L’il man stood at his cell door watching Topo handle business on the phone. He also studied both tower guards, they were watching Topo, and so was every Mexican inside their cell.
When Topo hung up the phone he walked to Felipe’s cell for a few seconds and grabbed a magazine Felipe shot under the cell door. Then he stopped at two other Mexican cells on his way to his cell.
L’il man knew it was his style to say good morning and extend his hand to the flock. Topo arrived at the cell and waited for the tower guard at the control buttons to pop the door open and L’il man looked left down the tier to the corner cell and studied Vincent staring at him and Topo. While studying Vincent’s chiseled olive colored blemish-less baby face, L’il man thought, Topo will be sending him instructions for his phone call.
The cell door popped open. Topo stepped inside and explained the phone call with Veto. Then he sat on his bunk and began a message to Vincent while L’il man used the cell space to do his navy seal exercise routine. An hour later Topo finished the note to Vince and the poetry he mentioned and looked at his L’il Man. He stood like a warrior breathing hard after 700 pushups, squats, lunges and rocking chair extensions. Sweat cascaded down a hairless brown body pumped with striated stocky muscles built up from over 15 years of assiduous exercise. At 24 years old at 5’7 190 lbs. he had scars from knife fights on his right forearm and left shoulder and bullet wounds on his stomach and left shoulder. Topo wondered, he’s 22 years younger than me and is on his way to earning his pension, will he be as lucky as me and still have a parole date when he gets there? Or will he be like most of the eagles and have a life sentence when he becomes a member?
L’il man finished his bird bath and cleaned the cell and stainless steel sink and toilet to a shine. Finished with that he continued to take measured deep breaths to regain balance and contemplate for business. He squatted on his haunches on the floor next to Topo’s stainless steel bunk. Topo had his mattress rolled up as tight as possible to extend room for him to squat on his haunches and sit on it like a director to go over the message to Vincent.
L’il Man read the kite: Mr. Vincent-My cellie and I send our cordial regards and respects to you and yours. First and foremost I want to thank you for your assistance. Please accept this care package my cellie and I enclosed as a token of our appreciation. Two days from now, on our next shower morning, the border brother Mexicans are going to handle some serious business and get put on lock down. As you know that means the rest of us Mexicans from southern California are going to be short on numbers for when we come off the other lock down we are on. As you know, we Mexicans back your White race when it comes to dealing with the Black race on issues related to the space we share together on the Mexican and White side of the day room, showers and space on the yard. I am asking if you can guarantee us that you will have your white race extend this same loyalty in return if we have problems with these Blacks in the coming future? With that said, enjoy the rest of your day. With Respect, Topo and L’il Man
L’il man finished reading the kite and said, “I don’t think you should have assumed Felipe is going to run through your red light. Maybe you should say that you’re contemplating allowing him to handle the business.”
“Good point brother. Re-write the kite that way but just keep in mind that will give him more wiggle room. He might look for leverage that I shouldn’t have allowed the border Mexicans to handle their business.”
“I would lose a lot of respect for Vincent and his people if he looked at it that way. Felipe would be a piece of shit not to slice that rat-informant-slanderous fuck’s neck to donate his blood to the sun god.”
“Now you’re getting the picture, loved one. Keep perceiving and you will understand why I’m doing it my way. Remember one thing, its not that we can’t make a mistake, it’s how ready we are for it if we make one.”
L’il man re-wrote the kite his way trying to understand the meaning of what Topo had just said then his brain kicked in and he realized his prints were going to be on the kite being sent to Vincent.
L’il Man extended a dental floss thin line fashioned from state issue boxer shorts to send the package to Vincent. He lowered his head to the ground on all fours so his mouth was at the bottom of the cell door and exclaimed, “Dispenser on the tiera!” Prison slang for excuse me on the tier. “Vincent! Go to your mailbox please; we have a Maxim magazine for you.”
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Vincent dropped to the concrete floor with sweat running down his always-bronzed Sicilian body. He landed on the floor extended with his hands in the pushup position. He did 5 pushups, or pumps, and then thrust his right knee to his chest, and then his left knee to chest, keeping the tension on his shoulders, chest, back and arms, then popped back up to his feet to a standing position where he hit his stomach with both fist and counted the number of repetitions. At 123 he finished his routine breathing hard. He paced the cell and measured his breaths to ease back into contemplative mode and heard his name called as expected from Topo’s cell.
Vincent reached under his cell door and pulled the package inside. He faced his cellie who went by “Damaged”. “It looks like they sent us a clavo of drugs.”
The package of drugs was wrapped in plastic. Vincent broke the seal and examined the other bags wrapped in plastic. One was heroin and the other speed. Vincent knew his cellie’s philosophy was in line with his and against allowing anyone, whether it is another race or theirs, to profit from their addictions. They refused using drugs on that principle. Damaged had spoken vehemently in the past, “I refuse to be enslaved by another, of any race, even our own!” Vincent laughed at these earlier memories and proposed an entertaining idea. “Why don’t we sell these $50 dollar bags to that black monster Pyro. He loves this shit and always has a rich cellie with food for store he extorts for his drug habit. I’m sick of being hungry and we don’t have a penny coming in from the streets!”
Damaged nodded his head. “That’s a good idea. We can take it to him when we shower. What do you think about this problem coming up with the Blacks? Should we extend our hand in blind loyalty to the Mexicans?”
Vincent shook his head vehemently, “Absolutely unequivocally NO! That would make us followers. I don’t want our youngsters caught up in their cross fire. We deal with our own problems. We’ll take our time and let Topo know how we see things.”
Damaged nodded in agreement. “Maybe let Topo know that we will cross that bridge when these problems arrive before extending our word before we even know what the problem or issue is over.”
Vincent stepped out of his cell to shower and walked to Pyro’s cell. Damaged waited by the middle shower and watched the tower guards watching Vince. Vince stood at the side of Pyro’s cell talking and Damaged waited for Vince to finish the transaction before stepping all the way into the shower. He hesitated by placing his towel and shower belongings outside the steel cage. Damaged watched Vince act like he was coughing away from the side of Pyro’s cell door at an angle impossible for the tower guards to see the dope getting spit into his hand. Vince stepped from the side of Pyro’s cell door and stood in front of it with his back to the tower guards and dropped it on the floor and used his foot to kick it under the cell. Damaged stepped into the shower.
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CHAPTER—12
Veto hung up the phone and looked at Chuco. His younger half brother, who he raised on his own, influenced by the streets, His l’il hommie. He thought quick and remembered other scenarios to bring mobsters in prison some of their pension… He was going to have to intentionally catch a felonious case and sit in the county jail awaiting a sentence to state prison. Then he was going to have to arrive on a prison yard, check in with the shot caller and raise his hand to handle some serious business on the first violator, serious business like something that had to be handled with a razor or sword, hopefully on the l
ikes of a child molester, rapist or informant. He was going to have to intentionally get caught. It was the only way to get a trip to where Topo was housed in northern California. Veto realized there were easier ways to send dope and money, but this was how mobsters flexed their influence muscles.
Chuco was only 5’4 with light colored skin for a Mexican. Stocky wasn’t a good word to describe him at 200lbs, he was blocky. Growing up hard and fast on the streets, he’d been teased for being fat and ugly in that cruel way most kids do things. By the time he was 13 he’d been in over 50 street fights and everyone in the hardcore neighborhood was starting to realize that a fat person is not supposed to move that fast! Blocky was a better way to describe Chuco. Veto decided to let him go to the red phone before explaining the mission Topo had for him and wondered how he was going to react to a guaranteed loss of freedom for a minimum of 5 to 10 years.
Chuco came back from the designated pay phone and Veto stared at him.
He noticed a difference in his older brother’s expression, body language and demeanor. He stared right back and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Chuco studied Veto. He stood at 6’1 207 lbs in blue designer Boss jeans, shirtless, exposing an athlete like cut up body. He wore a gaudy silver chain around his neck with a large silver cross dangling in between his striated chest muscles. He had another silver chain around his neck with a skeleton key and two different silver lockets that opened and held pictures of those closest to his heart. Chuco smiled thinking about the picture of him in one, next his mother who passed.
Veto wondered is there a way I can send someone else to Topo with some of his pension? If I disobey Topo’s order I will lose my status, my street control and maybe, my life as an example.
“Chuco, Topo wants you to go on a mission for him.”
Chuco’s face lit up like he had just received the Christmas present he’d hoped for. His smile incorporated his entire body. Veto had never seen him so excited, so happy, blind loyalty.
Chuco paced back and forth and asked, “What are my orders?”
“He wants you to intentionally catch a case, get sent to prison as fast as possible, and then get intentionally caught whacking someone in violation on a prison yard to get him part of his pension and earn your big points.”
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Veto dropped Chuco at an exotic car rental shop in Santa Monica where a black Lamborghini had been reserved with a stolen corporate platinum credit card.
Chuco stepped out of the Town Car and remembered how a few hours earlier when going over the mission; he’d decided immediately to do it with flair to earn even BIGGER POINTS.
Veto watched Chuco start the Lamborghini. He gunned the engine for a few seconds and played with the clutch until he found the gripping point and peeled out of the parking lot like a race-car driver with a delighted smile stretching his face. Veto followed him for a few seconds until the next corner. Chuco disappeared around it leaving rubber on the pavement in a fishtail slide the Lamborghini immediately corrected. The last mark Veto would see.
Veto drove to the safe house and turned on the 57’inch flat screen T.V to K-Cal-9 and then Fox. Fox was the first to report a high-speed chase but didn’t yet have the footage. A Santa Monica sheriff was the first to pick up the pursuit and the video camera on the unit’s dash showed the back of the Lamborghini getting on the 405 south for a second before it disappeared in sheer speed.
A couple minutes later K-Cal-9 news had a helicopter above the Lamborghini. The news reporter’s voice was excited. “We are reaching speeds of 200 miles per hour and can just barely keep up with the pursuit vehicle, a black Italian race car, it looks like a Lamborghini.”
The K-Cal news helicopter panned the video camera behind the Lamborghini a couple miles and found a caravan of a dozen law enforcement vehicles losing ground on the Lamborghini.
From the carpool lane Chuco looked at the speedometer, 190 miles an hour and there was still more engine left. He noticed another police vehicle get on the freeway and zoomed past it 100 miles an hour faster. Chuco’s racing mind took it all in, the freeway signs zoomed past, Orange county came quickly and Chuco realized the cops always threw a spike strip on the ground ahead of the chase vehicle in his favorite video game if you stayed on the same freeway for too long.
The freeway entering Orange County became congested and Chuco had to slow down. He swerved from lane to lane and got off the freeway on Harbor and got back on the freeway heading north to the more familiar. For the first time he noticed the helicopter. He looked up and saw a second one almost hit the other one.
The K-Cal 9 helicopter circled to maintain pursuit of the black Lamborghini transferring to the 405 North.
The Fox news helicopter was the second on the scene. The pilot flew in from another angle and noticed the other helicopter just in time as it flew right in his path in a 180-degree turn. The two helicopters flew precious feet apart from colliding.
The K-Cal news reporter yelled, “We almost hit a second helicopter! This is the most reckless high-speed pursuit I’ve ever seen. The Lamborghini is reaching speeds never before seen in a pursuit. We don’t know what the suspect is running for; we don’t have a report of a car jacking yet. We don’t know if the suspect is running from a parole or probation violation and we don’t know if the suspect is affiliated to a street or prison gang or if he is armed…”
Chuco’s initial adrenaline burst started to subside and the realization of what he was doing brought down his high even further. Fear of his fate flashed through his mind and he gritted his teeth against the insanity of the moment and forced himself back into video game mode and transferred to the 605 freeway going north. He noticed the helicopters catching up and reached into his Dickies button down shirt pocket and pulled out his last power pellet, a little speed wrapped in tissue, and tossed it in his mouth and swallowed so he could remain at the top of his game mentally. As the speed hit his brain he realized he should get off on the 105 freeway to L.A.X. He circled into the arrival section underneath and passed Southwest airlines in the first terminal and cut through a side street that by-passed the other terminals and parked the exotic race car halfway through it in the middle of the street and ran toward the international terminal.
The Fox News helicopter followed Chuco a little too far and narrowly missed a descending 747. The K-Cal 9 helicopter’s video man captured the epic footage. The excitement in his voice bordered on glee. “I have worked with the news for 30 years in southern California and have never seen such a sophisticated criminal pursuit. The suspect in the Lamborghini has disappeared into L.A.X. If he has another car stashed in there he is going to get away clean!”
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Topo was the first to realize the pursuit vehicle in the Lamborghini might be Chuco. “I bet that’s my pension getting chased into L.A.X.”
L’il man sat on his top bunk watching the 9’inch T.V. shaking his head. “No way. There is no way they put that together that fast. You just got off the phone with him this morning and it’s barely ten at night.”
Topo was sitting on his rolled up mat studying the T.V. screen. “That’s him. You remember how it is on the streets; everyone is running around on speed like chickens with their heads cut off creating drama and getting CAUGHT UP.”
Right then video from a sheriff’s vehicle showed Chuco in handcuffs. He was being escorted by airport security and handed off to the sheriffs.
L’il man watched Chuco smiling for the camera right before his head was shoved into the back seat.
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Chuco tried to find a comfortable position in the back of the squad car with his hands behind his back in cuffs. They were yanking on his shoulders. He tried another position and found temporary relief leaning forward so his head rested on the metal cage separating the law in the front se
at from the criminal in the back.
The deputy riding shotgun saw the opportunity and slammed his Billy club against the exact spot Chuco’s forehead rested against metal and yelled, “You could have killed someone kid!”
The impact of the blow bit into Chuco’s forehead and produced a gash that bled in a flood.
The blood was still flowing when the squad car arrived at the L.A. County Detention Center. Chuco stepped out of the backseat closing his eyes against his own blood and was escorted to the facility. For the next couple hours Chuco felt cared for in the medical wing where pretty nurses bandaged his forehead.
After twenty-four hours of processing through cells for the intake, Chuco stared at the Lieutenant who decided appropriate housing.
“You’re going to be housed in SUPER-MAX kid. Good luck!”
Chuco said, “I’ve been there before. No big.”
The first cell Chuco saw as he entered was a rival street gang enemy who nodded his head in greeting. Chuco thought, too bad the rules and regulations keep us from fighting each other in here or I’d earn some more points. Chuco wondered if Topo was the one who made that rule so we combine our forces to hold jails and prisons down for the mafia, probably.
Chuco studied the rest of the block as he passed each cell. He stopped at his cell and saw Damon Smith in the next cell.
Damon said, “I saw that chase.”
Chuco said, “I saw you get pinched for that dope.”
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Upon Release From Prison Page 6