Simon did as he was told.
“Here’s how things stand between us. It was your crew. Your plan. You were in charge. Whatever happened that day, you’re responsible. Agreed?”
Simon said yes.
“First, you owe me for my son’s share, then you owe me for his life. Still with me?”
Simon met Bonfanti’s eyes. The answer had already been made for him. To say no, to ask a question, was to sign his death warrant.
Bonfanti extended a callused hand. Simon shook it.
“There’s a man here who wishes me harm,” said Bonfanti. “You don’t need to know why. You only need to know his name. It is Nasser-Al-Faris. He’s a barbu.”
He explained that Al-Faris ran drugs inside for the barbus and the North Africans. Like Bonfanti, he was a powerful man. He was protected at all times. He never ventured into the yard without a bodyguard of five soldiers. He lived in the far corner of the housing unit, separated from les blancs. The only time he was unprotected was when he showered. Guards on his payroll cleared out the bathing unit. Every day at nine a.m. Al-Faris had fifteen minutes and all the hot water he desired for himself.
“Al-Faris has one weakness,” Bonfanti said, leaning close. “He is homosexual. He prefers young partners. Like you.”
“I’m not that way.”
“You don’t have to fuck him. You just have to kill him.”
The plan was put into motion the next day.
Bonfanti’s men set upon Simon in the yard as punishment for an unseen infraction. In plain sight of the population, Simon allowed himself to be beaten. He cowered. He ran. For the next week, he walked the yard alone, careful to keep his distance from everyone. He was a pariah, not welcomed by any group. He found a stretch of wall and made it his own. Each day, returning to his room, he passed les barbus. One day, he saw Al-Faris. He looked at him. He met his eyes. He allowed his gaze to linger. The next day, he did the same.
A week later, he received a note. A meeting was set. Nine a.m. The bathing unit.
Simon arrived at the designated time. He stripped naked. A guard checked his hands, felt beneath his balls, then looked away as Simon entered the shower.
Al-Faris was alone. He beckoned Simon forward. The bargain was made without words. In exchange for his body, Simon would receive protection. He would no longer be alone. He would be welcome among les barbus.
Al-Faris was Egyptian, a tall, muscular man with tattoos covering his back and his arms. He put his hand on Simon’s chest. He rubbed his back. He came closer so their bodies touched.
Simon looked into his eyes, playing his part.
Al-Faris cupped Simon’s buttock in his hand. He opened his mouth to kiss him.
Simon turned his head. In his mouth, he clenched a razor between his teeth. For the past ten days he had practiced the violent motion required to puncture a man’s neck and sever his carotid artery. He must bring his jaw high, grasp the man by his shoulders, hold him tight, then propel the blade powerfully downward, entering the neck just below the ear, slicing diagonally, viciously, and without hesitation.
He did this now.
Al-Faris opened his mouth to cry out but could make no sound. Blood erupted from his ruined throat in a panoramic geyser, pulsing with the last powerful beats of his heart. He grasped madly at Simon, but Simon held him in his grip, looking into his eyes as the life dimmed. Al-Faris slid to the floor. In seconds, he was dead.
Simon spat out the razor.
The guard whisked him away. Today he was on the Corsican’s payroll.
Minutes later, Simon stood before Bonfanti. He was given a hit of hashish and a thimbleful of cognac. He was informed that killing the Egyptian satisfied but half of his obligation. The murder of Al-Faris took care of the monetary debt. If Simon had not killed him, Bonfanti would have been required to pay another of his soldiers to do the job. That sum, in Bonfanti’s mind, covered what was due his deceased son had there actually been money in the hold of the Garda armored truck. What remained of his obligation, said Bonfanti, was payment-in-kind for his son’s death. Bonfanti was alone in the world. Simon must also be alone. He would be placed in solitary confinement in a dank subterranean cell known to all as “the hole.” For how long was Bonfanti’s choice.
A day.
A month.
A year.
There was, however, another alternative.
Should Simon tell him who betrayed the crew to the police he would not have to endure “the hole.” Not for a minute. One name and Simon’s debt would be discharged in full. Even more, he could move to the fourth floor to occupy a private room near Bonfanti’s for the duration of his sentence. He would enjoy permanent protection while on the yard. It was his choice.
