Jail

         “Look at you walking behind me like I don’t know the way,” John Pepritelli said. He strutted down the concrete and iron hall like a rooster with a stern deputy following.

         The deputy stopped and opened a cell door. He stepped aside and waved John in.

         “Look at that, I got my own doorman,” he quipped to no response. “That’s the deal you get on a fourth offence, hey, blue?”

         “Get the fuck in there, degenerate,” the officer said, pushing John into the cell.

         John stumbled into the cell and turned with a smile. “And what soft hands he has.”

         “Dry up,” the deputy yelled, walking away.

         “I’ll be outta here before then!” John called after him. He turned and snickered to himself.

         Looking around, the cells were mostly empty, but for a few prone on benches, dead asleep or passed out from too much fun turned into a nightmare only to get worse on waking.

         John looked around. He was a man of the people; he needed a crowd to perform. A man sat bent over in the cell across from his. John approached the bars.

         “Hey, you got a smoke?” John asked. He knew the man didn’t, each of them dressed in the same white linens complimentary of the Philadelphia Police Department. Their pockets were empty, their cars impounded, and the coming morning would bring them a hangover and more room in their bank accounts or more time to ponder in a cell.

         The man looked up at John. “No,” he responded quietly.

         John took some space from the bars and looked at the prisoner in the next stall. “No freakin’ way, Anthony ‘the Ant’ Billingsley. It’s me—it’s Pepper.”

         The man in the next cell looked up curiously.

         “Don’t tell me you forgot about your old friend Pepper,” he said, posing himself like a mannequin in jail clothes. “Hey, I can’t wait to tell my sister I saw you. She misses you, ya know.”

         Ant smirked and shook his head. “Can’t say I miss her much.”

         John laughed. “I knew you didn’t forget your old boy Pepper. You couldn’t have—I’m unforgettable.” He leaned back against the bars and looked to the ceiling, toward a memory gone by. “Ant and Pepper.” He smiled. “We were a good crew, you know. What the hell happened to you?”

         Bloodshot eyes stared at Pepper. “I left your sister, then I left town … to clean up a bit.”

         John snickered. “Looks like it worked out for you.”

         Anthony shook his head. The men fell silent; another retched down the hall.

         “Hey, remember that time you and I stole that car with the carbon plates? A smooth Cadi if I remember correctly—though we were so high on pills it could have been a pinto.” He guffawed and looked across the hall. “Do you remember?”

         Ant nodded.

         “Then what happened?” John asked, goading his old friend into tandem storytelling like the old days.

         “We crashed it,” Ant said, barely above a whisper.

         “POW! Right into a freakin’ service pole! Only to find out the next day it was our old friend Joe’s new car.” He roared with laughter. “He was so damn pissed at us.”

         Ant looked across at John, no emotion found on his face.

         “What the hell, Ant, that shit was funny—laugh!”

         Anthony dropped his head. John knitted his brow together.

         “You know they miss you over at Rosa’s? They miss the way you used to get wasted and make a fool of yourself with that pretty bartender. What was her name …?”

         “Alicia.”

         “That’s right—Alicia. What a fox she was,” John said, looking toward the ceiling again. “I tried her a few times but she never bit on the worm,” he grabbed his crotch and cackled. Seeing no response from Anthony, he stopped. “I wonder what happened to her.”

         “She’s my wife,” Ant said. “Or was ….”

         “No shit,” John said. A licentious sneer crossed is face. “I bet she was killer in bed. Though apparently not that good if you left her. Or was it the other way around?” His howling echoed down the hall.

         Ant tried to smile but missed his mark. “You haven’t changed a bit, John.”

         “That’s Pepper to you. Nobody knows a John around here. The reputation follows Pepper, not John.”

         Ant leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

         “What the hell’s the matter with you, man? You think you’re better than me, or what?”

         Ant shook his head. “I tried to get away from this shit, but somehow I found my way back.”

         “A dog always returns to the rotten meat at home, even though he knows it’s bad for him,” John said. “You can’t change, Ant, you ain’t got it in you—same way I don’t.”

         “Things are different now, John.”

         “Whatever you say.”

         Ant rubbed his head, and the perturbed deputy made his way back down the hall.

         “What’d I tell you,” John said, looking across at Anthony. “My lawyer will get me out of this before I’m done takin’ a piss. He’s never failed before, right, blue?”

         The unenthused deputy opened the door and stepped aside. “That’s what I thought.” Pepper stared in at Ant. “I’ll put in a good word for you, kid. This guy’s a damn magician. Three offences and I’ve never done time, hardly even a week of community service.”

         “Things are different now,” Ant repeated. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the ground.

         “Suit yourself, new man. Have fun spankin’ it to your ex-wife. I know I will, only I’ll be on the outside, and you’ll be in here.”

         “Move it,” the deputy scolded.

         John strolled down the hall, seeing his freedom ahead but basking in the nostalgia of the walk. The deputy opened the door to an interrogation room, and John was greeted by a concerned and disheveled lawyer.

         “Sandy, my man, you look like hell. You could’ve waited till morning, you know. I was just having a conversation with an old friend.”

         “Yeah, yeah,” Sandy said, checking to make sure the door was closed. “Sit down.” John did and looked up at him.

         Sandy ran a feverish hand over the stale stubble on his chin. He looked as if he might rub it away.

         “Calm down, Sandy,” John said. “We ain’t got nothing to worry about—you’re the boss at this.”

         “Not this time,” Sandy said.

         “C’mon, man, what do you want me to do? Say I’m sorry? Well, I am … sort of—sorry I wrecked my car.” He laughed. “How’s the damage anyway?”

         “Not good,” Sandy replied, rubbing his cheeks red.

         “It is what it is,” John said. “I was hoping to get a new one anyway. This way insurance can cover the cost of it.”

         “Not the car, dammit!” Sandy yelled. He paced the room in a fury.

         John leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He had never seen calm and cool Sandy in such a sweat.

         “What the hell’s wrong, Sandy?” John asked. “I didn’t drink that much, and that guy was going the wrong way.”

         “You were going the wrong way!” Sandy said.

         “I was?” John scratched his head trying to remember. He shifted in his seat. “Well, it’s no problem, I can do a little time.”

         “More than a little by my guess,” Sandy said.

         John brushed him off. “No way, you’re the man, Sandy. You can do me better than that.”

         “Not in the case of manslaughter.”

         “Manslaughter!”

         “That’s right, you fuckin drunk! The guy’s dead!”

         “Bullshit!” John shouted incredulously.

         “Tell that to Anthony Billingsley’s family.” Sandy slid a picture across the table to John.

         He picked it up and scanned it over. “But … how?” he said quietly.

         “Same way as always—that’s how!” Sandy shouted, pacing a track in the concrete floor. “He’s got an arrest record longer than yours, but at least he learned to grow up.” Sandy’s hand attacked his face again. “Out of the system twelve freakin’ years and he returns to get killed by drunk idiot,” Sandy mumbled as John looked at the picture of his old friend. “What justice, what freakin’ justice!”

THE END