By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 11: Gettin Fixed
I did what I guess everybody does, the first time he’s put in a cage. I stood at the bars and wondered how to get out.
I needed help! But who could help me? My brother? Not interested—except, undoubtedly, to cash in on my property. Major Timmons? I’d seen how that turned out. Roger? I didn’t even know his full name. And there was no way to reach him, even if I did. And when you thought about it . . . . To hear him talk, he had contacts everywhere. He knew all about St. Bevons. He knew Major Timmons. He had a reason—not a good reason, but a reason–to get back at me: I’d stiffed him on his plan to take this wonderful vacation together. Fuck! Did he have some connection with all of this? Was it possible? But if he had . . . If he had, what could I do about it?
“Nice shirt!” somebody said. It was a young white slappie. He was sweeping the walk, and he’d got as far as my cage. Next to him was a young black slappie, doing the same. They stopped and leaned on their brooms. “Nice shoes too,” the black guy said. “Pret’ soon, though,” said the white guy, “he look like us.” The black guy gave me a thoughtful glance. “You fucked, dude,” he said. They started sweeping again, laughing. After a while, they got to a corner and turned and were out of sight.
