Playtime (19 page)

So that concludes the business of the day, Blaine
guesses, and a few minutes later he and the guard are making the long walk down
the hallway to his cell. The door clanks shut behind him, and his thoughts
alternate between Renee and the feeling of confinement and suffocation. He
doesn't see how people take this stuff for years at a time. The building is a
palpable weight pressing down on him. The din of the other prisoners has not
diminished a bit, might even be louder now. A king-sized cockroach plays in the
corner of the cell. A rat sniffs what looks like a piss stain, stares at him
with fearless eyes a moment, scurries off.   

 He looks around. Graffiti from different guests
on the stone walls. Some written, some scratched. He wonders idly what was used
to make the scratches. It seems like anything that could make those marks would
be illegal in here. Dates and nicknames.
Fuck these
motherfuckers
and other pithy sayings, painted over, but still dimly visible. He thinks about
Sketch already out of here. He hopes the cops have him under surveillance.
Nielson had said they did. They'd better not let that son of a bitch get to
her. He knows she is still alive. Knows it. 

 He sighs and mulls over his predicament. He will
surely be allowed bail when he goes before the judge, the question is how much.
He has a fair amount ratholed to tide him over between shutdowns. He hopes it
is enough. 

 He can't believe she hadn't been in the room. He
had been so sure when he went through the door that she was on the other side
of it. He thinks back over the tussle with Sketch, replaying it in his mind.
No, he had never actually said he had her or had taken her or killed her or
anything. But Blaine knows he's got her. He must have her stashed somewhere
else. What the cops should be focusing on is finding what other properties
Sketch owns. She is probably at one of them.   

 Real estates and investments, Nielson had said.
Knew some major heavyweights in the city. Ran with the big dogs. Be good to
know exactly what those investments were. Blaine had never been interested in
Galveston politics. He supposes, being a writer that he should be. But it seemed
ingrown stuff, a group of mostly wealthy families throwing their weight around,
trying to outspend or out-influence each other. The important criteria seemed
to be where your family had come from and how much money they had. Though much
good was certainly done by the rich. Would make a great novel, he thinks idly,
if you were interested in all that stuff. Which he mostly isn't.   

 He takes his shoes off, puts his feet up on the
bunk. He wouldn't want to walk around the cell barefoot. Suspicious stains all
over. He feels the weight of the building again, has a lapse when he thinks he
might lose it, but his instinct for self-preservation saves him for the moment.
There are a number of cells he can see from this spot, and that can look in on
him, and he has the feeling he is being watched. He cranes his head forward,
and sure enough, down the hall, a big, dark-haired man with a beard, Arabic-looking,
is leaning at the bars, looking his way intently. He looks like a wolf. His
eyes never waver when he sees that Blaine has spotted him. His tongue licks his
bottom lip, which then curls up slightly. Blaine would not call it a grin. It
looks more the way a dog looks when he is waiting to be fed. Blaine grins his
own grin at him, fierce and primal, teeth bared in a snarl. The grin that says:
fuck with me, motherfucker, you will pay the price. He is someplace where the
old rules don't apply, and he doesn't know the new ones, but he knows they are
harsher, more cruel than anywhere he has ever been. He doesn't give a shit. He
will take this motherfucker out, too, if he has to. His job is to get out of
this place and get his girl back. Crying and feeling the weight of the building
won't do it. And if this guy gives him any trouble, he may find out he picked on
the wrong man. Maybe there are no rules here at all. If Renee is gone, then it
doesn't matter, Blaine thinks gloomily. Fuck this place, and fuck the rules. He
feels a rage growing inside that makes the weight of the building small and his
discomfort miniscule. He is watching this guy all the while and sees a flicker
of doubt cross his face. It might be the look of a predator who has mistaken
another predator for prey. Whatever it is, he apparently doesn't like it, and
when Blaine looks down at the bunk for a minute and looks back, the face is
gone from the bars.   

The jail never quiets down completely. Blaine hears
the doors clang open and shut throughout the night at random intervals. Not
prisoners leaving, but more coming in, he guesses. He can't sleep, puts his
shoes back on and paces the tiny cell. There is an upper bunk, so it is really
for two men. He can't imagine being trapped in this sized space living with
somebody. It is two short strides across and four back. Two across and four
back. The drunk tank is way down the other end of the corridor, and he hears
occasional shouts, cursing. Guards go down that way, but he doesn't think they go
in. Let the natives settle it amongst themselves. Law of the jungle.   

 He supposes Nielson really
had
done him a
favor. At least he's by himself, instead of fighting with a bunch of assholes.
If it was like everywhere else in Galveston, they are ganged up. Latinos
against blacks. Everybody hating the privileged whites, who are a minority
inside these walls, and outside, too, in Galveston.   

 A guard wanders by while he shits. Looks in at
him, checking what he's up to. He is Hispanic, and his face is cold and set.
Blaine feels like a monkey at the zoo. He stares back for a second, sees the
guard's hand fiddling with his stick, and Blaine looks down, finishes his
business. Tries not to think of the asses that have touched this stainless
steel. Looks back up, the guard is tapping a numerical code into an electronic
receiver pad on the wall. Tracks his movements Blaine realizes. Makes sure he
patrols the areas he's supposed to. A few of the plants had gone to that
system. The plant operators were notorious for taking it easy when they could.
The guard walks away, back down the hall towards the large holding tank packed
with drunks and minor crooks. When they had walked by it, he had seen guys
everywhere, laid out on the floor, curled up in the corners, piss and shit and
vomit and probably worse staining the cold, concrete ground.   

 Everything in his cell is built so it cannot be
taken apart and turned into a weapon. The light is all artificial. No windows, the
same light 24 hours a day. His watch is gone, so he has no way to tell what
time it is. He thinks of the millions sitting in cells like this or worse in
this country. He had read about the super-max prisons where the inmates were
housed by themselves for twenty-three hours a day, let outside to exercise for
one hour into caged areas that looked like dog runs. No contact with other
prisoners. That solved a lot of security problems. Of course those were
supposed to be the worst of the worst, the incorrigibles. Still, from what he
has read and seen, they might be better off dead. He brings his mind back to
Renee, and thinks about where Sketch might have her. He needs more information
about what he owns. He hopes Nielson is researching that, thinks that he is
home asleep in his bed, researching nothing right now. Hours pass, he thinks. It
is hard to tell. It is maybe a touch quieter. The guard wanders back by. He
doesn't realize he is staring till the big Hispanic leans down by the cell,
says, "Better learn to keep your eyes to yourself,
cabrón
. You keep
eye-fucking people you might wind up getting fucked yourself." 

 "Didn't mean anything by it," Blaine
says. "Just isn't much to look at here." 

 "Nobody cares what you mean in here,"
the guard says. He fishes in his pocket, holds up a quarter. "Your words
aren't worth this in here. That is the fact. If you are lonely," he adds
grinning a grin without mirth, "I can put you in the big cell where you'll
have some company." 

 "No thanks," Blaine says. 

 "No thanks," the guard softly echoes,
and walks away with slow, measured paces, those big, heavy Brogan dress shoes
sounding on the pavement. King of the castle here at night, can do pretty much
whatever he wants, it looks like. As long as he checks in with the electronic
receiver.   

 On the street, Blaine would never put up with
that kind of trash talk. At the very least, he would walk away. But this isn't
the street, and there is nowhere to walk. 

 He knows it is morning when they bring him a tray
of some crappy-looking mush he guesses is oatmeal, powdered eggs, a soggy piece
of toast, and a mealy-looking apple. They slide it through a slot by the floor,
tell him to stand back while they do. He picks at it, takes a bite or two of
each thing, reluctantly, to keep his strength up. 

 A few hours later, they come to take him to see
the judge. He thought it would be one more day and is a bit surprised. 

 She is a woman, Teresa Maglia. Blaine had voted
for her in the last election. Her court is in the same building as the jail.
The guards take him down a long hallway to an elevator, and they ride up to do business.
His brother is there, and John Haney, a local attorney that Blaine knows and
likes. The judge looks down at the fact brief before her, calls Haney to the
bench and speaks with him. In 15 minutes it is over, and they are on the way
out of the courtroom. They had given Blaine his personal items back before the
arraignment. He is not to go near Irons or his house. His concealed carry
license is suspended until disposition of the charges. Todd claps him on the
back as they ride the elevator down, but he doesn't respond much, just a weak
grin. He wants to clear the building. 

 It is only when they get outside, and he takes in
that first deep breath of clean air, tries to erase the odors that linger from
the cells that he begins to feel free again. 

 Todd understands; he's not pushing it. Haney
gives them a wave, and he's out of there, just another prisoner freed, all part
of a day's work. They walk down the sidewalk towards the truck.   

 "Quit," Blaine says. 

 "Quit what?" 

 "Thinking what an asshole I am." 

 Todd laughs. "Sorry, buddy. It's the tyrannosaurus
in the room, isn't it?" 

 Blaine is pissed for a second then he laughs too.
Looks at the sky, the endless space of it, takes another deep breath. "You
know, if you hadn't shown up at Sketch's house when you did, I would probably
be below ground, feeding worms this morning." 

 "Yep," says Todd agreeably.   

 "It might sound stupid, but I would do it
again if I had the chance." The south wind is kicking the leaves of the
trees lining the sidewalks around, making them crackle. He looks back at the
courthouse, the county jail. It looks pretty good from out here. Not anything
like it looked from the inside. 

 "Well, you won't have the .22 if you
do," Todd says. "I'm afraid they're going to keep that for a while.
They got the .357 in the truck, too." 

 "I was so sure she was there," he says.
Todd hasn't said it, but he is hearing "I told you so" all over the
place. He's not that worried about the guns. He will get them back eventually.
He has an identical .22 hidden at the house anyway, and a couple more big guns,
too. Todd doesn't know that. 

 "You sure it's Sketch?" his brother
asks as they get in the truck. "He never admitted to anything, really." 

 "What do you think? You were there." 

 "Yeah, I think so," his brother says.
"I'm not 100% sure on it, though, and I'm not the one we need to
convince." 

 "I don't give a damn about convincing
anybody," Blaine says. "I just want to get Renee back." 

 "You've got to do better than that, or
you'll just wind up back in jail. Maybe I won't be able to get you out next
time. How was it in there?" 

 Blaine bites back a sharp answer. Todd is goading
him, trying to make him see the error of his ways. Putting the puppy's nose to
the shit. He slumps over in the corner, staring out the window as they drive.  

 When they hit the house, he strips off his
clothes in the back yard and goes in to take the longest, hottest shower in recent
memory. The odors do not seem to want to come off him. Finally, he is satisfied
with that, and brushes his teeth for the first time in two days. He thinks back
to how being stripped of freedom felt, and wonders how Renee is feeling right
now. Closes his eyes and prays to God: whoever, wherever, and whatever she is,
that Renee is still feeling something. Opens them back up and looks in the
mirror for a second. He doesn't look any wiser or much different. If I don't
get her back, he thinks, things will just go on. If I die trying things will
just go on. If I spend the rest of my life in prison, people will remember me
for a while then I will fade from their minds like I never was there. When
those I have touched are gone, finally, then nobody will remember me. That is
just the way it is.   

They had taken it public. The story is all over the
Galveston paper the next morning, with "Have you seen this woman?"
and a photo of Renee. Probably some asses are being chewed in the Galveston
Police Department. Blaine's arrest is being treated as a separate item, no link
to Renee mentioned, just a few lines in Police Beat. Pressure from some of
Sketch's friends? Blaine wonders. Or just everybody keeping it low-key, since
there is no solid connection as far as the press knows. 

 Probably not a whole lot of curiosity about why
an out-of-work, occasional plant worker is found inside some rich guy's house,
unless you happened to know Blaine. Although his relationship as Renee's
boyfriend is not mentioned in the article, it wouldn't be long before somebody
on the paper or AP or whatever, dug that out. Erratic behavior of ex would be
the next big bombshell, along with the inevitable hue and cry that Blaine had
Renee hidden somewhere. Somebody would remember them arguing at the bar or
somewhere else in the distant past. They had certainly had several public
arguments. Then it would be prime suspect attacks solid citizen at home in
jealous rage or something similar. He is running out of time. 

 He thinks about his coming trial for the charges
they had wound up throwing at him. Just another reason to find Renee besides
the obvious. If he finds her and it is Sketch that has her, all that stuff will
go away. He doesn't know about the technicalities, but that is just common
sense. 

 If he doesn't find her, he is going to spend some
time in prison, most likely. 

 But forget all that and focus on finding her.
That is what he needs to do.   

 He is cleaning the other .22 at the dining table
when Todd comes in. His brother does a little double-take at the sight of the
pistol. "You had another one stashed," he says, shaking his head.
"You know, I'm getting tired of going down to the jail to get you
out." 

 "I don't know why," Blaine says.
"You're starting to get the procedure down." 

 Todd grins, but it's definitely not wholehearted.
"Okay. So what are you up to now?" 

 "We need to find out what properties Sketch
owns. That would give us some idea where else to look." 

 "You know the cops are doing that." 

 "I hope they are. With Sketch's friends and
my arrest we don't really know." 

 "So look in the county tax records,"
Todd says. "Whatever he owns ought to be listed there." 

 "Did that," Blaine says. "I found
the house. That was it. Not all the properties I would expect if Sketch is
really this big-time wheeler-dealer." 

 "Probably got some corporate name or
something," Todd says. "None of these guys keep all that stuff in
their own names. The tax laws make them go corporate." 

 "You're probably right." 

 "Why don't you call Haney? He's into us for
the case anyway. Maybe his girl at the office can run it down for us." 

 Blaine shrugs. Why not? And in a minute he is on
the line with Haney, and Haney tells him he will have his researcher Marge give
it a shot. He lets Blaine know it will cost him. 

 "Add it to my bill," Blaine says.
"I do need it as quick as I can get it." 

 Haney pauses, promises they'll work on it and
hangs up. He is a good old guy. Blaine and Todd have known him for years, since
school. Lawyers see it all, but Blaine can tell at least he doesn't believe he
has turned into some kind of small-time crook. He closes his eyes thinking
about Renee. It is odd. The world is turning, everything rolling along like
normal, and his girl is in the hands of a psychopath. He doesn't see what else
he can do right now. He can't hook up on Sketch again, the cops are on him.
That wouldn't stop him if he thought it would do some good, but he doubts
Sketch is going anywhere near where she is stashed with all this heat. That's
the good news. Maybe. He prays again she has food and water, enough to survive.
He thinks for a second again about the possibility she is already dead, and
shakes his head. He just doesn't believe it, but the thought won't go away.   

 Sometimes he forgets the entire situation for
just a minute, and things seem normal, then it all comes flooding back.   

 He doesn't know how long it takes to dig up that type
of information on someone. He is thinking that in the computer age, if you know
what you're doing, it shouldn't take long. He decides to go see if Doug is out
at Dandylions while he waits. This whole deal with Mandy has been sticking in
his craw. If what he suspects is true and Dougie is responsible, he can't just
stand by and let her go down the drain. Maybe it's not any of his business, but
he can't do much useful about Renee just this minute. He doesn't want to save
the rest of the world, just a little part of it. Besides, he had never talked
to Doug about Sketch. Maybe he had seen something that night, though that is
doubtful.