It was a hot night. He let his bare and bleeding feet be washed by the river, laughing at himself as he looked out across the water.
And there was the river, a foot in front of him.
And there, on the other side of it, was the federal penitentiary.
His home to be for seven more years, if the law was to have its way.
The law would not have its way, of course. At least not the federal law. The law of the streets would, though. Because of the work of Big Jake and the Southside Boys his escape had been neatly planned. A guard bribed, a drain pipe made accessible.
And the boat hired that would pick him up in two minutes.
Of course it was not all done yet. The Northside Boys had their presence in the prison, and everywhere there were eyes and ears.
The note he had found this morning under his pillow saying:
“Hope your boat don’t blow up.”
But that was nonsense. They could not have known, not all the details.
So he dreamed about the life that would begin for him in a few hours; his life of freedom.
The boat appeared, chugging along dutifully.
He got to his feet.
And the boat blew up.
Particles of metal and flesh began to rain around him.
“Fiction,” he mused.
That life he was going to lead.
And the siren began to wail.