Pain Killers by Jerry Stahl

and they kept going bad. If the doctor were still in the camps, he could transplant the severely hep C–infected organ into the body of a twelve-year-old Gypsy. Just to see if it made the young Romany scream at his family, then short out and spiral into a hate-nap.
    Which is where I was headed. Until, with three brain cells still awake, I landed on a way to actually do the job I was so scared of.
    I wouldn’t run away from my quarry—but I wouldn’t run toward him either. Instead of riffling through the prisoner files, scoping out a ninety-seven-year-old’s mug shot and yelling “Bingo” when I found it, I’d pluck files out of the pile at random. Leave it to the penal gods.
    Surprise required less preparation.
    I started with a yellow file. Holding my breath—I was ready—I opened to a photocopied mug shot of Prisoner C-099419. A delicate, sleepy-eyed young felon with long hair and a face as flat and expressionless as a Mayan king’s. Definitely not Mengele material.
     
ERNESTO NEGRANTE, 24, AKA CRANKY H [Hispanic] Four counts of assault with a deadly weapon. 18th Street gang member, L.A.
     
    The file rambled. As if somebody had sat down and read a bunch of other files and scribbled up highlights—or left out some details.
     
CO NOTES: Inmate jumped into La Eme 11/06.

ARRESTING OFFICER HECTOR DELGADO: Perp in vehicle with his brother TITO NEGRANTE AKA JOKER KGA [known gang associate] when Tito was shot. Perp claimed brother picked him up on the way home from school. QUOTE: How’m I supposed to know Joker was so dusted he’d start shootin’ outside the cop shop? UNQUOTE
     
    I skipped ahead…. Cranky was a one-eight. Eighteenth Street. He was seventeen. His mug shot showed the face of a frail youngster. Seventeen going on twelve. Sentenced as an adult to ten years in Quentin. Now he was a soldier in the Mexican mafia. Which explained why he’d signed up for drug class. I’d read, in the L.A.
Times
“California Section” crime page, that La Eme had issued an edict that members inside get off meth. Or face the consequences.
    I gave Cranky an approving tap.
At least you’ll be motivated.
    Next, a red file. Why not?
     
MOVERN DINKLE, 39. African-American. Eleven months, parole violation. ARP [alcohol related parole violation].

Subject released 1.27.08 at approximately 1100. Returned to facility 1.27.081700.
     
    Free for six hours? My fucking hero! Something about luck that bad gives a man hope. I couldn’t explain it, but I already liked him.
     
Subj. prev. served 97 months of 144 mo. sentence. Five counts, involuntary manslaughter…
     
    Five? A large coffee stain blotted the rest of that page, up to:
     
…
completed alcohol education program.
     
    Paper-clipped to the file was a small scissored-out newspaper article: “Under the influence, Mr. Dinkle had a head-on collision with a van full of Cub Scouts. Four scouts were killed on impact. The scoutmaster, a high school track star, Iraq vet, Sunday school teacher and dad-to-be, was left a quadriplegic before succumbing to viral pneumonia….”
     
ARRESTING OFFICER: At approximately 1300 perp cited for urinating in muffin case at Starbucks
.
     
    “Starbucks? Movern, listen!” I leaned down close so Movern’s mug shot could hear me better. “Nobody drinks at Starbucks. What do they teach you in alcohol education, anyway?”
    No doubt, with my help and expertise in the field, the next time Movern got sprung, he might make it twenty-four hours before getting sloppy drunk and exposing himself again.
    The next file was written by hand on carbon paper. Quaint.
     
INMATE D-7664C2 ROSCOE BENTON, 55. African-American.
     
    Beside Roscoe’s prints and mug shot was a more recent photo, from the
Bay Guardian.
“Inmate Doing Life Helps Others Live.” The young Roscoe glared like Miles Davis and the old one, down thirty-six years, stared back like Buddha, if Buddha’d been a lanky, locked-down brother with a soul patch, a beanie and eyes that did