Dante
A few days after dropping Eleni off upstate, I sit in the cheap, plastic chair of the Sing Sing Correctional private visitation room and eye the guard standing in the corner. He’s not our usual guy, but Hank promised this guy would be just as good.
“I’m Dante,” I say to fill the silence before my prisoner arrives.
He grunts. “You bring the s**t?”
Certainly not the conversationalist Hank is. I pull the plastic-wrapped Cubans out of my inside jacket pocket and slide them across the table. The new guy picks them up, sniffs them, and they disappear in a crease in his uniform, in the way every prison guard I’ve ever met seems to have mastered. I’ve never been inside myself, and I’m not looking forward to that day, if it ever comes. I knock surreptitiously on the engineered-wood table
