Free Scarface by Paul Monette Page A

Angel Fernandez was a kind of good-luck charm to Tony. Made him feel life wasn’t quite so full of scum.
    “Hey sugar,” called a dusky voice beside him. Tony turned and stared at a bone-thin transvestite in a slit skirt, with a bust like a shelf in a tight-fitting blouse. He was smoking a cigarette, standing against the wall because he was still a little wobbly in high heels. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. “My name’s Lena,” he said. “You want a piece?”
    “Thanks anyway, honey,” Tony threw back at her. “I’m savin’ it for my wedding night.”
    She leaned forward into the light. Even under the makeup, you could see the shadow of a beard. “I bet you love to take it, baby, doncha?”
    There was a moment’s dangerous silence, during which they simply stared at each other. Then all of a sudden they started to laugh, both of them. The sleek transvestite blew him a kiss and wobbled away to cruise the street. Tony winked as she passed him. He didn’t care what people did. He had no moral problem with anybody here, not the dopers or the pimps or the drunks or anyone else. People ought to do what they liked. Tony was sure as hell going to.
    “You’re too hot-headed, that’s your problem,” Manolo said, rejoining him now by the phone line. “Creep had some information. Guys tell him stuff so he’ll give ’em pills.”
    “So what’s he hear that I don’t hear?”
    “Up in Washington they’re tellin’ Carter that nine out of ten of us is real bad news. They say they’re gonna ship us back.”
    “Listen, I read the papers, asshole. You think I don’t know that? Immigration’s startin’ these hearings. ‘Exclusionary,’ they call ’em.” Tony looked bitterly at the boulevard, where the scum of the earth cavorted. They all seemed weirdly content to live by the freedoms of this new jail. It was a hell of a lot better than Cuba. “We gotta get outa this hole,” Tony said, “before they start havin’ ’em here.”
    “Chi-Chi says a lotta shit went down in a place called Pennserania. Riots—fires. Things are gonna pop here, Chi-Chi says.”
    “Pennsylvania,” said Tony precisely, who had heard the guards talking about the trouble at Indiantown Gap. “What’s Chi-Chi got, crystal balls? I coulda told you we’re gonna have a riot.”
    Manolo’s voice rose an octave. “You think they’re gonna let us out after that? Shit, they’ll throw the fuckin’ key away.”
    “Hey chico, this is America,” Tony said softly, as if he was trying to explain it to a child. “They got lawyers here. They got a ACLU, gives medals to guys like us. Castro don’t want us back. What are they gonna do with us, put us in a gas chamber? They’re stuck with us, okay?”
    “Yeah, well what if we gotta sit here another six months?”
    “You worry too much, Manolo. That’s your problem.” He shadowboxed about his friend, throwing punches and stopping just short of Manolo’s nose. “We’ll find somethin’,” he said. “There’s gotta be a ticket outa here. You just gotta be ready. Get in shape, ya know?”
    With that he turned and sauntered down the street again. Manolo, never one to be left behind, caught up with Tony and fell into place beside him. He liked nothing better than to hear Tony counter all his fears. As they approached Barrack 9, where the two of them slept, they came up to a group of very hip types who were dressed as slick and punk as Manolo. Here the beat wasn’t salsa. It was all Blondie and Pat Benatar. These guys were ready for the real America. Tony, still exploding with nervous energy, began to swing when he heard the sound. He snapped his fingers and rolled his hips like Presley, till the punks applauded.
    Everybody loves him, thought Manolo. He can go anywhere. And he don’t even care.
    Tony did a back-pedal, light on his feet. He smiled at Manolo and then began to sing. The imitation was awful this time. “Love you love you baby,” Tony crooned. “Give it up