up till now, and fear, as we all know, is dishonorable.
I took a taxi up the West Side to Lincoln Center, near Central Park, and found an open coffee shop. It was going to be a beautiful day, warm and clear, especially for April. Central Park (at least the way I remembered it) would be packed—the jugglers and the hustlers would be out, the joggers and the bicycles. Magicians and street singers would perform behind upturned hats while the pockets of affluent, applauding New Yorkers were picked by their less fortunate brethren.
I ordered pancakes and scrambled eggs, home fries with bacon on the side, orange juice and coffee. It wasn’t the jazz brunch at Fat Tuesday’s, but at least the eggs were fresh instead of powdered. And I didn’t have to shuffle along behind the prisoner in front of me, wondering which one of the cooks had spit into the orange juice.
The waitress who took care of me was cute, thirtyish, and exhausted. I flashed her my best smile, willing her to ignore the scars, and shook my head sympathetically. “Long night? Hope you had a good time.”
“Yeah? Good time?” she squawked. “I been on since eleven last night. Fucking Greek bastard didn’t show up to relieve me and I won’t get outta here till four. The next time I see that cocksucker, I’m gonna do Lorena Bobbitt on his, dick. What kinda syrup you want on them pancakes?”
It was still early when I walked into the park. The New York I remembered didn’t wake up before noon on Sundays and it was barely ten o’clock when I strolled past the big statue at Columbus Circle and headed north along the road that circles the park. There were a few runners out, wearing their smartest outfits, the men bare chested despite the morning chill. The women were encased in shiny tights made from a fabric I’d never seen before and which I later found out was called Spandex. It looked like rubber.
Up near 72nd Street, I saw single-blade roller skates for the first time. Someone had set up a row of small traffic cones and the skaters were running them like a slalom, crisscrossing their skates as they went. The youngest, a girl, looked
Similar Books
