Free The Killing Floor Blues by Craig Schaefer Page B

noticed,” I said.
    “That’s not by accident.
Someone
slipped a copy of your jacket to the browns’ shot-caller, and he passed it on to the Cinco Calles. They know who you are.”
    “Not seeing a problem,” I said. “They’re tight with a friend of mine on the outside. She can smooth it.”
    Ray-Ray shook his head. “You’re in here for icing one of their dealers, bro. They gotta do something about that. Mexican honor, you know?”
    “I was framed. And I’m pretty sure they’re Puerto Rican.”
    He furrowed his brow at me. “What’s the difference?”
    “Seems pretty clear Jablonski and his boys want to turn this black-brown feud into a three-way,” Brisco said. “Get us all fighting so they can justify a hive-wide lockdown, sit on their asses, and collect overtime pay ’til Christmas. And you’re the wedge.”
    “I can smooth it,” I said again. “Point out a Calles big shot for me. I’ll have a chat.”
    “Never point your finger at anybody in here,” Brisco said. “That’s a good way to die. But if you’ll look a little more to your left—see the guy at the end of that table? Skinhead with a hooknose and the double-teardrop tat at the corner of his eye? That’s Raymundo. Thinks he’s Don Corleone, which he ain’t, but he’s hooked up with the Calles from end to end.”
    “End to end?”
    “Yeah,” Brisco said, “cradle to grave. Old-school gangster. Listen, Faust, you gotta understand something. I’m not letting my people get sucked into this fight. We’re outnumbered, big time, and any kind of race-war-type-situation is going to end with a lot of my guys in the infirmary or the morgue. That’s just how it is. We’ll watch your back if we can…”
    “But if it gets hot, I’m on my own.” I stirred my plastic fork in the eggs, leaving a slug trail of yellow water on my plate. “Message received.”
    “Well we’re not
giving
you to ’em.” Brisco nodded at Ray-Ray. “Stay close. And Ray-Ray and Slanger’ll watch your curtain while you shower. Just make sure to return the favor. Safety in numbers.”
    Safety in numbers was the first thing I had to shed out in the prison yard. I spotted Raymundo quick. He was over by the weight benches, shouting encouragement as one of his buddies lifted the equivalent of a small car on his barbell. Five guys in all, mostly shirtless and flashing calligraphic
CC
tattoos on their pecs or shoulder blades, one keeping a hard-eyed watch while the others pumped iron and joked around.
    The joking stopped, dead cold, when I walked up alone.
    The barbell rattled onto its rack and the weightlifter sat up, shooting a lethal glare. Everybody froze except for Raymundo. He went on the offensive, strutting up with his hands spread wide.
    “Look at this,” he said in a sibilant rasp. “You believe the balls on this
pendejo
? What’s up, you in a
hurry
to die?”
    I took a deep breath, locking eyes with him. Showing my open hands, keeping my tone light and my moves easy.
    “I come in respect. I hear you’ve been told some falsehoods about me. I want to set the record straight, before the situation gets out of control.”
    “No, no.” He wagged his finger. “There’s no falsehoods. Jacket’s a jacket, and we’ve seen yours.”
    “Sure. And who gave you that jacket? A guard who wants to set off a race war.”
    He shrugged. “So what if he does? Doesn’t mean you didn’t shoot Little Konnie.”
    Konstantin Floros
, I thought. My alleged “victim,” a low-level pot dealer on Jennifer’s payroll.
    “Floros wasn’t even part of your set,” I told him. “He didn’t fly your flag. You don’t have to go to war for him.”
    “He worked for our partnership. He was an earner. If we let you skate, that makes us look weak.”
    “Good news, then. I didn’t kill him. You can get in touch with the outside, reach out to Jennifer. She’s family. She’ll tell you there’s no way in hell I pulled the trigger on one of her guys.”
    Raymundo’s