Keeplock: A Novel of Crime Read Online Free Page B

to you, does it?” I asked.
    He glanced down at my paperwork, then back at me. “Mr. Frangello, if you don’t get your ass in a chair by the time I count to ten, I’m going to ring for security.”
    I started to say something, but thought better of it. “And, considering your background, Mr. Frangello,” he continued, “I don’t think security would be overjoyed at having to deal with you on the first day of your conditional release.”
    He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds, but he wasn’t taking any crap from the likes of me. I had a brief fantasy involving the speed with which my right fist could reach his left cheekbone and how many times he’d bounce before he hit the wall behind him. Then I sat down.
    “Welcome back, Pete.”
    I recognized the voice before I looked up. Simon Cooper. “How you livin’, Simon?”
    “Same old shit, Pete.” He hadn’t changed much in ten years. He was still black, still bald, still fat, and still as powerful as a prize bull. His handshake nearly broke my fingers.
    If I was a little more paranoid, I might have understood his assignment to my case as part of a conspiracy, but I knew that cases were given out randomly to any P.O. without a full caseload. Besides, Simon Cooper was one of a rare breed. Sending parolees back to jail didn’t interest him very much. Nor did rehabilitation, in the ordinary sense. He was into crime prevention, and he’d give you a lot of room if he thought you needed it. I ought to know, because he’d been my P.O. the last time I came out.
    Cooper had given me plenty of room and I’d fucked him at every turn. They didn’t make you pee in the bottle in 1979, but any experienced P.O. can recognize a nodding junkie. Not that I’d been an addict, but I’d reported stoned on more than one occasion. And that’s when I reported at all. Cooper had babied me through, running me down when I failed to report, easing me into a treatment slot when my habit began to get out of hand. I’d rewarded him by getting myself busted for a felony two months after I came off parole.
    I followed him back to a room covered with gray, metal desks and took the required seat by Simon’s desk. It was Friday night and the room was deserted, which meant that he’d waited for me. Most of the functionaries I’ve met in the course of an Institutional life have been scumbags. They begin with the belief that all orphans are criminals and work hard to fulfill their own prophecies. As a white orphan, I’d been adopted before I left the maternity ward, but my parents, Warren and Bonnie Walsh, had returned me to the state when I was nine. They’d claimed I was uncontrollable, which may or may not have been true. I can’t remember any more, but I know they never mentioned the fact that they’d managed to conceive three kids of their own in those nine years. And had no further use for me.
    Not that I’m making excuses. Or even looking for an explanation. I gave that up long ago. It’s just that I’ve met a few good people along the way. Civil servants who were in it for more than the check and the pension. I inevitably reacted to them as if they were fathers, wanting desperately to please them. And failing miserably.
    Simon Cooper was one of the good ones. He had a fat, benevolent face, a walrus mustache, and huge brown eyes that softened a hardened core. He wouldn’t take any lip from the toughest ex-con, but he would plead your case to the board, even if you’d been violated for committing another crime. Assuming, of course, that he felt you were worth the effort.
    “You been away a long time, Pete.” His voice was neutral, but his eyes seemed to reproach me. “Ten years.”
    “Shit happens, Simon.” I was sorry that I’d hurt him, but, of course, I wasn’t about to show it.
    “You know what it says here, Pete?” He held up my file. “It says ‘career criminal.’ It says ‘sociopath.’ It says ‘high-risk offender.’”
    “I