A Bomb Built in Hell Read Online Free Page A

him. They were alone in the semi-private room; the Marine’s roommate was getting physical therapy in the pool.
    â€œYou know who I am?” Wesley asked, not sure yet.
    â€œYeah, I know who you are—you’re the man I’m going to kill.”
    â€œYou? You’re a cripple.”
    â€œOh, it won’t be me, punk. But I’m a Marine, remember? We back each other up, all the way. And once I tell them who—”
    Wesley grabbed the pillow from the next bed and held it tightly over the Marine’s face. It was strange to see a man struggle with only his neck muscles, but it didn’t last long. Wesley replaced the pillow, pulled the Marine’s lids down over his bulging eyes, and walked quietly out of the hospital, unnoticed.
    The Marine was listed as having suffocated in his sleep. His death was recorded as “combat-related.” A medal was awarded posthumously at the ceremony, when he was buried at Arlington with full honors. His family was proud.
    S tateside, Wesley took the Army-issue .45 he had smuggled back from Korea and went for a walk late Saturdaynight. He entered the liquor store on Tenth Avenue off 21st Street and showed the clerk the piece. The clerk knew the routine. He emptied the cash register even as he was kicking the silent alarm into action, but Wesley was out the door with the money before the police arrived.
    He found a hotel on 42nd Street near Eighth and checked in with his military duffel, the pistol, and $725 from the holdup. A few hours later, the room’s door burst open. Wesley grabbed for his pistol, but the shot that blasted the pillow out from under his face froze him.
    On the way out of the hotel, Wesley looked at the desk clerk very carefully. The clerk was used to this; as a professional rat, he was also used to threats of vengeance from everyone who walked past him in handcuffs.
    But Wesley didn’t say anything at all.
    T he night-court judge set bail at ten thousand dollars, and asked if he had the money for a bondsman. Wesley said, “I’ve got around seven hundred dollars,” and the arresting officer called him a smart punk and twisted the handcuffs hard behind his back.
    W esley sat in the Tombs for two weeks until his “free” lawyer finally appeared. In what sounded like an instant replay of years ago, the lawyer told him that a guilty plea would get him about ten years behind his record, because the prior felony now counted since he hadn’t completed his “commitment” to the military.
    Wesley just nodded—a trial was out of the question.
    On the way back from the brief talk with his lawyer, Wesley was stopped by four black prisoners who blocked his path.
    â€œHey, pussy! Where you goin’?”
    Wesley didn’t answer—he backed quickly against the wall and wished he had his sharpened bedspring with him.
    He watched the blacks the way he had watched North Koreans. They were in no hurry—guards never came onto the tier anyway.
    â€œHey, boy, when you lock in tonight, I goin’ to be with you, keep you company. Ain’t that nice?”
    Wesley didn’t move.
    â€œAn’ if you don’t go for that, then we all be in with you. So I don’t want no trouble when I come callin’, hear?”
    They all laughed and turned back to their cells. Wesley walked carefully to his own cell and reached for the sharpened bedspring under his bunk. It was gone.
    Every night, the doors to the individual cells were automatically closed by electricity. Wesley just sat and thought about it for a couple of hours, until supper was over. He refused the food when the cart came by his cell and watched the runner smile knowingly at him. That smile convinced Wesley it wouldn’t do any good to try and bargain for another shank to replace the one stolen from him.
    At eight-thirty, just before the doors were supposed to close, the four men came back. The biggest one, the talker, came