Keeplock: A Novel of Crime Read Online Free Page A

spending the weekend on the street. The street is not the best place for me.
    “Well, the company claims it can get a replacement bus anywhere within two hours, only it usually takes three or four. But don’t worry, mister, we’ll get you where you’re goin’. Bolton’s Landing is near Lake George. It’s mostly a tourist town and we’re still off-season.”
    “There’s no way you can push it to Albany? I gotta make a connection in Albany.”
    He looked over at me and shook his head. “Now, mister, if this was my bus, I’d give it a shot. But I can’t be burnin’ no engines up. The company’d fire me in a minute. See this here?” He pointed to a clipboard attached to the visor with a rubber band. “This here is a log. I already wrote down the exact time when the light went on. If I tried for Albany, I’d be in trouble, even if I made it.”
    “All right, I get the picture.”
    He was smiling, now that he was sure I wouldn’t become violent.
    “Wanna get back to the big city, right? Hey, I understand. You’re probly goin’ home.”
    I was going back where I came from, though I wouldn’t call it home.

FOUR
    T HERE WAS A TIME when a prisoner coming out after a long bit emerged to a totally unfamiliar world. That was before television came to the Institution. Not that there’s a TV in every cell. Or even in every block. That’s just media bullshit. But there were sets in the mess hall, the gym, and the yard. They were usually tuned either to the most violent movie or the most violent cartoon, except at six o’clock, when choices were limited to the news or the news.
    Which is why I wasn’t terribly surprised by the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan. There’s no cable TV in Cortlandt, and the two snowy stations we got originated in Plattsburgh, New York. The local newscasters loved to spell out the differences between evil New York City and virtuous Plattsburgh. One of them went so far as to run a series on “New Calcutta,” spending the better part of a segment on conditions at the Port Authority.
    The era of homelessness was just beginning when I went inside. Now I was stepping around the assembled multitudes. There’s some kind of a law against sleeping in the terminal, but it hadn’t had much effect on the assorted mutts, crazies, and confused elderly who wandered through the building. The good citizens danced little circles around men and women talking to the empty air. Or dodged determined panhandlers. A beggar approached me as I walked through the concourse. He shoved a jingling coffee container in my face, started his spiel, then looked into my eyes.
    “Hey, bro, how you livin’?”
    “Get the fuck outta my face.”
    “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He bowed deeply as he backed away.
    Out on the street, the dealers, two or three to a block, whispered, “Crack? Blow? Smoke?” At the time, I thought it was just another case of being recognized for what I was. Now I realize there’s so much dope in Times Square that the dealers, mostly kids, offer it to anyone who doesn’t look like a cop. That’s why they’ll spend most of their lives in jail.
    But I was in a hurry. It was almost seven and I had a hot date with a parole officer. Fortunately, New York State has a parole office on West 40th Street, half a block away from the terminal. (And smack in the middle of Dope Heaven.) I was thinking of what kind of bullshit I’d have to spout to keep my P.O. satisfied, and I was more than happy to find the office open and staffed. The receptionist, a career civil servant, examined my papers closely, then motioned me to a seat.
    “Who am I gettin’?”
    He looked up at me through watery eyes, considering the question.
    “I didn’t know it was a secret,” I said.
    His skin was so white, I could see the veins on his cheeks and forehead. “Please take a seat and wait for your name to be called.”
    I wasn’t feeling particularly hostile, but I was free. Wasn’t I?
    “Working overtime get