Authors: William Bernhardt
“Well … look, lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I want you to leave.”
She uncurled herself from his neck. “It’s because of my tits, isn’t it?”
Travis tried not to look. “I beg your pardon?”
“My tits! I told Tony I’d do better if he’d pay for some implants. He says they’re not safe. I think he’s just cheap.”
“Look, miss, I don’t care what size your, er …”
“Sure, you say that now, but if I was a D-cup, you’d be slobbering all over me.”
“Not true. I’m just not … interested.”
“Oh?” She pressed herself up and down his thigh. “I guess that’s a roll of quarters in your pants then?”
Travis whisked her around and steered her through the open door. “Either you’ve got the wrong address, or this is a perverse prank being played by someone with an extremely weird sense of humor. In any case, I have a big day ahead of me, I need my sleep, and I don’t need any more stress. So good night!”
Her shoulders drooped. “But I can’t go back without finishing the job. You have no idea what kind of trouble I’ll be in.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I don’t mind dressing up.”
“Good night, miss.”
“I’m fluent in all twenty-six positions.”
“Twenty—?” He pressed his hand against his forehead. “I said, good night!”
“I brought my own gear!” She started to itemize, but it was too late. The door was firmly shut.
A
L MOROCONI COULDN’T BELIEVE
it—he was free! After weeks of stale air, staler food, and constant hassling by shit-for-brains guards, he was finally free.
He’d never really thought it would work. Stupid FBI dickhead—what did he know? Moroconi was willing to give it a whirl—what did he have to lose? But it had worked!
He raced down Commerce, trying to stay out of the light. Word must already be out; soon every cop in Dallas would be circling the area looking for him. He needed a car and he needed it fast.
He veered into the parking lot of Orpha’s Lounge, a sleazy-looking bar with no windows, just a large neon sign that flashed
BEER
every other second. Lots of cars at Orpha’s, he noted happily.
He looked around for a coat hanger, a heavy object, a sharp stick—anything. He searched for several minutes without success. It was too dark; even if something had been there, he wouldn’t have found it.
He heard a shuffling noise coming from the bar. A tired, half-dead drunk was stumbling out of Orpha’s all by his lonesome. Moroconi grinned. Excellent—the answer to his prayers. Like taking candy from a baby.
Moroconi circled around the parked cars and came up behind the drunk. Moroconi waited until the man walked to his car—a big black pickup truck with oversize tires. While the man groped clumsily for his keys Moroconi wrapped his arm around his throat and pulled him down hard. The drunk fell face first into the gravel and lay there dazed.
Moroconi reached into the man’s pocket, took his keys, and started the truck. The tires squealed as he whipped the truck around the parking lot and headed toward Commerce.
He briefly considered running over the drunk, just for the hell of it. What was it the kids said?
Ten points for the old man!
But he didn’t have time for that, fun as it might be, and besides, blood-spattered tires might catch a cop’s attention. It would be a long while before that drunk was able to file a police report, and Moroconi would have another car by then.
He pulled onto Commerce and zoomed down the road. He had to get out of downtown before the cops got their act in gear. In fact, he needed to get out of Dallas altogether.
And then, once he was safe, he was going to make a few phone calls to some old friends. …
“H
ELLO?”
“How’s my friendly neighborhood FBI traitor?”
“Christ! Al!” The agent covered the receiver with his hand. Thank God he wasn’t using the speakerphone.
He quickly scanned the office. No one was around, except, of course, Mooney, who was walking toward him with a notepad. Efficient little twerp. He’d seen the light flash on his monitor board. Might’ve known Al would call when that squid was on duty.
“Should I take the call, sir?” Agent Mooney asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll handle it. It’s one of my informants.”
“I see. I’ll monitor on the extension.”
“No! I mean, I’m perfectly capable of taking my own notes. Continue with what you were doing, Mooney.”
Mooney eyed him oddly, but returned to his desk in the next room. Mooney had just been assigned to this special team; he was the typical asskissing backstabber. Just waiting for you to make a mistake he could ram down your throat. He didn’t care much for the look Mooney gave him as he left. If someone even suspected what he was doing … Well, he’d have to watch Agent Mooney very carefully.
He uncovered the receiver. “Al?” he whispered.
“In the flesh. Free as a bird. Can you believe it? Your plan actually worked, you dumbass son of a bitch!”
“Of course it worked. I told you it would. Why are you calling me here?”
“We got some business to conduct.”
“I told you we would—”
“Screw that plan,
compadre.
It takes too long, and I don’t have time to jack around.”
“What do you mean?”
He heard Moroconi plug another quarter into the pay phone. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard
what
?”
“There were some complications. People got hurt.”
“Hurt! How bad?”
“I didn’t have time to take their pulse. I think one of them’s dead, though—I shot him in the fuckin’ neck. The other one might pull through.”
The agent was stunned silent. That stupid, vicious—
“Don’t bother askin’ if I’m okay,” Moroconi said. “I know you’re real concerned. I’m fine.”
“Oh, my God. This is awful. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything. And—my God! You shouldn’t have called me here.”
“Why? ’Fraid someone might be listenin’?”
“Who the hell knows? This changes everything. Hang up the damn phone.”
“What about our rendezvous?”
“Fuck the rendezvous! It’s too risky. You could be caught any second.”
“We made a deal, you chickenshit. I want the list.”
“Look, as soon as things calm down, I’ll get back in touch with you.”
“No way, asshole. We do it tonight.”
“I can’t possibly—”
“Do you want to do this deal or not? I can always take my business somewhere else. There must be others like you.”
There was an extended pause. “Fine. Have it your way. Where do we meet?”
“I’m not going to tell you over your might-be-bugged line, chump. Call me from a pay phone.”
“What’s the number?”
“Ready to play a little baseball?”
“Oh, Christ.” He rustled through his desk drawers, groping for a pad of paper and pencil. “All right. Ready.”
“It’s the top of the fifth and Tucker’s three-and-two with two outs. The man on third had seven hits on the eighth day of the ninth month and two strikeouts with all three bases loaded. Are you gettin’ this?”
He grunted as he scribbled down the proper numbers in the proper order.
“There’s a change-up. Jones pulls a slider and two men slip by. That’s six since the relief pitcher left at four o’clock. At the top of the seventh, it’s three up, three down, eight points behind. He decides to reverse it. Plan B. Got it?”
He reversed the numbers, added carefully, and examined the resulting phone number. “Got it.”
“Guess you learned somethin’ in crime school after all. I’ll be waitin’ for you. Don’t dawdle. Send the little woman my best.”
Before the agent could spit back his reply, the line went dead.
TRAVIS WAS HAVING A
wonderfully weird Daliesque dream. He fantasized that he was in court, but it wasn’t Dallas County Court, and it wasn’t federal court—it wasn’t even the Supreme Court. It was the Court of Celestial Appeals. Travis was arguing with great passion and persuasion, pleading with the jury not to spare someone’s life, but to
return
a life—to grant Angela a second chance. He was really on a roll; he had the jury in the palm of his hand. He was winning, and in just a few seconds it would all be over and Angela would be back. …
And then the phone rang.
Travis fumbled in the dark and knocked the phone onto the floor, mercifully silencing the bell. He fell out of bed and crawled around till he found the receiver. “Geez,” he mumbled, “do you know what time—”
“Ain’t you lawyers on call for your clients whenever we need you?”
“Moroconi?” Travis stared at the phone, disbelieving. “How can you—where are you?”
“I’m out, Byrne.”
“You’re
out
! How the hell can you be out?”
“How do you think?”
“I assume the President didn’t grant you a pardon while I slept.”
“You got that right.”
“Did you bust out?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Travis turned on the lamp on his nightstand. The harsh light made him squint, but it was just as well—he had to clear the cobwebs out of his brain somehow. “Listen to me. You’ll never get away with this. You need to turn yourself in.”
Moroconi snorted into the phone. “You must be kiddin’.”
“Think about it. What are you going to do, run for the rest of your life? Sooner or later you’ll be caught. Probably sooner. It would be smarter to let the judicial process run its course. We were making real headway in court today—”
“Aw, cut the bullshit, shyster. You know damn well the fix is in. The police can put a schmuck like me behind bars anytime they want to. And they want to. Someone got to them. Hell, most of those jurors assumed I was guilty the minute I walked into court.”
“That isn’t always true—”
“Besides, I can’t turn myself in. If I go anywhere near a police station, they’ll blow my head off and ask questions later.”
Travis pondered for a moment. There was some truth in that. Especially if anyone had been hurt during the breakout. “All right, how about if I pick you up? We’ll go in together.”
“What’s to say they won’t kill you, too?”
“They won’t,” Travis assured him. “They’ll listen to me.
“What if they want me to do extra time for the attempted escape?”
“You’ve already brought that on yourself, Al. The best I can do now is see that you don’t aggravate matters.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Travis could tell he was thinking—but
what
was he thinking? “All right,” Al said at last. “If you come meet me, I’ll go in with you. If you promise you won’t tip off the cops first.”
“I promise. This is the wisest course of action, believe me.”
“Meet me at the West End. In front of the Butcher Shop.”
Travis nodded. “I know the place. It’s near my office. I’ll be there in half an hour. See you then.”
Travis hung up the phone and began dressing. He didn’t relish the prospect of being alone in the dark with Al Moroconi, but he didn’t see any workable alternative. He tried to imagine what the bar association would advise, but the Rules of Professional Conduct didn’t cover bizarre situations like this one.
He considered calling the police—but no. He had made a promise. A promise given in the course of legal counseling, no less. That was sacred. He’d do exactly what he had promised—he’d pick up Al and drive him to the station.
Besides, what did he have to fear from Al Moroconi? After all, the man was his client.
The brown-haired technician wearing the headphones smirked. “Did you get all that?”
His boss nodded. “West End. The Butcher Shop. Half an hour.”
“Maybe sooner. It won’t take Byrne half an hour to get there.”
“Depends on how long it takes him to get his head together. Did you get a trace on Moroconi?”
“No. But he was calling from a pay phone. He’d be gone before we could get there. Doesn’t matter. We know where he’ll be in half an hour.”
“True.” He walked to the back of the truck. “Better keep monitoring. Just in case.”
“Your wish is my command.” The technician changed the tape on the reel-to-reel recorder and reactivated the machine.
The other man buttoned his overcoat and stepped into the bracing night air. “By the way, if I haven’t mentioned it lately, you do damn fine work.”
The technician smiled. “That’s why you pay me the big money, Mr. Kramer.”
T
RAVIS EXITED STEMMONS FREEWAY
and headed for the West End Historic District, just north of Commerce and west of Lamar. He pulled into the empty parking lot on the opposite side of the railroad tracks. It was the closest open parking; he hoofed it from there.
The streets were quiet; all the restaurants and boutiques were closed. The West End had been refurbished several years before and converted into a trendy upscale shopping and dining haunt. A less panoramic version of San Antonio’s Riverwalk. The yuppies were all in bed tonight, though, as any sensible person would be at this time of the morning.
Travis jogged over to the main cul-de-sac, the last of several smaller sequential culs-de-sac, just outside a glass-walled shopping mall. He tried to pretend the run didn’t bother him. It was barely a fourth of a mile. A sprint like that couldn’t tire a he-man like him, could it? He laughed bitterly. Of course it could. He was old and out of shape. A punching bag for bathroom bullies.
After weaving past several closed buildings, he arrived at the Butcher Shop. It was his favorite restaurant in the West End. Most of the other joints served prissy sculpted food in minuscule portions, usually topped with sun-dried tomatoes or asparagus tips. California food, he called it. The Butcher Shop was about the only place in the entire area you could get a decent steak, something you could sink your teeth into.
Steak—my God, he remembered that. Vaguely, anyway. A delicacy from his presalad days. He jogged back and forth outside the restaurant, swinging around an iron lamppost, trying to shake off the chill. It was a brisk night for April; downright cold, actually. He hoped Moroconi wouldn’t be late. He began to realize how nebulous his instructions had been. What exactly was their plan? If Moroconi was going to turn himself in, why didn’t they just meet near the police station? And where exactly were they going to meet? Should he be looking in the alley behind the building, in the trash bins, or what?