The Divorcee Murder Club

Setenta Y Seis ~ 76

It’s been five days since Benny Goldmann rocked my reality with the inheritance Augusta left me. I’ve made up my mind, so now it’s just a waiting game until I can give my answer. For now, I keep my head down, lift weights in the yard, and avoid fights to get through the day. 

Little by little, this prison sentence will chip away until I’m free. 

But it’s hard.

Two tables over, a couple of inmates are in a spat over mashed potatoes. The bigger guy thinks he can intimidate the smaller guy into giving him his lunch. I hate bullies. Under normal circumstances, I’d walk over and use my tray to whack the guy’s head till he can’t see straight, but the big man has a swastica tattoo. So, I’d be an idiot to get involved. In prison, you don’t interfere with the business of other races unless you want a war and a guarantee of getting shanked in the yard. Just yesterday, a guy was murdered in broad daylight while the guard’s backs were turned. 

That’s how quickly things happen here.

One moment, the guy was cracking jokes with his buddies, and the next, five guys surrounded him, and in one blink, he was on the ground, bleeding out. The word around the cell block is he was a Crip who fucked another Crip’s girlfriend before he ended up here. So they had beef. We went under lockdown for the rest of the day.

“Gringos,” Chavez grunts and scoops a heaping spoon of mashed taters into his mouth. Emilio appointed this man as my watchdog to keep me safe. “They always fighting over food,” he laughs. “And it’s always big guy versus little guy. But they not like us, ey, Hermano?”

“Things are definitely different here.” 

And by different, I mean the unspoken rules and hierarchy. Incarcerated cartel members report to Chavez, and he reports to Emilio. The man isn’t very tall with his lanky frame and wiry hair like he got electrocuted, but he’s smart and runs a gambling operation on the down low. Inmates practically claw their way into these games since they can win things like cigarettes, Playboy magazines, extra Twinkies, etc. 

The other gang bosses respect him, too. Or maybe they’re just wise not to mess with the cartel? 

“Oh, boy…” Chavez sets his spoon down. “Here we go.”

Teeth fly out of the bigger inmate’s mouth after the smaller one smacks him with his tray. They bounce and roll like dice across the floor and bump into my shoes. Chavez goes to the nearest wall and leans against it. I join him. When brawls break out, it’s best to be in a position where no one can sneak up behind you. 

“I hope we don’t go into lockdown again,” I mutter.

“As long as no one dies, they’re getting tossed in the hole for a few days to cool off.”

For the next few minutes, things are chaos as the guards break up the fight while the rest of us watch as the neo-nazis go against other white guys. It’s wild because, even though half of them aren’t racist pieces of shit, prison life forces us to break off into our own ethnic and racial groups. So, these white dudes with Black wives and girlfriends at home get lumped in with men who hate them for loving someone darker-skinned. 

Chavez uses this opportunity to do a drug deal with a shredded Samoan guy we call The Rock. From afar, it looks like a handshake, but small baggies of coke are handed off, and Loa slides cigarettes into Chavez’s other hand as payment. When he walks away, Chavez bumps my elbow.

“People sleep on the Polynesians, but they’re good people to have on your side. When you get out of here, you should consider networking with them. Loa can get you connected.”

“Nah, man. I’m not messing with drugs when I get out.”

“You wouldn’t have to. You would just bring them into your circle of allies. Get to them before Jocelyn or The Hellions do.”