Free Slide by Gerald A Browne Page A

cases of imported stuff into the trunks of their cars. Like olives and cheese and chocolate. And the check-out girls had ways of cashing in for themselves, especially whenever it was really busy. There was no way, however, for Spider to get away with anything much more than a dime Hostess cupcake or a box of crackers.
    Once when he had a toothache because a big filling that had been done by a San Quentin dentist came out, Spider asked around for aspirin and no one had any, so he went to the store’s Health and Beauty Aids section. He found bottles of Bufferin there but only in the 100-tablet economy size. His tooth was aching so much he opened a bottle and took a couple. The aisle captain, Lyle Stratford, saw him do it and told him he’d have to pay for the Bufferin. Spider turned his head away so as not to be heard when he mumbled, “Fuck you.” Then he had to act compliant, a price to be paid along with the ninety-five cents. Spider was sure the ninety-five cents went into Stratford’s pocket. Anyway, no way was Spider going to get himself back into slam for any Bufferin.
    Spider was twenty-seven. He had spent eight years, or nearly one of every three of his days, in a penitentiary. According to the black average that ratio would double when he got older. Spider’s last stretch in Quentin was his longest. Five years. For armed robbery. He’d taken part in hijacking a truckload of what was supposed to have been furs that turned out to be cheap wool coats.
    At times Spider had carried a gun, but he’d only shot at things , practicing, never at a person. He figured if everyone was as afraid of a gun as he was, a gun was good to just have. He got his ominous name from having arms longer than they should have been and, as a kid, being best at climbing fences and other such vertical structures.
    Chances were Spider would never have gotten into trouble with the law if he’d had any of the stereotypical black abilities. But he wasn’t at all musical, for example, didn’t have the head, hands, feet or voice for it. One thing he always wanted to be was a disc jockey, but he wasn’t really glib enough. And he wasn’t outstanding at any sports.
    The only sort of so-called typical thing was he looked fine in clothes. Lean and mean, it was said. Unfortunately. Because for Spider to dude himself up right required more money than he could make being anything he could just naturally, legally, be.
    At the moment Spider was being strong, carrying out over a hundred pounds of groceries, including sacks of charcoal briquettes, for a frizzy red-headed fat lady and her chalky-skinned husband, who got into the car and made Spider wait in the rain while he tried three pockets before coming up with a thirty-five-cent tip, counting five pennies.
    It was then that Spider noticed the blue Mustang drive in. He recognized it as the one that belonged to the rich white chick Lois Stevens, the friend of Felicia. Felicia Artez was one of the check-out girls, a comfortably built Mexican. Earlier that day Felicia had mentioned to Spider that she had connected for some methamphetamine. As usual Lois had supplied the money for it. She and Felicia and Spider would go to Felicia’s apartment later, drop some of the speed and ball maybe, probably. They’d done it before.
    Spider watched Lois get out of her car and go into the market. She saw Spider but didn’t acknowledge him, which he thought was cool of her.
    Spider was glad to see Lois for another reason. After work he had to go down to San Diego to report to his parole officer. Now at least he wouldn’t have to ride the effin’ bus.

9
    For thirty years that piece of coastal property had two houses on it, located as far as possible off the highway so as to be directly overlooking the beach and water.
    One of the houses was large, twenty-some rooms, the other less than a third that size. There had also been a restaurant on the highway there.