Gutshot Straight - By Lou Berney Page 0,1

with pain and rage.

“You a dead man!” Vader bellowed. “You ain’t leaving here but in a motherfucking bag!”

“I think I’ll just walk,” Shake finally came up with, but not until he was already out of the room, halfway across the yard.

AT LUNCH, SHAKE CARRIED HIS TRAY across the room and found Tatum. Tatum was considered the best go-to guy in the California state system. Even the blacks and Mexicans, who had their own fixers, used him for important acquisitions. Tatum was wired top to bottom, inside and out, and could score just about anything, for a price that was generally fair.

“I need something,” Shake said, sliding in next to him. “Chop-chop.”

“Like what?” Tatum said. “A coffin?” He cracked himself up.

Shake waited patiently for him to finish laughing. “Word travels fast, doesn’t it?”

“You gonna need a bazooka take Vader out.”

Shake passed him a piece of paper.

Tatum read it once, then twice. “A say-what?”

“By tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why—”

“Can you get it? That exact one?”

Tatum shrugged. “Course I can get it.”

THE LINE FOR THE WORKING pay phone was long. Shake approached the guy at the head of the line, a Fresno Bulldog he knew from laundry detail. He slipped the Bulldog a pack of Crest White Strips he’d won last week playing Omaha, and the Bulldog surrendered his place in line to Shake. Just in time, because a minute later Vader came limping along.

Shake picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone. When he could feel Vader right behind him, sour and sweaty, he shook his head.

“No, I said Tuesday,” Shake said into the phone. “If you don’t hear from me by Tuesday, I want you to do it. Understand?”

He hung up before Vader heard the dial tone and realized there was no one on the other end of the line. Shake turned and pretended to notice him for the first time.

“Vader! What’s happening?”

Vader glared at him. The cords in his neck were as thick and rigid as rebar. “Motherfucker.”

The CO at the door sensed the sudden spike in electricity. He moved a thumb to the panic button on his radio.

“Buddy of mine on the outside,” Shake explained, tapping his knuckle against the phone. “Nice to have friends, you know?”

“Ain’t no friend of yours gonna hear from you by Tuesday,” Vader said. “Guarantee that shit, motherfucker.”

Vader let the threat sink in. Shake assumed an expression of appropriate gravity.

“Is that right?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Vader nodded—once up, slowly; once down, slowly. Then he pushed past, smacking Shake hard with his shoulder.

Shake watched Vader limp off, then checked the clock on the wall.

A QUIET SUNDAY, AFTER CHOW. A couple of boom boxes were dueling. 50 Cent on tier two, Metallica just above. Most of the cons were still in the yard, though, scheming and dreaming and dying slowly from boredom.

Shake stretched out on his bunk, hands behind his head, and worked on the menu for the restaurant he planned to open once he was a free man.

Pan-fried chicken, maybe, lightly floured and lots of spice. Mashed potatoes and cream gravy. A few gumbos, of course, with a roux like Shake’s grandmother used to make.

Grilled fish of some sort, whatever was fresh and good. With a grenoblaise sauce, maybe, though that might be too fancy for the effect he was after.

Shake let his mind wander. The only thing, in here, that could. He remembered something he’d heard about death row up at San Quentin. A condemned man, so he’d heard, could request anything he wanted for his last meal—lobster and crème brûlée, barbecued shrimp, you name it. Apparently, though, orders were filled in-house, with whatever the prison mess had on hand, so the poor doomed bastard who ordered filet mignon and strawberry ice cream usually ended up with chopped hamburger steak and a cherry Popsicle.

That was pretty shitty, Shake thought, to get a guy’s hopes up like that, even if he was more than likely a baby-killing sadist. But that was the California Department of Corrections for you—experts at making your life pretty shitty.

He heard the squeak of rubber wheels. Tatum, rolling a meal cart for the keep-locks. He stopped outside Shake’s cell.

“Got it?” Shake said.

Tatum checked the tier for a nosy CO, then handed Shake a package wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. It was the size and shape of a phone book.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me what you need it for?”

Shake slid the package under his bunk. “Sure am.”

VADER DIDN’T COME ALONE. Shake hadn’t expected him to. Just before lockdown, Vader showed