He still didn’t look familiar, but his story rang a bell. There were three guys busted about a year ago, and I assumed he must be one of them. I still didn’t see his relationship in Moretti’s business as a reason to acknowledge him, though. There were probably twenty guys in here at any given time who had relationships to the organization in one way or another.
Pablo continued to talk anyway.
“I heard about why you’re in here,” he said.
I took in a long, deep breath before leaning forward and resting my arms on my knees. The cement beneath my heels was cracked, and I kicked a bit of it with my toe to knock a loose chunk of it away.
“I got the routine down here,” Pablo said, “so if you have any questions or anything…”
His voice trailed off as I sighed and looked up at him darkly.
There was a scar on his forearm that was certainly the result of a knife fight, and his calloused palms were indicative of someone who liked to spend his free time lifting weights and proving he had more testosterone than anyone else at the gym. The belly hanging out in front of him and the cigarette made it obvious he wasn’t a health nut at all. He was more than likely one of those who just liked to brag about how much he could bench press.
“Do I look like I give a shit?” I asked him.
He paused and licked his lips nervously.
“No,” he admitted as he looked to his pocket to pull out another cigarette. “Still, if you need anything, I’ll help ya out. While I’m still here, anyway.”
My eyes wandered over him. He had a lot of upper body strength, but his legs weren’t as strong. He either did a lot of lifting and manual labor activities, or he just hated doing squats at the gym so never worked out his legs like he did his arms. He had a variety of uninteresting tatt
oos that were obviously done by a novice artist, probably in exchange for coke, and short-cropped, black, greasy hair.
I watched the cigarette dangling out of his mouth and wondered what Jonathan was doing right at that moment. I also had a clear memory of leaning back against the side of the motor pool to sneak a cigarette with a young private in my unit.
“Got an extra one of those?” I asked.
“Sure,” Pablo said.
He handed me a smoke and a pack of matches. It was too windy to use matches, so he handed his own cigarette over to me so I could monkey-fuck it to light mine. The smoke burned in my lungs in a way that was immediately familiar and long-forgotten at the same time. It took a couple tries before I got the hang of inhaling again.
Pablo remained silent for a while as I finished the cigarette and ground it out into the cement crack beneath my shoe. I tried to breathe normally for a minute as my lungs attempted to remember how to deal with the smoke and whatever other shit they put in those things.
“You want another one?”
“Not now,” I replied. “Thanks.”
“You let me know,” Pablo said. “I’ll hook you up with some if you want them.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted another one, though. My lungs still burned, and I coughed a couple of times, which caused Pablo to snicker quietly. He shrugged a shoulder when I glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.
“You gonna kill me for thinking that’s kinda funny?” he asked.
Other times—other days—I would have. Well, I would have considered it anyway. At the moment, I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind. I obviously didn’t have a gun on me, and though I was quite sure I could get a shiv of some kind delivered to my hands without a lot of trouble, they were messy. If I was going to kill Pablo, it would have to be with my hands, and that was just a lot of effort for a chuckle at my expense.
“No,” I finally said, “I’m not in the mood right now.”
He let out another laugh, but it was a nervous one. He seemed to be getting the idea that what I said hadn’t actually been a joke and it was best for him to remember who the hell I was. I might have been a little lost inside, but no one else needed to know that.
“I guess I’m lucky, then,” Pablo finally said with a short exhale through his nose. “Still, though, if there’s anything you need, I can probably get it for you while I’m here. You want weed?”
“I don’t touch the shit,” I informed him. Even when my unit needed a little break from reality and would sneak a bit of pot, I never indulged. I never stopped them from doing it, but I didn’t like the idea of being out of control at all. Even drinking more than a couple of beers or a glass of good scotch was rare for me.
“Well, if you think of something, I’m here for ya, man.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t mean it, but the response came out automatically. I didn’t give a shit about some snow runner and what he could bring to my fucking jail cell. He probably considered himself all kinds of useful in here but not to me.
I didn’t want anything.