Free Dog Eat Dog by Edward Bunker Page A

hungry, brother?” Diesel asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Remember Paul Gallagher?”
    “Was doin’ time for illegal abortions?”
    “That’s him. He owns a steakhouse not far away.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “He won’t let us pay either.”
    “Sounds even better.”
    The beef tenderloin parted under light pressure from the steak knife, reminding him of the once-a-year rib steaks served in prison. Tough to start with, they were cooked to a texture approaching leather, but still, they were in demand. Extra guards were put in the mess hall to keep convicts from doubling back for seconds—and when the serving lines ran out before everyone had eaten, it was a tense moment. If they disliked the ham steaks in replacement, stainless-steel trays could sail across the mess hall like a cloud of Frisbees. As Troy savored another bite, he remembered a preference for pork chops when he was young—before he knew better.
    “Great steak, huh?” Diesel said.
    “Very good.”
    “Lemme tell you what bein’ state-raised does. I used to think that you had to cook a steak well done. I didn’t know any better until I was out about a year.”
    “Who pulled your coat?”
    “Jimmy the Face.”
    “How’re you and the old mafioso getting along?”
    “We’re ace deuce. I beat the shit out of who he says, and he gives me money for it.” Diesel glanced around to make sure nobody else could hear; then he tilted his head closer. “About a year ago, he gave me a contract. I think some of those guys back east—Brooklyn or Jersey—sent it to him. The guy was on bail on one of those RICO laws and they were scared the feds would roll him over into a Valachi. In a way it was easy because I locked my mind and didn’t fuckin’ think about it. Afterward it fucked with me for a couple weeks. The old lady even noticed how fuckin’ jumpy I was.” Diesel paused. Troy watched the big, beefy face and sensed that Diesel had never mentioned a word of his worries to anyone else. To whom else might he confide? “I’ve fucked up a lot of dudes,” he continued. “I hurt that one guy pretty bad, that nigger that tried to stick me in the joint. He still walks like a drunk. But this one I’m tellin’ you about, that’s the first I ever knocked out of the box.
    “They set him up. Sent for him. I was waitin’ in the parking lot with a twenty-two and a silencer. He went and knocked on the door. They weren’t there. When he went back to his car, I stepped up behind him and put one right in his head. He dropped. Boom.” Diesel snapped his fingers to illustrate how quick. “Then I put a Baggie around his head so he wouldn’t leak in my trunk. He’s up there in the mountains under the dirt with a sack of lime. Ain’t much left now except maybe his teeth.
    “Afterward I started thinking about going to hell … all that crazy ass shit that those fuckin’ nuns and priests stuck on me. I know it’s bullshit … but it’s hard to get away from ’em.”
    Over Diesel’s shoulder, Troy saw Paul Gallagher approaching and was glad for the interruption. It was poor underworld protocol to talk about one’s crimes if unsolved, and this was especially true of murder, which had no statute of limitations. If you knew nothing, nobody could wonder if you might snitch. Troy preferred to know nothing unless it involved him, and Diesel’s contract for Jimmy Fasenella failed the criterion. He indicated with his eyes that someone was near. Diesel stopped talking as Paul Gallagher arrived with a grin. “You don’t get steaks like that in the penitentiary. How ya doin’, big T?”
    “Doin’ great today, my man. You’ve got a nice joint here.”
    “Yeah … but people don’t eat red meat like they used to.”
    “You look like you’re doing okay. All the tables are full.”
    “It’s the first time in weeks. We only did twenty dinners last night.”
    “Like I told you,” Diesel said, “if things get too bad, we can always repaint the place.”
    “What’s a