They spilled the beans. Also the water, the slop bins, and the fruit trays. But the monks sang. They told him. And Chongo knew. He knew about the whole sordid, rotten mess.

He knew about why he got a draft notice, and who to pay off to get off the hook. He knew about the bana...banna...bananana...fruit smuggling plots and the ideas to run black market stuff down from Canada. He knew about Hitler invading Poland, about the Battle of Britain, about the incursion of North Korea into South Korea, about the Battle of Bosworth Field.

"Hey," he said, "you monkeys know too damned much."

They were still jabbering away when he left. Something about rap music, whatever that was. Or would be. The monks didn't seem to bother much with time. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, was all one to them. Of course, he mused, if you're in stir for life I guess time don't mean a lot.

He swung down from the tree, pulled his carstarter our of his pocket. Smart investment, he thought, never know when your cars gonna go blooey on ya these days.

He pushed the carstarter.

The car blew up, just like it was in a movie.

The Tommy gun and the extra ammo smacked him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him.

Jesus, he thought. This shit's gotta bloody well STOP. I could get hurt.