life that I’m only a little jealous of. They have two kids they bring to see me. His daughter, Ashlee, is almost five now. She has asked me to marry her when I get out. It feels kind of weird since she calls me Uncle Reyes and incest is frowned upon, but who am I to argue with true love? Stephen is still in diapers and giving them a run for their money.
Amador is worried about Kim. She doesn’t look well. I agree. Then again, she’s never looked well. I go see her often. I just don’t let her know I’m there. She barely eats enough to keep a chipmunk alive. She has become a recluse. Rarely going out. Rarely talking to anyone.
He tells me that there are Web sites dedicated to me. “You making those up yourself?”
I scowl and shake my head.
“There’s some crazy bitches out there, cabrón. Watch your ass.”
As much as I’m online, I’d never even thought to look, so the next time I’m on a computer, supposedly taking an online class on how to write your memoirs, I check it out. He’s right. There are fan pages dedicated to me. I shut them down in disgust. It’s like all those women who fill out applications to visit me. What the fuck for? They don’t even know me, and it’s not like we can date. I refuse them all.
But I got another postcard today. It’s the fourth one, I think. I didn’t really pay attention to them at first, but the last one I got caught my eye. They’re never signed, and they’re sent from all over New Mexico. But the last one had the words Wish you were here written on it. It wasn’t the writing that got my attention. It was the scent. Familiar. Sweet. Cheap. It set my mind racing.
But one thing is a given: I have to get out of prison, and I have to do it soon.
22
My new cellmate has Asperger’s. Not bad. Just enough to make him a little slower than the usual suspects. Then again, we’re in prison. Most of this population is slower than the usual suspects. The guy is huge, strong, and easily manipulated. I suspect that his cousin, who is inside as well, is the ringleader of their particular circus act. At first, they spend every second they can together. The dynamics are typical. Beau tells Jerry Lee what to do. Where to stand. Whom to hurt. And Jerry Lee follows him blindly.
Normally I stay out of that shit, but I have to put a stop to it this time. Only because I don’t need an adversary of Beau’s coming into the cell to off his cousin. I’ve been lucky so far, but I have a whole new appreciation for life and the living. Besides, Beau is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes. He was slated for hell by the time he was six years old, if that tells you anything about him.
“He’ll be fine,” I tell Jerry Lee as they wheel his cousin out. “He won’t be running any marathons, but…”
Odd thing is, Jerry Lee isn’t all that upset. If I had to pinpoint his exact emotion, I’d say he was more relieved than anything.
My plan involves the shot callers of a couple gangs for whom I’ve done enough favors to warrant a favor of my own. Not that they’ll realize I’m collecting. It’ll all be over before they even know what hit them.
That night, I visit each one in their cells while they’re sleeping. I basically talk shit. Tell them the other shot callers are planning a war, and they need to get their armies ready. I do that every night for a week, until the tension in the prison is so high, you could bounce a quarter off it.
I give it one more day, one more night to plant the seeds of my plan, then instead of preventing war, I incite it. Humans are so easily manipulated. A whisper into the right ear while I’m in ghost mode, a perceived attack, and all hell breaks loose.
We’re out in the yard when it goes down. Men are glaring. Guards are watching. And then, in a split second, it begins. One group starts across the yard. They are trying to look nonchalant, but anytime a group of violent, dangerous men moves en masse, it raises a few flags.
Sirens blare from loudspeakers. Guards on the ground rush for their riot gear. Guards