Dennis Lehane - Live by Night

“You’re in the mouth of it,” Mr. Hammond said. He looked up at the tiers arrayed above and behind him. “It decides to roll you around on its tongue. Or it bites down real hardlike, grind its teeth into you. Or it lets you climb over them teeth and jump out. But it decides. Not you.” Mr. Hammond swung his enormous ring of keys in a circle before hooking them to his belt. “You wait.”

“For how long?” Joe asked.

“Till it says so.” Mr. Hammond walked up the tier.

The boy who came for him next was just that, a boy. Trembling and jump-eyed and no less dangerous for it. Joe was walking to the Saturday shower when the kid dislodged himself from the line about ten men up and walked down toward Joe.

Joe knew from the moment the kid left the line that he was coming for him, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. The kid wore his striped prison pants and coat and carried his towel and soap bar like the rest of them, but he also had a potato peeler in his right hand, its edges sharpened by a whetstone.

Joe stepped to meet the kid and the kid acted like he was moving on, but then he dropped his towel and soap, planted his foot, and swung his arm at Joe’s head. Joe feinted to his right and the kid must have anticipated that because he went to his left and sank the potato peeler into Joe’s inner thigh. Joe didn’t have time to register the pain before he heard the kid pull it back out. It was the sound that enraged him. It sounded like fish parts sucked into a drain. His flesh, his blood, his meat hung off the edges of the weapon.

On his next pass, the kid lunged for Joe’s abdomen or groin: Joe couldn’t tell in all the ragged breathing and left-right, right-left scrabbling. He stepped inside the kid’s arms and gripped the back of his head and pulled it to his chest. The kid stabbed him again, this time in the hip, but it was a feeble stab with no momentum behind it. Still hurt worse than a dog bite. When the kid pulled his arm back to get a better thrust, Joe ran him backward until he cracked the kid’s head against the granite wall.

The kid sighed and dropped the potato peeler, and Joe banged his head off the wall twice more to be sure. The kid slid to the floor.

Joe had never seen him before.

In the infirmary, a doctor cleaned his wounds, sutured the one in his thigh, and wrapped it tightly in gauze. The doctor, who smelled of something chemical, told him to keep off the leg and the hip for a while.

“How do I do that?” Joe asked.

The doctor went on as if Joe had never spoken. “And keep the wounds clean. Change the dressing twice a day.”

“Do you have more dressing for me?”

“No,” the doctor said, as if embittered by the stupidity of the question.

“So… ”

“Good as new,” the doctor said and stepped back.

He waited for the guards to come and mete out their punishment for the fight. He waited to hear if the boy who’d attacked him was alive or dead. But no one said anything to him. It was as if he’d imagined the whole incident.

At lights-out, he asked Mr. Hammond if he’d heard about the fight on the way to the showers.

“No.”

“No, you didn’t hear?” Joe asked. “Or, no, it didn’t happen?”

“No,” Mr. Hammond said and walked away.

A few days after the stabbing, an inmate spoke to him. There was little special about the man’s voice—it was lightly accented (Italian, he guessed) and a bit gravelly—but after a week of almost total silence it sounded so beautiful that Joe’s throat closed up and his chest filled.

He was an old man with thick glasses too big for his face. He approached Joe in the yard as Joe limped across it. He’d been in the line to the showers on Saturday. Joe remembered him because he’d looked so frail one could only imagine the horrors this place had foisted upon him over the years.

“Do you think they’ll run out of men to fight you soon?”

He was about Joe’s height. He was bald up top, a shade of silver on the sides that matched his pencil-thin mustache. Long legs and a short, pudgy torso. Tiny hands. Something delicate about the way he moved, almost tiptoeing, like a cat burglar, but eyes as innocent and hopeful as a child’s on his first day of school.

“I don’t think they can run out,” Joe said. “Lot of candidates.”

“Won’t you get tired?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “But I’ll go as long as I can, I guess.”

“You’re very fast.”

“I’m fast, I’m not very fast.”

“You are, though.” The old man opened a small canvas pouch and removed two cigarettes. He handed one to Joe. “I’ve seen both your fights. You’re so fast most of these men haven’t noticed you’re protecting your ribs.”

Joe stopped as the man lit their cigarettes with a match he struck off his thumbnail. “I’m not protecting anything.”

The old man smiled. “A long time ago, in another life, before this”—he gestured past the walls and the wire—“I promoted a few boxers. A few wrestlers too. I never made much money, but I met a lot of pretty women. Boxers attract pretty women. And pretty women travel with other pretty women.” He shrugged as they began walking again. “So I know when a man is protecting his ribs. Are they broken?”

Joe said, “There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“I promise,” the old man said, “if they send me to fight you, I’ll limit myself to grasping your ankles and holding on tight.”

Joe chuckled. “Just the ankles, uh?”

“Maybe the nose, if I sense an advantage.”

Joe looked over at him. He must have been here so long he’d seen every hope die and experienced every degradation, and now they left him alone because he’d survived all they’d thrown at him. Or because he was just a bag of wrinkles, unappealing for purposes of trade. Harmless.

“Well, to protect my nose…” Joe took a long drag off the cigarette. He’d forgotten how good one could taste if you didn’t know where your next one was coming from. “A few months ago, I broke six ribs and fractured or sprained the rest.”

“A few months ago. That leaves you only a couple months to go.”

“No. Really?”

The old man nodded. “Broken ribs are like broken hearts—at least six months before they heal.”

Is that how long it takes? Joe thought.

“If only meals lasted as long.” The old man rubbed his small paunch. “What do they call you?”

“Joe.”

“Never Joseph?”

“Just my father.”

The man nodded and exhaled a stream of smoke with slow relish. “This is such a hopeless place. Even in your limited time here, I’m sure you’ve come to the same conclusion.”

Joe nodded.

“It eats men. It doesn’t even spit them back out.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh,” the old man said, “I stopped counting years ago.” He looked up at the greasy blue sky and spit a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “There’s nothing about this place I don’t know. If you need help comprehending it, just ask.”

Joe doubted the old fella was as tuned to the pulse of the place as he imagined himself to be, but he saw no harm in saying, “I will. Thank you. I appreciate your offer.”

They reached the end of the yard. As they turned to walk back the way they’d come, the old man placed his arm around Joe’s shoulders.

The whole yard watched.

The old man flicked his cigarette into the dust and held out his hand. Joe shook it.

“My name is Tommaso Pescatore, but everyone calls me Maso. Consider yourself under my care.”

Joe knew the name. Maso Pescatore ran the North End and most of the gambling and women on the North Shore. From behind these walls, he controlled a lot of the liquor coming up from Florida. Tim Hickey had done a lot of work with him over the years and usually mentioned that extreme caution was the only sensible course of action when dealing with the man.