Authors: William Bernhardt
T
HE FEDERAL MARSHALS TRANSFERRED
Moroconi from the courthouse to the midway detention room, where he waited for county sheriff’s men to escort him back to his cell. The feds didn’t have their own holding cells in Dallas County; they had a contractual agreement with the state to use their space as necessary.
The marshals pushed Moroconi into the detention room and began looking around impatiently. “I don’t know where the hell those state cops are,” one of them grumbled. “Lazy slobs. They think their whole life is one big trip to the doughnut shop. Never want to do a damn thing they don’t absolutely have to.”
He removed Moroconi’s handcuffs and shoved him down in a chair. “They think they have it so tough. They ought to take a walk on the federal side, just for a day or two. Spend an hour at Leavenworth. Find out what tough really is.” He sneered at Moroconi. “Couple days with scumbags like you, they’ll be begging for a nice job at Burger King.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Moroconi mumbled.
The other marshal’s eyes flared. “Wiseass. Let me bust him in the chops, Frank. We’ll say he was trying to escape. Just once, that’s all. I’ll make it count.”
Marshal Frank grinned. “I’m sure you would, Jim, but forget it. This sleaze is on trial, remember? If he shows up in court tomorrow all beaten up, the prosecution’s case goes into the dumper. And our ass is grass.” He leered eye to eye with Moroconi. “We’ll just wait. After he’s convicted, he’ll be sent to the pen. And the cons there just love rapists.”
“Oh yeah,” Marshal Jim replied. “Those that give, so shall they receive.”
The two men laughed uproariously and walked to the door. “Now we’ll be right outside, Moroconi. Don’t even think about trying to leave.”
“Shucks, Frank, don’t spoil the fun. I’d like to see him make a break for it.” Marshal Jim patted his pistol. “I’d enjoy having the opportunity to apprehend a fleeing felon.”
Still laughing, the two men strolled out the door and locked it behind them.
Moroconi sat in his chair, inhaling deeply, trying to suppress his temper. Miserable bastards. I’d like to meet them just once when they didn’t have a goddamn holster strapped around their bloated bellies. He made two more entries on his mental list of people he wanted to take care of, along with Travis Byrne and his old pals Jack and Mario.
Once he was certain they were not returning, Moroconi walked to the far left corner of the room. He examined the paneling on the ceiling. Standard sound-resistant panels held in place by thin metallic strips. He’d tried them the first night he was left in here—they wouldn’t budge. But tonight just might be different.
He counted panels, starting with the one directly above his head. Six to the right, two to the north, three to the left. That’s what the man said. He drew his chair beneath the panel, stood on the chair, and pressed up.
It moved. Standing on his tiptoes, he pushed up and tossed the panel back.
Yes!
Mr. FB-fucking-I actually came through.
Moroconi grabbed one of the now exposed cross beams and pulled himself up into the opening. Not an easy task, but he hadn’t been doing those chin-ups on the bunk bed in his cell every night for nothing. As quietly as possible, he replaced the ceiling panel. Careful to put his weight on the cross beams, he slithered through the small enclosed space between the ceiling and the roof.
Eventually, Moroconi reached a small ventilation window on the far wall of the building. Pushing with all his strength, he moved the rusty window slowly upward. At last the opening was wide enough for him to slip through, feetfirst. He lowered himself out, then dropped onto the porch just outside the front doors of the building.
The lights inside the lobby were on. Moroconi could see his two federal friends silhouetted inside. He thumbed his nose silently, then turned away. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the steps until he had already stumbled over them. Losing his balance, he tumbled down the steps and crashed headfirst onto the concrete sidewalk.
“
What the hell
?”
Moroconi rolled over and saw Marshal Frank running to the door, pistol raised. Damn those goddamn steps!
Moroconi jumped to his feet, sprang up the steps, and slammed the edge of the door on Frank’s hand. Frank screamed and dropped his gun.
Marshal Jim rushed through the other door. Moroconi tackled him, knocking him back into his buddy. In the half second that bought him, Moroconi picked up Frank’s gun.
“Son of a bitch,” Frank said breathlessly. “That’s my gun.”
“Then I’ll give it to you,” Moroconi replied. He fired. Blood spurted from Frank’s neck. The wounded man’s face went ashen, then he crumpled to the floor.
Panicked, Marshal Jim turned and ran. Moroconi shot him in the back.
Moroconi shoved the gun in his pants and sprinted toward the street. He knew he had to hurry. Cops and sheriffs and marshals and every other cocksucker wearing a badge would descend in a matter of moments. He bolted toward downtown Dallas, where he knew he could lose himself in no time at all.
H
ERE THEY WERE AGAIN—MARIO,
Kramer, and Donny—gathered together in Mario’s downtown office. These little status reports had become a regular unpleasantness in Mario’s life since the latest crisis developed. Occasionally they accomplished something; more often they did not. Either way, another meeting meant more time with Kramer. And that made Mario’s blood run cold.
Not that Donny was much better. He’d come in earlier to beg his uncle Mario to make him a lieutenant. Right. In the first place, Mario explained, you can’t be a lieutenant unless you’re a
made man,
and Donny wasn’t. What’s more, Mario thought but did not say, you can’t be a
made man
until you’ve successfully completed a hit, Donny, and you couldn’t successfully complete a hit on a butterfly. Donny was fortunate Mario had agreed to accept him at all. There’d been a lot of bitching among the boys. Understandably so.
“You never told me, Donny,” Mario said. “How did your introduction to Mr. Byrne go?”
“Smooth as shit,” Kramer answered for him, “ ’cept that Donny almost got himself turned into a hostage.”
“I did not!” Donny said. He leaped off the sofa. “Byrne got one good shot in, that’s all. When I wasn’t looking. I got out of it right away.”
Kramer laughed. “You got out of it when my man Mr. Hardcastle smashed Byrne’s head against the wall. Otherwise you’d be doing time in the federal slammer right now.”
“That’s not true! Uncle Mario, make him shut up!”
Mario raised his hand. “Boys, boys, boys. Let’s not behave like children. I take it Mr. Byrne received our message?”
“He received it all right,” Kramer said. “Like a swift kick in the balls. Problem is, he’s too dumb to take it to heart.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“Positive. Hardcastle was in the courtroom today. I got a full report.”
“What? He went in person!”
“Relax, he was careful. Byrne never saw him.”
“For your sake, I hope you’re right.” Mario fell back and made a steeple with his fingers. At least Kramer hadn’t gone himself. Kramer probably couldn’t get near any law enforcement officer in the entire state of Texas without being identified. “What was your man’s evaluation of Byrne’s courtroom performance?”
“He’s good,” Kramer said. “What’s worse, he’s shrewd. He’s not actin’ like Moroconi is a great guy—or even that he likes him. He’s not sayin’ that the rapes didn’t happen and he was a real sweetie pie to the victim. He made one point—that she didn’t get a good enough look to identify Al. It ain’t much, but if he makes the jury believe it, he’ll win.”
Mario brooded for a moment. “I thought you told me this case was a guaranteed conviction. With a long sentence attached.”
“That’s what my contacts at the police station were sayin’. I guess that was before Byrne made the scene.”
“I don t know why you’re acting like this Byrne prick is so great,” Donny said, pouting. “He’s just a stupid, fat policeman.”
“Who almost broke your hand,” Kramer added.
“That’s not true!” Donny ran up to Mario’s desk and hovered. “Uncle Mario, tell him to stop saying that!”
“Please, Donny. We’re not on a playground and this is not recess.”
“But he’s picking on me!”
Mario buried his face in his hands. It was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. Perhaps he could tell Monica her son had been killed in a train wreck.
“I don’t mean to be an alarmist,” Kramer said. “The feds still have a strong case. Odds are Al is going to do some major-league time. But I make no guarantees.”
“Recommendations?”
“Nothin’ drastic. Not yet. I’ll keep an eye on Al. And Byrne. You said before we’d take more … extreme measures if necessary. I hope you meant it.”
Mario, folded his hands. “I meant it.”
“Good. Then I’ll continue to monitor the situation carefully.”
Mario raised his chin. “They’ve found Seacrest.”
“I know. I made sure they did.”
“Perhaps you should make sure Mr. Byrne knows, too.”
Kramer grinned. “Not a bad idea.”
“Do you need more associates?”
“Nah. I’ve already got eight men on Byrne, diggin’ into his background, watchin’ him everywhere he goes. Listenin’, too.”
“Good.”
The phone rang. Mario answered it, then passed it to Kramer. “It’s for you.”
Kramer took the phone. After a moment, he covered the receiver and whispered, “It’s one of my contacts at the jailhouse.” He listened for several more seconds. “What?
Gone
?”
“What is it?” Mario asked. “What happened?” Kramer ignored him. After a few more minutes, he tossed the receiver back into its cradle.
“Talk to me,” Mario demanded. “What happened?”
“A hell of a lot, apparently,” Kramer said. “Two guards shot, one of them dead.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Kramer reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. “The holding cells,” he said quietly. “Our friend Al busted out.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I’m afraid so.” He held the lighter between them and gazed at the orange flame. “You’d better lock your doors tonight, Mario. Al may show up on your doorstep. And he won’t be deliverin’ a candygram, either.”
T
RAVIS LEANED AGAINST THE
headboard of his bed. He was wearing his favorite woolly pajamas; he had the covers tucked under his arms and headphones clamped over his ears. He’d finally given up trying to prepare for the next day of trial, only to find he couldn’t sleep. Sure, it was early, but he’d barely slept at all the last two nights. He should’ve crashed the instant his head hit the pillow. Maybe he’d gotten his second wind; he just didn’t feel tired. He was probably too keyed up about everything that had happened the past few days.
He decided to sample the stress-reduction tapes Gail had given him a few days ago. If stress reduction was supposed to be synonymous with mind numbing, the tapes were a smash success. As tedious as they were, he thought he’d surely drop off to sleep. But he didn’t. His mind kept wandering back to the case, those cruel assaults, those gruesome pictures. Mary Ann McKenzie. With her lovely red hair.
He yanked the earphones off and stopped the tape. He resisted the temptation to throw the recorder across the room; it was Staci’s Walkman, after all, just on loan. He punched his pillow and stretched out across the bed, hoping the reclining position would induce sleep.
It didn’t. What was wrong with him? He supposed he could check his blood pressure. Gail had insisted that he buy a blood-pressure monitor. And when he didn’t, she bought it for him. Her idea was that he could wear it all day long and check himself every fifteen seconds or so. If your blood pressure is up, she said, just stop whatever you’re doing and relax until it goes down. Travis delicately tried to explain that he wasn’t wearing that stupid monitor all day long and that he couldn’t stop a trial just because his blood pressure was up. And when she looked on the brink of tears, he strapped the contraption around his upper arm and started pumping.
For that matter, he mused, why stop with blood pressure? Maybe he should purchase a home EKG monitor. And while he was at it, a home heart defibrillator, just in case he needed a cardiac massage some chilly evening. What could they cost—ten, fifteen thousand dollars? A small price to pay to avoid the specter of the heart attack that hadn’t happened. Yet.
A bell rang. It took Travis a few seconds to identify it as his doorbell. He wrapped himself in a robe and plodded to the front door. He really needed a peephole, he reminded himself for the millionth time.
He turned on the porch light and opened the door. “Yes?”
The young woman standing outside was sixteen, maybe seventeen tops. She was dressed in a tight-fitting green tube top that clung to her flat breasts and revealed an ample expanse of flesh above the miniskirt hugging her hips. “You must be Travis Byrne,” she cooed with outstretched arms. “Tonight’s your lucky night.”
Travis blinked. He hadn’t fallen asleep, had he? Then how could he be dreaming? “Do I know you?”
She stepped through the door and curled her arms around his neck. “The question is—would you like to get to know me?” She planted a kiss on his lips.
Travis twisted away. “Wait a second. What’s going on here?”
She smiled. “Anything you want, darlin’. Absolutely anything.”
“I don’t understand. How do you know my name? Did someone put you up to this?”
“I came when called.”
“Called? Who called?”
“I assume you.”
“You assume wrong.”
“Then I must be a gift. Who cares? It’s all arranged. Take advantage, baby.” Her thin lips curled up to form a wicked smile. She snuggled closer, pulled open his robe, and began planting kisses on his chest.
“Look,” Travis said, trying unsuccessfully to push her away, “I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t want any part of it.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong? Is someone else here?”
“No.”
“You’re gay.”
“I am not!”
“Jaded? Getting too much?”