Fear Me

5

Later that afternoon, Riggs passed the word to Romero that Black Dog wanted to see him. It wasn’t good. Anytime Black Dog was involved it just couldn’t be a good thing.

Black Dog was a patched blood member of the Hell’s Angels and one of the Filthy Few, which was the enforcement wing of the Angels who beat, mauled, and murdered any that violated club policies or encroached on their lucrative drug turf. He was absolutely fearless, tough, and merciless. He had a psychotic volatile temper and a reputation for bloodshed and violence that few could match behind those walls. He was sitting on a seventy-five year stretch for murder conspiracy.

“Hell’s he want?’ Romero asked.

But Riggs just shrugged. “Can’t say, my brother. He reached out through us because he wants a sit-down with you.”

By “us” Riggs meant the Mongols. There had been blood wars between the Angels and Mongols on the outside, but behind the walls at Shaddock, they kept an uneasy truce.

Romero found Black Dog over at the iron pile, bench-pressing the sort of weight that would have driven most men into the ground. He finished, mopping sweat from his face with his T-shirt. “Romero,” he said. “Glad you came. We need to talk.”

Romero sighed, lit a cigarette. “I’m listening.”

“It’s about your cellie,” Blackdog said. “That fish Palmquist. I need to know what your intentions are.”

“Intentions?”

Black Dog nodded. “Some shit happened at Brickhaven. You probably heard. Your fish was involved in that, somehow, some way. Was a dude over there, Donnie Fritz, he got done. Some people think your fish had a hand in it.”

Romero laughed. “Palmquist? We talking about the same guy?”

“We are.”

“This kid ain’t got it in him, Dog.”

“Some people think different.”

“Then some people are full of shit.”

“Go easy, man, go easy here.”

Even to Romero, Blackdog was fearsome. He stood an easy 6’6 and weighed 300 pounds and there was not a scrap of fat on him. His body was covered in prison tattoos and many of them, if you knew how to read them, told the story of who he was and where he’d been, the things he’d done and the bodies he’d left in his wake. On each huge bulging bicep there was an immense blood-red swastika.

He was not a man to cross.

Black Dog was not elaborating on these “people,” at least not yet. And knowing him and his connections it could have been anybody from the Italians to the Mexicans, his biker brothers or the ABs. Take your pick.

“Listen, Dog,” Romero said, standing his ground. “Palmquist is meat. He’s harmless. There’s no way he did someone like Fritz. Besides, way I hear it, Fritz and his cellie got done after lock-down. Now how the fuck could the fish be involved in that?”

Black Dog thought about that.

Even with the proper schooling, Romero doubted that Palmquist would ever make a good con. He’d never have the nuts to stand up for himself and that made him a victim, plain and simple.

When Romero was a young punk at Brickhaven, after he’d been processed into the general population, an old timer named Skip Hannaway came up to him and asked him what the state had sent him away to college for. Romero told him about the thing he had for stealing cars.

“Let me tell you how things work here, son,” Skip said. “Everything that happens in a hardtime joint revolves around fear and anger. These are the only two emotions you will encounter in this cesspool. The primary motivations behind everything. You got to learn how to control fear and use anger. It’s the only way to survive. Anybody gives you shit, you give it back in spades. You make that fucker wish he’d never been born. A pipe is a good thing. You see somebody coming at you, break ’em with it. Lay it upside their head, crack their kneecaps with it, break their hands. Let ’em all know that you have a wild, insane temper and they’ll keep away. Most cons are cowards. They like to come up behind you, throw you a beating or stick a knife in you when your back’s turned. Not too many that like to do it face to face and that’s because they don’t want to get hurt. You show ’em pain, let ’em see their own blood… you’ll be surprised how meek they become.”

Good advice that Romero put into play his second day there when some old pervert made a play for him.

But Palmquist?

No, he just didn’t have it in him.

He’d never make it.

Life in the joint was indifferent hacks and crowding, dehumanizing conditions and shitty food. You shivered in your bunk in the winter and sweated and stank in the summer. You tried to keep the flies off your face and the lice out of your hair and the rats from biting your feet while you slept. Some perv made a play for your asshole, you beat him. Some con tried to extort you or slide a shank into you when your back was turned, you crippled them.

Politics.

That’s all it came down to: politics.

And Palmquist would never be able to play the game.

“Listen to me, Romero. Hear what I say. Donnie Fritz was hooked up with some big players. They didn’t take kindly to what happened at The Brick and they want payback. They want the fish to suffer,” Black Dog explained. “Now I saw you today. When Weems went after your boy, it looked like you were thinking about intervening. Not good. You laying claim to the fish as your boy?”

“No.”

“That’s good. See, those friends of Fritz’s, they reached out to Papa Joe…”

Shit. Papa Joe was Joseph Scallati, an incarcerated heroin trafficker and a made guy in the mob. When he had your number, there was no hole deep enough to hide in. He had deep pockets and the cons and hacks were eating out of his hands. He had not only the Italians standing behind him, but the biker gangs he used for muscle and the Latin gangs that were lorded over by the Mexican Mafia. And if that wasn’t enough, he also had the Aryan Brotherhood.

The ABs were the most ruthless and savage white prison gang ever formed. They had began during the race riots at San Quentin during the ’60s and had carved themselves an especially bloodthirsty niche ever since. At Quentin, the ABs had a standing “kill on sight” order and they murdered every black they found. In the years since, it had mellowed somewhat, but they were still unbelievably violent and dangerous. Unlike most prison gangs who relied on strength in numbers, the ABs had a blood in, blood out rule: in other words, you had to kill someone to get in and only death could get you out. Even outside prison walls, the gang was involved in organized crime, a narcotics conduit for their imprisoned brothers.

The bikers were bad enough, but these guys were fanatics.

Romero didn’t want to see Palmquist victimized and broken… but he couldn’t stand up against something like this.

“So you see how things stand,” Black Dog said.

“I guess I do.”

Black Dog nodded. “Just wanted you to get this word of advice and look the other way. Papa Joe’s sending Tony Gordo after him and you don’t want to get involved in that shit.”

Romero felt sick to his stomach.

Tony Gordo was a mob enforcer who was doing two consecutive life terms for murder. A big, evil piece of work, the sort of scavenger only the streets could produce. Just a human monster that had been feeding off the bloated body of a diseased society since the very moment his eyes flicked opened in that death mask he called a face. That was Gordo. Tipping the scales at 400 pounds, he was just shy of seven feet tall and a born monster. Nobody liked him, but the Italians used him for muscle. Gordo’s biggest joy in life was sodomizing the new fish. Black, white, didn’t matter, if you had a hole in your backside then it was his duty to fill it. He started with beatings which were like foreplay to him that led up to the violent act of consummation.

“So Papa Joe is going to let that fucking freak have his fun?”

Black Dog shrugged. “Ain’t like any of us like it, but it’s business. Strictly business. You ain’t sweet on the fish, are you?”

Romero didn’t answer that one.

He walked away. He couldn’t trust what his mouth might say and what kind of shit it might get him into. Palmquist’s ticket was already punched. The hacks wouldn’t help him and nobody in the joint would dare intervene in Papa Joe’s business and especially with a meat-eater like Gordo involved.

Bunching his fists, frustrated and pissed-off, Romero began to wonder what he was going to do about it. Was he going to be smart and look the other way or was he going to jump feet-first into the fires of hell?

The thing was, he didn’t really know.