Warlord: Dervish by Tony Monchinski Page A

know.”
    “Day-em. Look main, I don’t mean it no diss, aight? It’s just you come on in here like whoever that white boy was played Buford Pusser in that movie, thas’ all.”
    “That a fact?”
    The man bobbed his head as he chewed, his cheeks chip-munked out from all the food he had shoveled in.
    “I guess that’s good,” concluded Jason. “I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t feel like I was ‘walking tall’ walking in here. So what do I call you?”
    “You—” the man chewed “—can call me—” he swallowed and tossed back whatever was left in his coffee cup “—Bronson.”
    “Bronson, huh?”
    “Yeah.”
    Jason thought it bizarre but he agreed.
    “You don’t recognize me, B, do you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Bronson put down his fork again, apparently full, shaking his head once more. “Day-em, B. You was next to me…” Bronson looked like he was trying to find the right words “…in there.”
    “In there?” Even as he said it, it hit Jason. In there . Bronson had been one of the people next to him, in the cells. “Holy shit. You’re real?”
    “Course I’m real. What you think?”
    “You’re really real. It’s just that…my last day—the last day I remember, I was talking to you, and then they come and got me, and when they walked me past your cell…you weren’t there.”
    “I don’t remember everything…” Bronson rubbed his index finger against his teeth, trying to dislodge a piece of food “…but I remember dey took me out of there ‘fore dey took you.”
    Jason motioned with his hands and face, indicating he didn’t get it.
    “Listen, B. I think I’s got an idea what’s going on here, aight, but I don’t got it all worked out. Sometin’ I do know: time was passin’ in there, I couldn’t tell how much or nothin’. But they was giving us drugs in them cells, right?”
    Jason would never forget the bald man and his needles.
    “Yeah. Hey, how’d you know it was me…in there…in here ?”
    Bronson took his finger out of his mouth and pointed at Jason. “I got real nigga vision, B.”
    “You got…?” Jason suppressed a laugh as he realized the man was joking with him.
    “No. You got. You got white boy written all over you.”
    “And they don’t?” Jason nodded past Bronson to the seated group.
    Bronson didn’t bother to turn around. “Shit if it was dem.” He didn’t sound thrilled with the four.
    “What about him?” Jason indicated a young light-skinned man who sat by himself, furthest from everyone.
    “Oh, dat boy just ain’t right.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “His eyes. You get a chance, check out his eyes. Why you smilin’, B?”
    “Nothing. You remind me of someone. That’s all.”
    “One o’ yo’ students?”
    “No.” Jason was thinking of Tucker. Bronson reminded him of Tucker. Somewhat less abrasive perhaps; it was too early to tell. But Tucker…Tucker had reminded Jason of students he’d taught. “Yeah, maybe,” Jason hurriedly amended. “So, what do you think is going on?”
    “I’ll tell you what I think, B. I think shit here’s about to get real interestin’.”
    The wise-guy from the table of four had walked up to one of the women—not the one Jason had tried to talk to and not the one who sat at the table next to his. This woman was pretty in an understated way, like maybe with a little make up and a different setting she’d be something else. Jason could see the guy clearly now. Curly hair, five o’clock shadow, a paunch. He didn’t look military. He looked like a miscreant.
    The man must have said something the woman didn’t agree with because she gave him a dirty look and spat something right back at him. If her words were intended to offend or dissuade the man they didn’t seem to have that effect. He laughed maliciously and put one hand down on her table, leaning his weight on it, bending in to talk to her.
    The woman at the table next to Jason and Bronson spoke out loud. Jason didn’t catch her