Easy Money Read Free Page B

sentence. Seven and a half years for two simple robberies and third-degree assault. Dude a real CIT pro.”
    “What the fuck man, he fucked it up.”
    “Still a king. Listen.
Muchacho
broke a window and lowered down from the eighth floor. Fifty-six long feet. Five torn blankets. Beautiful, ey?”
    “Real pretty.”
    Jorge told himself, Keep going, Jorge-boy, keep going. Lead the discussion, read Rolando. Get him to say how he feels about me and breakouts. Subtly.
    “How’d they get him?”
    “Respect to ’im, but dude ain’t real slick. Hung out at bars in Gothenburg. Partied. Guess he wanted to meet a new Hannah with fat tits. Felt like a baller. Only thing he did, dyed his hair white and wore shades. Like, homey wanna get locked up?”
    Jorge silently agreed: totally
loco
to only dye your hair. Him, he was gonna play it safe. He said, “Had nothing to lose. Bet he thought, Fuck, even if they get me, I won’t get more months. They won’t add to seven and a half.”
    “Playa almost made it. Got him in Helsingborg.”
    “Pushing the exit?”
    “ ’Parently. Checked into a hotel with a fake name. When the Five-Oh plucked him, playa had a fake passport. Coulda worked. First to Denmark, then on. Homeboy probably got a stash somewhere. But somebody snitched. Tipped the Five-Oh off where he be. Probably somebody saw him at the bars.”
    “Anyone in the OG know he was gonna fly?”
    “Sorry, Jorge, can’t talk about shit like that.”
    “But wouldn’t you back an OG if he broke out?”
    “Does Pamela Anderson sleep on her back?”
    Bull’s-eye. Jorge-boy, get closer. Test him.
    Jorge knew how it was: Friends on the inside are not like friends on the outside. Other rules apply. Power hierarchies are clearer. Time inside counts. Number of times inside counts. Smokes count; roaches count more. Favors grant relationships. Your crime counts: rapists and pedophiles worth zero. Junkies and alkies way down. Assault and theft higher. Armed robbery and drug kingpins on top. Most of all: Your membership counts. Rolando, a friend according to the rules on the outside. According to the principles of the slammer: Playa batted in the major leagues, Jorge in the minor.
    Jorge swallowed a gulp of his soda. “One thing to support someone already out. But would you help someone escape?”
    “Depends. On risk and shit. Wouldn’t help just anyone. Would always support an OG. Fuck,
amigo,
I’d help you, too. You know. Never I’d keep my mouth shut for some fucking skinhead or Wolfpack
puto.
They know it, too. They’d help me never, neither.”
    Jackpot.
    Three-second silence.
    Rolando did something Jorge had never seen him do before. He put his utensils down properly on his plate. Slowly.
    Then he grinned and said, “Ey, Jorge, got plans or what?”
    Jorge didn’t know what to do. He just smiled back.
    Hoped Rolando was a real friend, one who didn’t betray.
    At the same time he knew: Friends on the inside play by different rules.

2
    Four guys sat in a living room, pumped to party.
    JW with a backslick. And yes, he knew a lot of trash resented his hairstyle. Looked hatefully at him and called it a “jerkoff coif.” But Communists like that were clueless, so why should he care.
    The next guy had slicked-back hair, too. Boy number three sported a shorter style, every strand immaculately in place. A carefully chiseled side part cut through his hair like a ruler. The classic New England look. The last guy’s hair was blond, medium length, and curly—a tousled charm.
    The guys in the room were fine, fair kids. Creamy white. Clean features, straight backs, good posture. They knew they were sharp-looking boys. Boys in the know. They knew how to dress, how to carry themselves, how to act appropriately. They knew all the tricks. How to get attention. Girls. Access to the good things in life—24/7.
    The general vibe in the room—electric: We know how to party; it’s going no way but our way.
    JW thought, This is a good night.