A Bomb Built in Hell Read Online Free PDF Page A

patiently explained that statements like Wesley’s couldn’t be allowed to appear on the transcript. When Wesley asked why that was, the lawyer mumbled something about a “clean record.” Wesley didn’t get it, and figured he wasn’t going to.
    After a couple of quick rehearsals, Wesley finally said the magic words, and was rewarded with the promised sentence.
    N ext stop, Auburn. Wesley spent the required thirty days on Fish Row and hit the New Line together with about forty-five other men. Without friends on the outside, without money in his commissary account, and without any advanced skills in stealing from other prisoners, Wesley resigned himself to doing some cold time. He computed his possible “good time” and reckoned he could be back on the street in six-plus, if he copped a good job inside prison.
    He put his chances at about the same as those of copping a good job on the street.
    The job he wanted was in the machine shop. It wasn’t one of the preferred slots, like the bakery, but the potential for fabricating useful tools made it also a potential for getting his hands on some of the commissary other convicts drew.
    Wesley didn’t expect anything for free, so he wasn’t surprised when the inmate clerk wanted five cartons of cigarettes to get Wesley that assignment. Otherwise, it would be the worst placement possible—making license plates.
    He had several offers to lend him the smokes, at the usual three-for-two per week, but he passed, knowing he wasn’t ever going to get his hands on anything of value Inside without killing someone first.
    So Wesley returned to the clerk’s office, expecting to get the plate-shop assignment and preparing to keep a perfectly flat face regardless. But the slip the clerk handed him said “Machine Shop” on top.
    â€œHow come I got the shop I wanted?” Wesley asked.
    â€œYou bitching about it?” the clerk responded.
    â€œMaybe I am—you said it cost five crates.”
    â€œIt does. But your ride was paid for.”
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œWhadda you care?”
    â€œI got something for the guy who paid,” Wesley said, quiet-voiced. “You want me to give it to you instead?”
    â€œCarmine Trentoni, that’s who paid, wiseass. Now, you got a beef with that, take it to him. I got work to do.”
    I t took Wesley a couple of days to find out who Trentoni was without asking too many questions, and almost another week before he could get close enough to the man to speak without raising his voice.
    Trentoni was on the Yard with three of his crew, quietly playing cards and smoking the expensive cigars that the commissary carried at ridiculous prices. Wesley waited until the hand was finished and walked up slowly, his hands open and in front of him.
    â€œCould I speak with you a minute?” he asked.
    Trentoni looked up. “Sure, kid, what’s on your mind?”
    â€œThis: I’m not a kid. Not your kid, not anybody’s. I killed a man in the House over that. I haven’t got the five crates to pay you back now. If you want to wait for them, okay. If not, you won’t see me again.”
    Trentoni looked dazed; then he looked vicious … and then he laughed so hard the tower guard poked his rifle over the wall, as if the barrel could see what wasgoing on and report back to him. The other three men had been silent until Carmine broke up, and then they all joined in. But it was obvious they didn’t know what they were supposed to be laughing at.
    Carmine got to his feet, a short, heavily built man of about fifty-five, whose once-black hair had turned gray years ago. He motioned to Wesley to follow him along the Wall, away from the game. He deliberately turned his back on the younger man and walked quickly until he was about a hundred feet away from anyone else.
    Wesley followed at a distance; he knew nothing ever happened on the Yard unless there was a