Free Forced Entry by Stephen Solomita Page A

and Ninth, just off the Lincoln Tunnel. He remembered reaching through the broken glass to grab the old broad sitting behind the wheel; he could still hear himself screaming at her for money like she was deaf. A poor helpless old vic in a pearl gray Mercedes-Benz, with cars in front of her and behind her. Where could she go?
    Into her purse. Into her mother-fuckin’ purse for a can of mace. When she splashed that shit in his eyes, he stumbled back into the side of a moving delivery van and the mirror knocked him just flat enough for the police to arrive before he could crawl away. Who would believe such bad luck? Who could believe the mace after staying awake for three days and nothing to hold his head up? On top of which, the old cunt, instead of hauling ass like they always do, waits calmly for the pigs, then files a complaint.
    The arresting officers (after they put a major beating on his ass) charged him with assault, assault with intent to kill, assault with a deadly weapon (the window glass), reckless endangerment (to the other drivers on Ninth Avenue), possession of a controlled substance, felony possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to sell a controlled substance and paraphernalia. It was enough, considering the string of plea-bargained misdemeanors that had dominated his street life, to effectively put him away until his sixtieth birthday.
    But the DA was sure to cut a deal in return for a guilty plea. All those charges were only there to frighten him into taking the wrong deal. That’s what the jailhouse lawyers, who listened to his case in return for the chicken cutlet sandwiches he smuggled out of the captains’ dining room, predicted. But he didn’t buy it. Fact is, he only turned to those bullshit artists because he never had a lawyer of his own. Never went to court, either. Or saw a cop or heard from anyone in law enforcement except for correction officers, who had less than no interest in his legal situation.
    Six months later, his body strong from hundreds of hours in the gym, he had his act together, courtesy of an older inmate, Brian “DeadDog” Patterson, who had taught him (in exchange for certain reciprocal sexual favors) how to discipline his mind while he nourished his body by cleansing his system with fruits and vegetables. Only then, when he was pure in mind and body, when his act was tight and he was ready for the world, did he seek out a correction counselor and ask why his case hadn’t gone to trial. Three days later, after a chagrined Assistant DA named Myra Baines admitted to a phenomenally sarcastic Judge Calvin Smith that inmate Miller’s case had somehow been closed before his trial, Born Miller was out on the street.
    Strong and confident, he wandered back to St. Nicholas Avenue, in Harlem, and begged twenty dollars from his mother. “I got to get me a place to stay, mama, else the man gon’ dump me back in the jail. I’m on probation.”
    His mother, Maria, nodded maternally, then handed over the twenty because she was afraid of her son. She knew about his prior record, of course, both as a juvenile and as an adult, and she didn’t understand why they had let him out. She did , however, fully understand that twenty dollars would get rid of him, at least temporarily. At least long enough to make preparations for his return.
    After six months of abstinence, the first hit on the pipe stem exploded simultaneously in his brain and his crotch. He was in a crack den/shooting gallery on 143rd Street and one of the women, a Dominican crack whore, offered to get him off for a hit on the pipe.
    “Suck first, bitch,” he growled, careful not to betray how desperately horny he was. The girl, called Choch, turned the trick so fast and so efficiently, that Born Miller alternately fucked and smoked until the vials were empty. Then he went out to look for money.
    At first he considered returning to his mother’s apartment, but now that she knew he was on the street,