her eyes and see like she's thinking something. Or even I look at a print of her, the same thing. This is when we come back from Vegas and I can't stop taking pictures of her. I hold one up and say, 'Baby, what are you thinking about in this picture?' I wait for her to make a face, say how can she remember that? No, Dawn say she wasn't thinking, she was feeling love for me. All these years by herself, man, she still waiting for me, still saying she loves me. You believe it?
No, he didn't. Foley said, You can't ask for more'n that. When'd you start taking pictures?
Remember, I tole you the guy that shot me three times in the chest, barely missing my heart, took pictures? Negroes in church waving their hands in the air. A cemetery, people there in the rain. An old Jewish woman putting on her lipstick. Joe LaBrava, man, use to be in the Secret Service, quit and became famous taking pictures. I thought, Tha's all you have to do? Take some real-life shots like that, things you see every fucking day and you become famous? But all I've done so far is take pictures of Dawn.
They're good, Foley said. I like the painting of her too.
And knew as Cundo said, What painting? he'd made a mistake.
Foley said, Oh, you haven't seen it? The dark-haired Dawn bare naked had nothing to do with Cundo, eight years and three thousand miles away.
Now he wanted to know, Who painted her?
Foley said, I don't know. But didn't you tell me one time she paints?
I don't know, maybe, Cundo said. I don't remember. But listen, Jack? I like you to do something for me. Keep an eye on her till I get out. See does anybody come to visit her and let me know.
Foley said, Isn't the Monk watching out for her? I thought he might come by here, but I haven't seen him.
The Monk say she's fine, no problem, Cundo said, what he always say to me, 'Yeah, Dawn is fine.' Sometimes he say, 'She wants me to tell you she misses you very much,' but I don't hear her saying that.
They aren't her exact words, Foley said, but it's what she meant. The Monk can't remember what she said? Why you making excuses for him? You don't know him. I don't want you to worry, Foley said, get upset, with your release coming up.
I can't help if I worry about her, what she's doing. Cundo raised his voice saying, For Christ sake, all right, to someone watching him on the phone, and to Foley, Fucking guardia. He makes a sign like he's cutting his throat for me to get off the phone, line of guys waiting to use it.
That's what I'm talking about, Foley said. Stay calm, will you? Don't fuck up now you're ready to get out.
I want to know Dawn is a saint, Cundo said, not fucking some guy for painting her picture.
You don't think it's a self-portrait.
She don't fucking paint, Jack, her gift is to tell fortunes. I want to know she's a saint when I come home, I want you to see she's without sin, like a virgin. We road dogs, man, we do for each other no matter what.
It was a custom to pair off as road dogs inside, living among gangs with their own signs and tats; inmates who weren't with them were against them; gangbangers could make living inside a daily chore, watching not to look any gangsta in the eye. A five-foot home-boy, a new arrival, said to Foley in the yard, What chew looking at, butt-fuck? Foley said, I'm looking at you, asshole, and nodded to the gangbangers watching. They took the kid away telling him not to fuck with Foley, he was the real thing, the star bank robber at Glades, respected, you could talk to him. While Cundo was the jive Cat Prince with money, lots of money he used for favors, Jack Foley watching his back.
I see us more as social road dogs, Foley said. We don't need to be that serious about it.
How you see it don't matter, Cundo said. Is how the population sees us. They know, even if you making a wrong move, do something stupid, they know I back you up. Con sees you come at him with a shank, he knows your road dog is right behind, also with a shank. Is how it is.
When
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