Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

for Skot Travis

defender of every child but himself. manager of everyones pain but his own. a warrior who finally fell. down in the Zero, still searching.

give Pansy a marrow bone for me, partner.

The first time you end up Inside, you think serving your sentence is going to take forever. But soon you learn: no matter how much time you have to do, some parts of it never take long.

The Aryan clenched his fists, glancing down at his cartoon-huge forearms as if to reassure himself all that cable-tendoned muscle was real. He was on the downside of steroid burnout, dazed and dangerous.

The Latino wouldnt know a kata from the Koran, but he was an idiot savant of violence, with the kinetic intelligence of a pit bull.

They faced each other in a far corner of the prison yard, screened off from the ground-level guards by the never-intersecting streams of cons flowing around them.

Any experienced gun-tower hack could read the swirls below him, see something was up. But the convicts knew the duty roster better than the warden. They knew the tower closest to the action was manned by a tired old guy with thirty years on the job and a good supply of gash magazines. All they had to do was keep the noise down.

Only play is to stay away. The Prof spoke low to me.

Yeah, I said. Larsens not built for distance. If Jester gets him tired, he can

Our play, fool! the Prof hissed at me. The fuse is lit; its time to split.

We faded, working our way back through the crowd sneaking glances at the duel. By the time the whistle blew and the first shots sounded from the tower, we were standing on either side of the sally port as the Goon Squad rushed through, hammering wildly at every con within reach.

Larsen didnt run. He was facedown on the filthy asphalt, Jesters shank protruding from the back of his neck. The matador had gone in over the horns.

They locked the whole joint down, tore up everyones house looking for weapons. But all that did was simmer the pot more, as plots and counterplots festered into a Big House brew of pus and poison. Usually it was black against white, with brown trying to stay out of the crossfire. But this one had rolled out different.

Larsen rode with a motorcycle gang; there were a lot of bikers Inside then. And Jester had been flying colors at sixteen, when hed taken the life that had bought him a life sentence. The kid hed killed was another PR, from a rival club, but that didnt matter anymore.

Back then, when it came to prison war, race trumped tribe every time.

You never got a choice about that. The cons had all kinds of names for areas of the prisonTimes Square, Blues Alley, D Streetbut I never heard of one named Switzerland.

On the bricks, niggers do the paper-bag trick, the Prof told me. But Inside, you cant hide.

Whats the paper-bag trick? I asked him. The Prof had been schooling me for a while, so I didnt even blink at a black man saying nigger. I knew words were claythey took their real meaning from the sculptor.

I aint talking about passing, now, the Prof cautioned me. Its a class thing. Motherfuckersll hold a paper bag next to they faces and look in the mirror, okay? If they darker than the bag, there aint but so far up the ladder they can climb, understand?

I . . . guess.

Nah, you dont get it, son. Im talking about the colored ladder, see? Mothers want they daughters to marry light. They know high-society niggers dont want no darkies at their parties.

I just nodded, waiting for mine, knowing it was coming.

Yeah, he said, softly. Its different with white folks. Color aint the thing. Boy like you, you was born trash. You could be light as one of them albinos; wouldnt make no difference.

I knew it was true.

By the time they ended the lockdown and we could mix again, the clay had hardened. Larsens crew called it for personal, put out the word. They werent going race-hunting. They only wanted Jester.

I guess the hacks wanted him, too. They never bing-ed him for the killing, and they knew Jester would never take a voluntary PC. That section of solitary was marked Protective Custody, but the road sign was just there to fool the tourists. Cons called it Punk City. Jester, hed rather swan-dive into hell wearing gasoline swim trunks.

For a lot of the Latin gang kids I knew coming up, it wasnt whether you died that counted, it was how you died.

When Jester hit the yard, he wasnt alone. There was a fan of Latinos behind him, unfurling from his shoulders like a cape in the wind.

Jester dont mind dying, but he sure mind motherfuckers trying, the Prof said out of the side of his mouth.

The motorcycle guys stood off to one side, watching. Everyone gave the two crews room, measuring the odds. There were a few more of the Latins, but they all looked like theyd come from the same cookie-cuttershort and slim to the point of being feline. The motorcycle guys were carrying a lot more beef. Question was: What else were they carrying?

Only steel is real, the Prof said, summing it up.

The yard buzzed with its life-force: rumor. Was it true that the hacks had looked the other way, let the whites re-arm? Had the search squad really found a few live .22 rounds during the shakedown? What about the word that they were going to transfer a new bunch of bikers in from Attica and Dannemora to swell the ranks?

Jester turned and faced his crew, deliberately offering his back to the whites. One of them started forward; stopped when their leader held up his hand.

It wasnt going to be today.

And the next three weeks went by quiet.

The motorcycle guys trapped me in a corridor near the license plate shop. My faultI should have been race-war alert, but Id let the quiet lull me.

How much? their leader, a guy named Vestry, asked me.

How much for what? I said, stalling, but honestly puzzled, too.

For the piece, man. Dont be playing dumb with us. Youre all alone here.

I dont know what youre

Your boy, Oz, hes the guy what makes all the best shanks. So we figure hes got

The Man shut him down. You know that. Oz dont keep a stash. Makes them to order and hands them over soon as theyre done.

Were not talking about no fucking pig-stickers, Burke. We want the piece. If the hacks found bullets, theres got to be a gun. And, word is, its yours.

The word is bullshit.

Look, man, were willing to pay. Or did the spics get to you first?

Im not in this, I told him. If I had a piece, Id sell it to you. You know Im shortyou think Id bag my go-home behind getting caught with a fucking gun?

We know you got it, Vestry said, stubborn-stupid, stepping closer. A sound came from the men behind himthe trilling of a pod of orcas whod spotted a sea-lion pup far from the herd.

One of them said Oh! just as I heard a sound like a popgun and saw his hands go to his face. He stumbled to one knee, said, Im . . . , and fell over.

Another popgun sound. Vestry grabbed at his neck like a bee stung him. But blood spurted out between his fingers.

Everybody ran. Everybody that could.

It just came out of the shadows, I told them. Like it was a ghost or something.

At least two ghosts, then, Oz said. Vestry made it to the hospital in time; the other guy didnt. But there were two shots.

Sonot a zip, the Prof said, thoughtfully. Aint no way to reload one of those suckers that fast.

Or two zips. And two shooters, Darryl said.

Everyone went quiet for a while. Then the Prof said, I think Schoolboy nailed it the first time.