Bunker Dog Eat Dog

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-84243-754-4
Verlag: No Exit Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 256 Seiten

THREE MEN - TWO CONVICTIONS - ONE LAST SCORE - NO MORE CHANCES Carved from a lifetime of experience that runs the gamut from incarceration to liberation. Dog Eat Dog is the story of three men fresh out of prison who now have the task of adapting to civilian life. The California three strikes law looms over them, but what the hell, they're going to do it their way. Troy, an aloof mastermind, seeks an uncomplicated, clean life but cannot get away from his hatred for the system. Diesel is on the mob's payroll and interest in his suburban home and nagging wife is waning. The loose cannon of the trio, Mad Dog, is possessed by true demons within, that lead him from one explosive situation to the next. One last big hit, one more jackpot, and they'll be set for life. Troy constructs the perfect crime and they pull it off, but it is still not enough to prevent a denouement that has a grim and violent inevitability about it.

Edward Bunker, Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs, was the author of No Beast So Fierce, Little Boy Blue, Dog Eat Dog, The Animal Factory and his autobiography, Mr Blue, all published by No Exit. He was co-screenwriter of the Oscar nominated movie, The Runaway Train, and appeared in over 30 feature films, including Straight Time with Dustin Hoffman, the film of his book No Beast So Fierce. Edward Bunker died in 2005 and another novel, Stark, was discovered in his papers.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bunker, Edward

Leseproben

Prologue 1981

“Hup, two, three, four! Hup, two, three, four. Column right … march!” The monitor called the cadence and bellowed the command. The thirty boys of Roosevelt cottage marched in step through the summer twilight. Each affected a demeanor of extreme toughness. Even those who were really afraid managed to hold up the meanest mask they could. Faces were stone, eyes were icy, mouths that seldom smiled would sneer easily. In the underclass fashion of the moment, they pulled their pants absurdly high, virtually to their chests, and cinched their belts tight. Although they kept in step, each had a stylized swagger. They marched like a military academy, but were inmates of a California reform school. Aged from fourteen to sixteen, they were among the toughest of their age. Nobody got to reform school for truancy or writing on walls. It took several arrests for car theft or burglary. If it was a first offense, it was armed robbery or a drive-by shooting.

Situated thirty miles east of downtown Los Angeles, the state school was located on the earliest tract maps of the area, when L.A. had a population of 60,000 and farmland was cheap. Once, the reform school had resembled a small college. Sweeping lawns and sycamores framed buildings that resembled manor houses with brick walls and sloping slate roofs. A few of the old buildings still remained, empty relics from the age when society believed the young could be salvaged—back before the days when kids packed MAC—back when Bogart and Cagney were tough-guy role models. They only killed “dirty rats,” invariably with a snub-nose, up close, not “spray and pray.”

The marching boys halted while The Man unlocked the gate to the recreation yard. As they marched inside, he counted them. The yard was formed by a chain-link fence topped with rolled barbed wire. The Man nodded to the monitor. “Dismissed” yelled the monitor.

The neat ranks disintegrated and formed clusters by race. Chicanos were half the total, fifteen, followed by nine blacks, five whites, and a pair of half-brothers, one of whom was Vietnamese while his half-brother was a quarter Native American, a quarter black and half Vietnamese. The half brothers glared at the whole world with baleful challenge.

The Chicanos and two of their white homeboys from East L.A. headed for the handball court, a free-standing wall that allowed a game on each side. The blacks picked sides for half-court basketball.

The three remaining whites came together and began to pace the length of the yard next to the fence topped with barbed wire. One of them wore new black oxfords, identical to U.S. Navy issue. The shoes were issued to be broken in a week before parole. It was Saturday and Troy Cameron was being released on Monday morning.

“How many you got left?” Big Charley Carson asked. At fifteen, he was six foot two and weighed under 150 pounds. He would gain eighty before he turned twenty-one. By then he would be powerful enough to be nicknamed “Diesel.”

“One day and a getup,” Troy said. “Forty hours. Short as a mosquito’s dick.”

The third member of the trio grinned, simultaneously raising a hand to his mouth to hide his discolored teeth. He was Gerald McCain, already nicknamed “Mad Dog” for insane behavior, the most notorious being the use of an aluminum baseball bat on a sleeping bully who had pushed McCain around. In the Hobbesian world of reform school, a maniac is given wide berth. Tough and mean is one thing; crazy is something strange, different and frightening.

The trio kept walking as the shadows lengthened. The background to their conversation was the crash of weights descending on the platform, the basketball dribbled on asphalt and rattling the metal backboard and hoop, aided by exclamations of delight or curses of frustration. A few more steps and it was the special sound of a little black handball whacking into the wall. The tally was always called in la lengua de Aztlan, a street patois basically Spanish liberally laced with English. Handball was the game of the barrio, for it took but a wall and a ball. “Point! Cinco servin’ three. Dos juegos a nada.”

The game over, the two losers left the court with each accusing the other of causing the loss. The Chicano who was keeping tally had the next game. He looked around for a partner and spotted Troy. “Hey, Troy … homeboy! Venga. Let’s whip these farmers.”

Troy looked at the competition, Chepe Reyes and Al Salas. Chepe was beckoning in a challenge.

“I’m wearing these shoes.” He indicated the black dressouts, which would be scuffed badly on a concrete handball court.

“Go ahead,” said Big Charley. “Use mine.” He took off his low-cut athletic shoes.

Troy changed shoes, took off his shirt, and wrapped a bandanna around his palm. A handball glove was better, but in lieu of that, a bandanna would serve. He was ready. He bounced the ball off the wall a few times to loosen up. At fifteen a long warm-up was unnecessary. “Let’s go. Throw for serve.” He tossed the ball to his partner.

The game began, Troy playing front. They played hard, diving on the concrete for low balls. At one point, halfway through the game, Troy’s partner ran forward to get a ball. Troy anticipated the opponent’s shot—high and to the rear—and Troy was running before it was hit.

Looking back for the ball, he failed to see the three black youths with their backs turned until the last fraction of a second. He managed to half raise his hands before the crash sent two stumbling and knocked the other down.

“Oh, man … sorry about that,” Troy said, extending a hand. He knew the black youth: Robert Lee Lincoln, called R. Lee. At fifteen he had the body of a twenty-two-year-old bodybuilder, an IQ of eighty-five and the emotional control of a two-year-old, plus he hated rich white people. Troy knew some of this; he had avoided R. Lee during the two months since the black arrived.

He wasn’t surprised when R. Lee’s response to apology was to put both hands on Troy’s chest and shove. “Muthafucker … watch it. I don’ be likin’ you muthafuckers no way.” The words dripped contempt and challenge. R. Lee’s chin jutted, so he was peering down his nose with glittering eyes of racial hate. Inside Troy was the thought, This fuckin’ nigger! The word was one that Troy used only in specific situations. It was applicable only to blacks who acted like niggers—loud, crude, stupid—just like redneck fit certain ignorant whites. But mixed with the first thought were two others. In a fistfight he would take an ass-kicking. He was tempted to sneak a punch right now without warning, while R. Lee was still posing. If the Sunday punch landed clean, he might be able to swarm and win before R. Lee got going. But if Troy did that, he would lose his parole. He could see The Man coming toward them. “Knock it off there,” The Man said.

R. Lee turned away with the parting words: “We’ll finish this shit later.”

Troy turned back toward his waiting friends. A hollow sensation was spreading in waves from his gullet to the rest of his body. Fear was sucking his will away. He could never whip R. Lee in a fight; the nigger was too big, too strong, too fast, and could really fight. That was the smallest fear; Troy had planned ahead for such matters. He would unscrew a firehose nozzle and strike without warning. It would never be a fistfight. He would win a Pyrrhic victory, for his parole would go down the drain as soon as he struck.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“That nigger’s crazy,” Big Charley said. “He’s one of them hate whitey motherfuckers.”

“Yeah.” He managed a snorting half-laugh. “Right now I hate niggers.”

What the fuck should he do? Maybe they wouldn’t take his parole if it was just a fistfight, but that would mean getting an ass-kicking. Maybe he could get in a couple of punches. “I half-ass wish I didn’t have this parole,” he said.

“Oh yeah,” Mad Dog said. “I forgot about your parole. That’s a bitch.”

Troy could go to The Man and seek protection for the last two days. They could lock him up for two days. He would lose nothing—except his good name in his world. He reviled himself for even letting it go through his mind. Anything like that was totally out of the question. If he did something like that, he would be marked in the underworld, where he intended to live, for his whole life. It would be a stigma he could never erase. It would forever invite aggression.

“Lemme take care of it,” Mad Dog offered. “I’ll steal him.”

Troy shook his head. “No. I’ll handle my own shit.”

The blast of the police whistle, the signal to line up at the door into the building, cut the twilight.

As the youths filed inside, The Man stood in the doorway and counted them. Indoors, some hurried down the hall toward the TV room; they wanted the best seats. Those who had been playing handball or basketball or lifting weights made a left turn into the washroom. There were three communal washbasins, each with three faucets.

Troy watched R. Lee in line ahead of him. R. Lee turned left. Good. It would give Troy a chance to turn right into the dormitory. The firehose was just inside the door. The brass nozzle would bust a head like an eggshell if he swung it that hard. He had decided it was all he could do. He hated R. Lee more for his ignorance, for forcing this, for taking away imminent freedom.

R. Lee was no fool. He knew Troy was behind him. As R. Lee turned into the washroom,...