him. Only quick steps on his part kept the beer from spilling on more than his shoes. Shouting erupted, and more shoving—
And at the center of the brewing fight was noneother than Tino Garza. For a moment, Vince examined the changes prison had wrought. Without the old scar across Tino’s left temple, would Vince have recognized him? Even as he assessed the transformation, his heart sank.
Prison gang. The tattoos, the abundance of ripped musculature…Vince didn’t have to see a distinct gang symbol to know it was true.
It shouldn’t be a surprise—the greater shock would be for Tino to have come out of prison straight. He’d always been wild, always hotheaded. Vince knew the stats: prison-spawned gangs recruited from street gangs. They were syndicates, a well-oiled machine. Guys on the outside funded the lifestyle of those in the joint by whatever crimes were necessary—robberies, for sure; auto theft; drugs; gambling—whatever it took. You got caught, you took your sentence, knowing that you’d be well tended on the inside, that the obligation would hold for as long as the revolving door existed.
In the eyes of the members, honor bound them. Families were cared for, time served made less painful by plentiful funds, drugs, whatever an inmate wanted, as long as he knew the score. Once out, you hooked up with your area commander and got your assignments. Funnel the money into the system as expected, and you could live your life in relative peace. Get crosswise with it…you and anyone you cared about were history.
Organizational charts, disciplinary system…the adult gangs were half corporate, half military in their behavior, but a taste for violence lay at the heart of it.
That was the bottom line: a world more brutal thanany bleeding-heart liberal could imagine. Those exhorting prison as rehabilitation were kidding themselves. As long as blood and money were entwined, no one got out alive. Get along, play your part—you might live to be a little older. Fail, or worse, try to get out—you were dead. Period. End of story.
“Hey, buddy, how the hell are you?” Tino spotted him and abandoned the brewing fight to greet Vince.
Though Vince had gone to a certain amount of trouble to adopt a disguise he’d never used undercover, without making it impossible for Tino to recognize him, he had no desire to be the center of attention. He jerked his head toward the exit and left without checking to see if Tino followed.
He did. “Let me buy you a drink, man. For old times.” Grabbing Vince around the neck, Tino hugged him and slapped his back. “Help me celebrate my independence.” He clasped Vince’s arm and tried to pull him back toward the door, but Vince resisted. “Hey, check you. Been workin’ out, man?”
Vince stepped back into the shadows. Half a head shorter, Tino showed the effects of what had to be years of doing weights, no doubt with the addition of steroids. Vince kept his tone light. “Me? I just grew up. What happened to you? You decided against majoring in the arts?”
Tino laughed and clapped Vince’s shoulder. “What can I say? I’m not a kid anymore, carnal. ”
Carnal. Brother. Once they had been that in all but blood. “So you came back to the old hometown, eh?” Vince asked.
Tino shrugged, his eyes glittering with God knows what chemical assistance. “Missed my buddy. How the hell you been doin’, Vince?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I heard about you in the joint, you know. You got a rep, big brother. Fair number of guys wouldn’t mind doin’ a tap dance on your head.”
“Popularity’s a curse.”
“Yeah, but you got a real fan club with the boss, ése. ” Eyes glittering, feet jittering…Tino was laying down a load of BS too deep for boots.
“What are you after?” Vince asked.
“I don’t know what you mean. Me, I’m just here with my big bro—you ain’t so much bigger than me now, are you?” Tino brandished his fists and danced around. “Want to go
And at the center of the brewing fight was noneother than Tino Garza. For a moment, Vince examined the changes prison had wrought. Without the old scar across Tino’s left temple, would Vince have recognized him? Even as he assessed the transformation, his heart sank.
Prison gang. The tattoos, the abundance of ripped musculature…Vince didn’t have to see a distinct gang symbol to know it was true.
It shouldn’t be a surprise—the greater shock would be for Tino to have come out of prison straight. He’d always been wild, always hotheaded. Vince knew the stats: prison-spawned gangs recruited from street gangs. They were syndicates, a well-oiled machine. Guys on the outside funded the lifestyle of those in the joint by whatever crimes were necessary—robberies, for sure; auto theft; drugs; gambling—whatever it took. You got caught, you took your sentence, knowing that you’d be well tended on the inside, that the obligation would hold for as long as the revolving door existed.
In the eyes of the members, honor bound them. Families were cared for, time served made less painful by plentiful funds, drugs, whatever an inmate wanted, as long as he knew the score. Once out, you hooked up with your area commander and got your assignments. Funnel the money into the system as expected, and you could live your life in relative peace. Get crosswise with it…you and anyone you cared about were history.
Organizational charts, disciplinary system…the adult gangs were half corporate, half military in their behavior, but a taste for violence lay at the heart of it.
That was the bottom line: a world more brutal thanany bleeding-heart liberal could imagine. Those exhorting prison as rehabilitation were kidding themselves. As long as blood and money were entwined, no one got out alive. Get along, play your part—you might live to be a little older. Fail, or worse, try to get out—you were dead. Period. End of story.
“Hey, buddy, how the hell are you?” Tino spotted him and abandoned the brewing fight to greet Vince.
Though Vince had gone to a certain amount of trouble to adopt a disguise he’d never used undercover, without making it impossible for Tino to recognize him, he had no desire to be the center of attention. He jerked his head toward the exit and left without checking to see if Tino followed.
He did. “Let me buy you a drink, man. For old times.” Grabbing Vince around the neck, Tino hugged him and slapped his back. “Help me celebrate my independence.” He clasped Vince’s arm and tried to pull him back toward the door, but Vince resisted. “Hey, check you. Been workin’ out, man?”
Vince stepped back into the shadows. Half a head shorter, Tino showed the effects of what had to be years of doing weights, no doubt with the addition of steroids. Vince kept his tone light. “Me? I just grew up. What happened to you? You decided against majoring in the arts?”
Tino laughed and clapped Vince’s shoulder. “What can I say? I’m not a kid anymore, carnal. ”
Carnal. Brother. Once they had been that in all but blood. “So you came back to the old hometown, eh?” Vince asked.
Tino shrugged, his eyes glittering with God knows what chemical assistance. “Missed my buddy. How the hell you been doin’, Vince?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I heard about you in the joint, you know. You got a rep, big brother. Fair number of guys wouldn’t mind doin’ a tap dance on your head.”
“Popularity’s a curse.”
“Yeah, but you got a real fan club with the boss, ése. ” Eyes glittering, feet jittering…Tino was laying down a load of BS too deep for boots.
“What are you after?” Vince asked.
“I don’t know what you mean. Me, I’m just here with my big bro—you ain’t so much bigger than me now, are you?” Tino brandished his fists and danced around. “Want to go
Similar Books
