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22
Texas, 2000
If anyone thought New York was hot, they should never visit Texas in the summer. It was past two in the morning and the air was still so damn hot, it was hard to breathe. We landed at a small cargo airport outside of Waco and took a car west, towards the city of Cisco, for another couple of hours when we finally made it nowhere. A vast nothingness surrounded with a nine-foot-tall concrete wall topped with barbed wire. I was no stranger to prisons – I’ve never been a resident of one, but as a consigliere for the Nucci family, I found myself inside numerous times. Yes, I was no stranger to prisons, but this was a scary motherfucking looking place. In comparison, Rikers seemed a much more welcoming place.
Ignazio and I decided to walk in alone, and the prison warden, a man who was just assured a fat paycheck going in his pockets tonight, welcomed us. He had a big, greedy smile on his face like he didn’t just play some middleman role in the negotiation of a man’s life. And they say we’re the bad ones.
“Welcome to my castle, gentlemen. Let’s keep our voices low since it’s past curfew and we don’t want to attract attention. You’re safe here, no whisper will make it outside these walls, but the less eyes we have to worry about, the better.”
He was right about that. We walked together across the yard, slashing the darkness in complete silence, and entered the building through a side corridor behind the kitchen. We followed the warden blindly and without asking any questions. I was out of my damn mind to jump into a meeting like this; I didn’t even know this fucking man’s name so there was no way I could trust this shit. I should have at least spent the time in the plane thinking about what could go wrong, going over the legislation and preparing, but I couldn’t concentrate. In this moment, if it would serve Salvatrice, I didn’t care if what I was about to do would get me convicted for life in this god-awful place.
The warden finally led us down a set of stairs into the solitary confinement wing, where he arranged one of the cells to act as a substitute for a conference room of sorts. I looked inside through the food tray hole and saw a pliable table, two metal chairs, and a tattooed man with piercings all over his face.
“Is that him?” I asked the warden, keeping my voice down as he asked me to.
“Yes. Vincent Cramer. I’ll give you half an hour with him. No cameras, no mics, no guard in sight. Whatever happens in that room will stay in that room.” Or so he said.
I walked inside first with Ignazio on my tail and I heard the metal door locking behind us. It was on. The pair of black eyes staring back at me were empty and I recognized that look. That was a man who had nothing to live for and that was about to be my saving fucking grace. He looked already dead under the fluorescent lights that made his skin look a yellow-greenish color.
“Cramer, I think you know very well why we’re here, so let’s get right into it. The only thing I don’t have to waste is time.” I dropped in the chair facing his. “Tell me your terms. Whatever it is, you’ll get it.”
“Deep pockets, huh?” He had the voice of a two-pack-a-day smoker.
“I’ll make it happen.”
“I have a girl, or she was my girl until I got locked up here. She had my kid, a girl. I want them set up.”
“Done.” If that was all he wanted, I would make his daughter a fucking millionaire. “They will be more than set up. House, expenses, college fund, everything’s on me.”
“And my mama. She has a mortgage that I want paid off.”
“Do you have their information?”
“Yes.” He nodded to the envelope on the table. “Everything is there. The paper you want me to sign is there too. The one for the lungs.”
“So let’s get them out and sign them; I already told you I’ll agree to whatever you want. Your daughter will never wish for anything out of her reach.” I was already growing impatient, and this was a time where I should have remained calm.
“Wait a second, how do I know you’ll come through? Don’t you have to sign something?”
“You can’t be stupid enough to believe that we’ll leave a paper trail. The direct transplant is risky enough.”
“And what’s my guarantee? Go pay my girl and mama and come back to collect after. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Cramer, I don’t have that kind of time. My wife is in New York, hanging onto her life right the fuck now. I can’t just wire a million dollar to your woman and kid because that’s fucking suspicious. If someone sniffs around that, not only am I going down, which I have no intention of, but the mother of your child could be charged with human trafficking. How about you fucking trust me, because it’s the only card you have to play.” I couldn’t deal with idiocy. Today of all days, I couldn’t deal with idiocy. Maybe Cramer was right to worry that I’d screw him over once he crossed to the other side, but this is how things were done. I gave him my word, and he was about to find out that my word was more valuable than gold. “I have people on my payroll that did a lot less for me than you’re about to. I got your family covered.”
I took my gold pen from the inside of my jacket and placed it in front of him to sign the damn fucking thing.
“So you say, but I don’t see no proof. How about you come up with some, Mr. Deep pockets, or I take my lungs and walk. I’m sure they’ll find another buyer, one that would be more cooperative. People are sick all over the place.”
He leaned towards me with a sick smile on his face and I had to get to my feet and walk in circles to not punch him in the fucking face. I took one minute – sixty vital seconds – to go through every possible scenario. I could either take the safest route, the lesser of two evils, and let this scum jerk me around, or just fix it now. When Salva’s green eyes flashed through my mind, the decision was made for me.
I turned on my heels and grabbed him by the filthy orange jumper and pulled him so close, I could feel his breath. We were eye-to-eye now, no place to hide, so he could see what lurked behind my polished lawyer exterior.
“Listen to me, you motherfucker. If you think I left my wife to come to Texas and play hot potato with your lungs, you are dead wrong, my friend. You think you’re a tough guy? You’re not. You got caught and will rot here for the rest of your life. I’m giving you the chance to do one useful thing in your pathetic, miserable life. Push me and I will take that away from you. You have no idea what I’m capable of. Guess what, fucker, it’s just you and me here and if you think you have a chance against me, you’re fucking delusional. I will give you one more chance – sign the fucking paper so my wife gets your lungs and I will take care of your family.”
He knew I was fucking serious because my voice was colder than the kiss of death. He’d seen my anger and I watched him trying to make a decision. Finally, he said something.
“Fuck you, Deep pockets.”
