In all the years I’ve spent here at Salton Sea State Penitentiary, I swear I never met a scarier man than Big Pete. Ain’t no one in this place—in this world—like Big Pete, you feel me? Man, one look at him and you don’t start peeing yourself just a bit, you better go and get your pulse checked cuz you’re probably dead. If you know the stuff he did before he came here, you’d be too scared to even breathe the same air as him.
When Big Pete first arrived here at Salton’s death row, everyone said to me, “Yo, B! (my name’s Brian, but that ain’t so cool, so all my brothers calls me “B” instead) What’s it like being Big Pete’s cellie? You scared he gonna kill you in your sleep?” I just smiled and let them guess. It gave me some respect with the other inmates that I was a brother sharing a cell with the big, white, killing machine—and was still alive every morning. But they didn’t know Big Pete like I do. And I’m sure gonna miss him when he’s gone.
Far as I know, Big Pete’s story began like this:
Five years ago, in the Japanese Friendship Garden in Balboa Park, two men wearing black sunglasses, pastel Polo shirts, and khaki Dockers met with Big Pete by the Koi Pond. These clean cut looking guys weren’t what you’d expect. They were businessmen who were worse than any of the Bloods or Crips I ever met—and believe me, I met more than a few of them in my life. These men hired gangstas on a regular basis to do crap for them. But when they needed a real important job done? They called the best. Big Pete.
“So, you okay with this,” Bill Dawson said to Big Pete, who was sitting on a bench, not even looking at them.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Pete clicked his tongue.
Tom, a guy who owned three Beemers, a Benz and a Ferrari, sat down next to Pete. “You don’t have a problem taking out a man of the cloth?”
Pete shrugged, spit out a toothpick into the pond. “I ain’t religious.”
“You sure?” said Bill. “You’re not going to get all superstitious about killing a minister, and bail at the last minute?”
Without even standing up, Pete slipped his hand under his arm and jabbed the point of his knife straight into Bill’s side—just enough to puncture his pastel Polo and prick his skin.
Bill leaped to his feet, holding his side. “Dammit, Pete!”
Still staring out into the pond and never raising his voice, he scoffed. “That’s Big Pete to you, you weasely turd. I’ll gut and fillet you right here, right now and not even blink. You want me on this hit or not?”
Tom stepped forward between them holding up a hand. “Okay, we get it. You’re the right man for the job. Ten thousand now, and the other ten when it’s done.”
Pete finally turned his head and stared right into their sunglasses. The two homies didn’t even know they took a step back. “That’s not what we agreed to.”
Bill elbowed his partner. “The hell, Tom?”
“You trying to renegotiate terms, boys?” Big Pete stood slowly. His shadow covered both of them as he straightened out. He stood a head taller than both of them.
Tom sputtered. “Twenty thousand seems a lot for one friggin’ pastor of a church.”
“Are you crazy, Tom?” Bill muttered. “You wanna die? Huh? You wanna?” To Big Pete: “You gotta forgive my idiot brother here, Big Pete,” he glared at Tom, “he’s gone and lost his brains. Temporary insanity. Isnt’ that right Tom?”
Tom shrugged. “Shut up.”
Like the wimp he was, Bill pulled out a thick white envelop and handed it to Big Pete, who glared down at his hand and cocked an eyebrow. “You guys sure about this?”
Tom huffed and twisted his lip to the side. “Oh, who’s getting soft now, Big—? OOF!” His brother Bill interrupted him with an elbow in the gut.
“I’m just saying,” Pete said, “You two better not get cold feet and call this off because you went on and got religion or some crap like that. You do, and I’ll come for the rest of the money, cut both of your nuts off before I slice you into tender vittles for my cat.”
The envelope was shaking in Bill’s hand now. “No, no. We aren’t going to back out. This Pastor Rick is killing us, killing our cash flow. We’re honest businessmen, you know? We provide a much needed commodity to the community. And just because some right-wing religious nut don’t think so highly of adult entertainment and literature, doesn’t mean he has the right to take away our business.”
Big Pete didn’t care for porn any more than he cared for religion. He just cared about his reputation, doing his job and getting paid for it. “All he’s doing is standing on the corner of your smut shop, handing out flyers and talking to anyone who wants to talk. For this, you want him dead?”
“You want this job or not?” Tom said, trying wisely not to appear too challenging.
“Shut up,” Bill said. To Pete: “You think he’s just saying ‘Hi, howya doing?’ to those people? Since he started hanging out on my street, I’ve been losing thousands of dollars every month. Business is at its all time low! This stupid sonofabitch can’t keep his goddam religion to himself. No, he’s gotta come and mess with my livelihood. I got a mortgage, a family to feed. What about that?”
Pete grabbed the envelope and shook his head. He didn’t like whining women, but he really, really hated whining men. “I don’t care. Why don’t you go and complain to your wife and your two little girls about how the mean old preacher man is taking away your fine, upstanding customers who would otherwise enjoy all the fine porn you have to offer them?” He slapped Bill across the head with the envelope and walked off. “Un-frikkin-believeable.”