Bobby never said much, he nodded as if he were listening, to satisfy the storytellers, the dreamers; the talkers who never finished a thought without being interrupted.

—Yo, Bobby, when I get out of here, I’m gonna clean up my shit. I’m gonna get myself a real job and help my momma. —Hear this out, Bobby, I got myself a lady outside waiting for me. She waiting, so when I come out, I could hit that pussy. She my virgin queen. I’m gonna do right by her. I ain’t gonna trip like these motherfuckers, talking about blazing the pussy when you know they had never seen one. I got myself the real thing. Pure shit, bro. —Bobby, don’t listen to him. That cocksucker got his dog waiting for him. Poor thing walks with a limp from being fucked up the ass so much. —Man, Bobby, you saw the lady baking in the kitchen, who got the red hair and shit? I’m gonna take her and make her bleed like a fiending bitch. You know she like it like that. She hungry for some of this, bro.

They talked and grabbed their balls, and scratched their bellies, and wiped their foreheads, and spat on the ground. They chewed on their lips and hangnails, waiting, for a trial, to get out, for a phone call, for a visitor, for a package, for another day to go by without too much pain, boredom, trouble.

Bobby listened, but he didn’t really listen. He let the days pass, the weeks pass, the months pass and he heard a cacophony of words, same words from different guys, who were inside for selling weed, others for stealing cars. Others for beating up someone so bad, they sent him to the hospital. Faces changing, kids being moved to new facilities down the block, across town, upstate. And Bobby tried to breathe deep, in and out, so nothing could touch him, like he imagined Bruce Lee inhaling and exhaling before he made his next move.

—Go to your core. Go to that place where nothing could touch you. The lady liked to stand on her tiptoes when she was trying to make a point. And all Bobby could do was think about his father. Hot, sweaty Sundays, when everyone left him and his father alone, so they could drink and watch the game: Bobby holding a cold Coca-Cola and his father holding rum. Why did his father have to die? Could Santo see him? Was he disappointed?

—My being here is a mistake, Bobby said to himself, but mostly to his father. —I don’t belong here.

Nueva York

1995

Don Chan didn’t remember leaving the apartment door open. He was sure he locked it. Or was that yesterday? All the lights were off.

Don Chan picked up his cane. It felt heavy in his hands, which trembled against his liking. He was in no condition to fight an intruder. Would that be the way he was going to die, with a gun pushed up against his ribs? No, he had survived too long to die that way. He had seen too many guns in his day.