Lady Jail

by John Farrow

  ‘Constable, I’m a detective, so trust me on this: I have a very strong suspicion there’s more where this came from. Dig in!’

  The first slices were all but inhaled, and they slowed down only as they started on their second pieces.

  ‘Who was talking?’ Cinq-Mars inquired.

  ‘I won’t say. Tell you this. A chief inspector, an inspector, two captains and a lieutenant, all in on it. That’s a lot of weight out here in the boonies. I’ll keep their names to myself.’

  ‘Fair enough. Quite the rogues’ gallery. How did you happen to listen in?’

  ‘They knew I was in the room. Furniture, to them. Probably they didn’t think I had a clue.’

  In which case, what he had to say could not be all that incriminating.

  ‘I guess they don’t know I met you,’ Dubroc added.

  ‘How does that matter?’

  ‘They were talking about you, Sergeant-Detective.’

  His news might be of interest after all. ‘Me, huh? And?’

  ‘They want your ass in a sling.’

  Cinq-Mars nodded gravely again. He could always take the high road in any internal battle among cops, but that position assumed a fair fight. An assumption he could never count on.

  ‘How did they word it exactly?’

  ‘“Take him down.”’

  ‘That’s plain enough. And the man talking had the rank of—’

  ‘Chief Inspector.’

  Weight.

  ‘Something about money and a woman in jail,’ Dubroc continued. ‘Not clear to me, that part.’

  ‘I can guess. Any plan on how to take me down?’

  ‘They seemed to know. Nothing was said about that.’

  The two men finished their slices and each helped themselves to another. Cinq-Mars had forgotten to bring anything to drink, so went into his room and returned with two cans of Coke. They swilled them down quickly.

  ‘I’m not sure what I can do with it but thank you for the tip.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’ll keep the source to myself. One thing, if I may.’ Cinq-Mars had to be careful how he broached his query. After Dubroc had put himself out and taken a risk, he didn’t want to imply that he didn’t trust him, even though he didn’t, not fully.

  ‘What’s that?’ Dubroc asked.

  ‘Why are you telling me this? I asked for your help, but you have no loyalty to me. Going against your superiors, as you said, that’s a tough nut.’

  The way Dubroc rocked his head to one side suggested to Cinq-Mars that the man was comfortable with the question and with his reply. ‘Another name came up. One of the captains mentioned it.’

  ‘A name.’

  ‘Yeah. One of our own. The captain mentioned that this other guy was around. “In the neighborhood,” how he put it.’

  ‘OK. And?’

  ‘No matter what, this other captain could never find out that they talked about you. Almost like they swore to never let that slip.’

  ‘This other captain, does he have a name?’

  ‘That’s the thing. I’ve worked under him. I know he’s a good one. If these other guys are telling me that the captain is on your side, and you on his, then maybe that’s the side I want to be on, too.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Captain Borde.’

  Cinq-Mars nodded again, more positively this time. ‘Gabriel Borde. Good friend of mine. And a damn good cop. He’s honorable. For the record, Constable, I now know that you are, too.’

  TEMPLE

  i

  Cinq-Mars was reviewing Temple’s rap sheet as the woman was brought in and shoved down in the seat across from him. Neither spoke a word for over a minute and when he looked up, she was wearing a venomous scowl. ‘Something on your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Speaking only for myself, I’d love to pull it right out your nose. Just saying.’

  He stared back at her and waited. Then said, ‘I’ll regret the question, but what are you talking about?’

  ‘The rebar. The one I stick up your rump. Pull it out your left nostril. I’d love to do that.’

  ‘Respectful,’ the guard inside the door forewarned.

  ‘Fuck that kind of shit,’ Temple fired back.

  ‘Language.’

  ‘What’s the matter? You don’t understand English?’

  ‘You’re in a mood,’ Cinq-Mars noted.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Man, it’s a skinny bar. You can take it. You’ll probably enjoy it. Your nose is big enough. It’s not like I’m ramming a Douglas fir up your butt.’ She leaned over the table to whisper, ‘I’d like to do that, too.’

  ‘It’s an image,’ Cinq-Mars responded. ‘Like they say, it’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  The guard at the door made a move but Cinq-Mars raised his hand. ‘I got this.’

  ‘You think? You got fuck all,’ Temple disagreed. ‘Fucking big man, Mr Man, the Man, pushing the kids around, Mr Tough Guy. You think you intimidate me? Bull-fucking-shit in a bottle. You don’t know your dick from your backdoor snatch. You don’t know who you’re talking to. Ever had cigarette butts snuffed out on your feet? Ever had your toes crushed? Let me introduce you to the pleasure. That reminds me, you got a smoke or what?’

  ‘I don’t. If Abigail said so, she was leading you on.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. Don’t even try.’

  ‘I have nothing to say. I ask questions. You answer. That’s how this works.’

  ‘Fuck you and fuck your fucking questions anyhow. Fuck!’

  ‘Language!’ The voice from the door, strident this time.

  ‘You’re in a mood, I’ll give you that,’ Cinq-Mars said.

  ‘Save it.’ Tall and built with solidity, Temple looked as though she could knock an army tank on its side with one swipe. ‘You get to give me nothing. Pushing our young ones around, who do you think you are? I’m not afraid of you.’

  ‘Is that your thing? You defend the kids?’

  ‘Why not? Somebody should do that.’

  ‘Did you defend them against Flo?’

  ‘You have big teeth. I’d like to floss them with a crowbar.’

  ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Done? I just got out of solitary! This is what happens. I get to rant against the machine, and you’re the fucking machine.’

  The guard warned, ‘More solitary coming if you don’t behave.’

  ‘You guys are a broke record. Solitary solitary solitary. Skip skip skip. Fix your needle. Do you know what I do down in solo, Cinq-Mars? Why I love it? Send me down, I don’t give a shit. Why do I love solitary, you think?’

  ‘Like I said, I ask, you answer.’

  ‘Hurry it up, then. You haven’t asked a fucking thing. Let me paint you another image. They say you should never touch yourself in solo. You start, you won’t stop. I say, bring it on. You can’t make out with yourself living in a fucking group. Solitary is my one good shot. I let my fingers do the walking. Can you picture it?’

  ‘Temple, did you kill Flo?’

  ‘What? What the fuck is that?’

  ‘A question. I expect an answer.’

  ‘You can’t push me around, Mr Man. Picture it. Me in solitary. Take that home with you tonight when you’re dancing with your blow-up sweetheart. Did you bring your favorite dolly on this road trip? Describe her, your blow-up baby. I bet she’s a blondie. Real hair below? I’ll get off on the image back in solo, of you fucking your blow-up plastic blondie.’

  ‘Did you? Kill Flo?’

  ‘I told you, Cinq-Mars,’ she said slowly. ‘You cannot intimidate me with that shit! Maybe it works with the kiddies, but you’re talking to a roadhouse motherfucking babe right now, don’t you even know?’

  He rocked his head slightly. ‘I’ve read your file, Temple. I know what you’ve accomplished in life. Running guns is major dirt for a loser like you. No doubt about it. You don’t care who dies because of you. Yet you’re in here defending the kids. In the yard
fight, you jumped in to defend Abi. What a gal. What a big heart you have. You’re everybody’s heroine except we both know you’re not.’

  She was glad to get a rise out of him, to provoke him into being combative. It’s what she wanted. It’s how she’d win the confrontation, by turning it into a shouting match, a contest of recriminations and bile. She’d shout her lungs out, give voice to her spleen. His last comment though effectively turned her sideways in her chair. ‘What you say?’

  ‘The defender of the meek and mild. Yeah, I’m the bad guy. You won’t be shoved around. Not you. But the others, the ones you’re fighting for so valiantly, what do they say? Who do they say killed Flo? Who gets a pass for that? You? Do they say, oh, Temple didn’t do it, no way. Leave her out of it. Or do they say, it had to be one of the bigger women, such as Temple – and name you first – or maybe Malka or Rozlynn? How many of them give you a free pass? If your answer starts out at none, you’d be very hot. Right on the button, I’d say.’

  He should know. He’d been the one talking to the others. What he said made sense. If someone was conjuring who to accuse, her name was likely to pop to mind. She hadn’t thought in those terms before. Never considered that the very ones she defended might turn on her when pressed.

  All that sifted through her synapses in the stillness of the room. Cinq-Mars let her mull things over. Then she asked, ‘How come you waited to talk to me? You could have taken me out of solitary. You should’ve. Never mind my walking fingers. I would not have minded that.’

  Cinq-Mars flexed his shoulders as though they’d stiffened on him. ‘Temple, it’s not as though you or the others are ordinary citizens standing around on a street corner. You were in a confined space and knew all the players. Time can go by, but you won’t forget a thing about that day. I’m in no rush.’

  She took that in. ‘Do I draw one of them maps or what?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘We can go there. Before we do, tell me about your life in the Hells. In particular, tell me who you were working for running guns. Temple, come clean honestly, or you’ll get more time than you need to explore your sexuality down in the hold all alone. If you think I’m trying to intimidate you, I apologize for that. I’m sorry. It’s just the way things go.’

  ii

  She had on a big old straw hat with a rounded tall peak that she adored. A little frayed around the edges. Coming up to the border sometimes she stuck a strand of straw in her mouth. Played the hick card, as she called it. The black gal who lived on the American side, worked on a farm on the Canadian side. A corn field. That sections were devoted to marijuana crops she kept to herself; as far as anybody needed to know she was a working girl, black, living on starvation wages who came across the border on a regular basis. Used to be she was checked. When the guards on both sides got to know her and stopped checking, exchanging pleasantries only and flirting with her a little, men and women both, she kept up her end. She was pleasant, she was flirty. The bales of hay in the rear were present sometimes, then absent, more on some days, then fewer. On occasion she stuffed high caliber rifles, pistols, rapid-fire weapons in the hay, then on weekends rode with her biker buddies, her pockets flush with cash.

  She lived the life.

  Any day out of prison was a helluva good day.

  The irony, her deepest trouble came from going straight, although she always kept rough company. Originally, she’d been a mule out of the Caribbean into American ports of call. Nasty drugs, mostly carried internally. Enough money to mean something for a young girl escaping abject poverty in D.C. The back and forth gave her knowledge, and she had a brain to augment the revelations. She saw how things worked, how things moved, how to get ahead in the game. That she was a large, thick woman had advantages. She didn’t receive vile advances often, and when she did she could slam the man against a wall until he backed off. In the meantime, success bred contempt for the process, and she had an urge to settle down, settle in, go legit.

  Friends brought her up to Canada. There, she answered a request for farm labor, and took to it, baling hay with the best of the men, threatening to choke the guy with the racist remark. A night of trouble gave her a taste of prison. It felt sour. She made a friend there and, on the street again, she rode with her new biker pals. They had a thing against black, racism was built into the Hells Angels creed, except there was this one dude who had an interest. He was attracted. As they were out in the countryside and she was ‘only’ a woman, the gang let it go. They let her be and the biker, too. She was nothing more than a road moll, after all, and then a roadhouse agent in a strip club where she took care of the girls who had trouble with the rules, usually due to being bent on cocaine. But she was legit. Clean as a whistle, job-wise.

  The bikers in the area roamed the countryside coercing legitimate farmers into leasing fields for marijuana growth. The farmers could agree and turn a nice profit or have their homes torched while their children slept, their choice. A few had their knees busted by baseball bats to coax a prompt decision. She overheard talk in the strip club. Guns needed importing. Their chapter was asked to figure out a solution, since they rode down by the border. Temple had an idea. She remembered her pleasant days on the farm. All she needed was an old flatbed Ford and a straw hat and an apparent job on a Canadian farm. She was still an American citizen, still carried her passport.

  That all worked out. Until it didn’t.

  The judge didn’t take kindly to a black lady running guns for the mob. Nobody said it but she could tell: gender and race caused her sentence to expand.

  iii

  She wound down after her intemperate start. Cinq-Mars saw a different side of her. He let the conversation wander, content to have her settle into herself and grow accustomed to his proximity. As was true with the others, to be in a different space was a pleasant shift to dull routine, and to be in the company of a man, for nothing more than its novelty, pleased her. Mainly, she enjoyed reminiscing about the old days. He began to nudge her away from personal stories to matters at hand, although she resisted when she discerned his intention.

  ‘I could tell you some things,’ she intimated.

  ‘Please do.’

  She considered if she should. Cinq-Mars assumed that after opening a door, she was not inclined to shut it. He suspected that she had a reason, which she might divulge in due course. She whispered, ‘I hear the guard gets to walk out of the room.’

  Now would be a good time for that. Cinq-Mars nodded, and they were left alone.

  ‘War,’ she said. ‘One’s coming on hard.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Don’t ask me about methods.’

  ‘Methods?’ He was already asking.

  ‘Messages came through. For me. Don’t ask how. People are consulting me about weapons. Believe that? Mostly about what’s a fair price. But more important stuff, too.’

  ‘Like what?’ Cinq-Mars probed.

  ‘Sources for ammunition. Heavy weapons. What I don’t know about that shit nobody does. The way the times are, I can be useful.’

  ‘What’s being planned, Temple?’

  ‘Told you. War.’

  ‘Internecine?’

  She scrunched up her face. ‘What the hell does that word mean?’

  ‘Biker against biker. Or is it biker against what you call the machine?’

  ‘The first thing. What did you call it? Your fancy word?’

  ‘Internecine.’

  ‘There’s been disputes, big time, on the inside. If that means internecine, that’s what it is. I’m guessing some mean stuff got out of hand. The Angels want their monopoly, you know, they want it intact. Everybody in the drug world has to go through the Angels, and that includes the other biker gangs spread across the countryside, not just in the city. Some been grouping together. Right now, some call themselves the Alliance, some the Rock Machine. A vote’s coming. Then a name. My money’s on the Rock Machine for the name. Then boys will be boys.’

  ‘What does that mean?’
/>
  ‘The fighting and killing starts.’

  Cinq-Mars breathed in deeply. ‘You’re convinced there’ll be a war? No way to stop it?’

  ‘Folks been gearing up. I mean, what the fuck, they’re consulting me about ammunition! That gives you an idea. The Hells Angels have their own experts, normally the other gangs work through them. But the Alliance – or maybe it’s the Rock Machine by now, what do I know, me on the inside – they’re trying to put together their own supply chain. That’s where I come in. That tells me one thing and one thing only. War is fucking inevitable.’

  Cinq-Mars gazed at her as he processed the information. ‘That’s a big word,’ he said. ‘Inevitable.’

  ‘I know a few. We’re talking about a hundred or more.’

  ‘Words?’

  ‘No, asshole. Deaths. The body count. People figure it might go high.’

  Cinq-Mars sensed a leakage in his stomach lining. Battles had occurred in the past, but the bikers were always able to keep a lid on things. They policed their violence to keep it controlled and, in their minds, justified. This sounded as though the lids were close to being removed.

  ‘You realize, Temple, that you have implicated yourself today. Flo was gang. It’s on her sheet. And on yours. You’re gang, too, and you’ve just indicated that that’s ongoing. Probably perpetual. Interconnected chapters, maybe not the same gang exactly, but ultimately the same headman. Do I have that right? But now you’re on a different side.’

  ‘About the size of it. So I’m not the Easter Bunny. How does that implicate me about anything?’ She had a look on her face similar to an angelic cherub.

  ‘You’ve indicated to me today that you still have contact. You remain on the pipeline. Flo attacked someone in your chapter, with acid, do I have that right?’

  ‘You don’t. Another chapter. Third party, let’s say.’

  ‘Still, bikers make it a habit to stick together. Gives you motive to kill Flo. Or, if it’s not your motive, someone on the outside has motive, someone aware of your proximity to Flo. Someone who saw opportunity in that, then convinced or coerced you to do it.’