“So, what? You’re not talking to me anymore?” asked Gina.
“I’ve been sick. I’m sorry.” Connie started up the staircase, but fatigue made her turn and sit on the steps. Then came the tears.
“That prick,” said Gina under her breath. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Gina can make it better.”
She kneeled in front of Connie, trying to get her to look up. But no luck. Just the sight of Gina brought it all back. To look at her would let loose a tumult. And if it came, Connie was sure there’d be no return. The best she could do was to shake her head no.
“Is it Mitch?”
Of course not! It’s that rapist you brought into my house!
“C’mon, girlfriend,” pressed Gina. “You can tell me.”
Connie bit her lip and nodded, hoping that Gina would simply drop it. But that’s just what started it.
Gina was back on her feet. “That fucker!”
“Please, G,” begged Connie. She’d misled her with the nod, but now was time to reel her back in. “It’s not that bad.”
“Is he making you cry?”
More leakage. Connie tried to cover her mistake. “Leave it alone, please. He’s my husband.”
“He’s killing you. Don’t you see that?”
Shakespeare McCann killed me. I’m the walking dead. Can’t you see, you dumb bitch?
“Go away, Gina. Please.”
“You need me.”
“Get out!”
Gina gave her a long look, got the message, picked up her bag, and charged out to her car. The tires spit gravel as she peeled out of the driveway.
Alone again. The way Connie wanted it.
Gina fumed. She was angry at Connie, but most of all, at Mitch Dutton. He was the reason for all of this shit. From the easy comfort of her air-conditioned Mercedes, she dialed information and got the McCann of the People campaign office. She memorized the seven digits in her head, redialed without having to take her eyes off the road, and after a brief tangle with a campaign volunteer, was put through to Shakespeare.
“I know that Gina’s sweet, but does she have something more than sugar for her daddy?” spun that folksy voice.
“You gotta date me to find out,” she teased back.
For the inmates at El Rincón, the second heat wave was just one more form of punishment. Surviving the staleness of each morning was routine for the prisoners, and the ocean breezes were the closest thing they had to air conditioning. As the sun rose high and the temperatures escalated past ninety, somewhere north of two o’clock, in would come the breezes, and the sea air would lift spirits over those old stone walls. But in those latter days of August, as flags hung limp against their poles, the boys at the Point were ready to riot. The stink was high. The joint reeked of contraband smoke and glue smuggled from the wood and metal shops. Anything to beat the heat. A con would rather fry his brain on paint thinner than sweat over the crimes of his past.
Shoop spent much of the time trying to keep his mind clear. Despite the scorched air that reminded him of cooking over hot griddles in back-bayou kitchens, Shoop was two days from the decision. He wanted to stay focused. He wanted to hear it straight when the news came.
With Mitch stumping, Alex Bernardi kept in close touch, shuttling information to Shoop and leaving voicemail messages in the Dutton campaign office.
Shoop was warned that there would be no news until there was an actual decision. But appeals judges have staffs. And staffs talk. The word getting back to Alex Bernardi was very positive. The legal aides had been impressed by the writ, the use of the new Louisiana gun law, and perhaps the signature of the presenting attorney and congressional front-runner, Mitch Dutton. He was news. He was running for office. And taking such an unpopular stand in Texas during an election, well, that showed balls and a conviction to the writ It just might impress the justices along with saving Shoop’s life.
Ever hopeful, Snoop prayed and, for the first time in five years, felt a lightness that was a far cry from the rage of the night he killed his wife and her lover. That rage had left the deadly weight of conscience upon him. After the crime, he had wanted to kill himself. Put the gun in his mouth and have it done with. But the rage had been supplanted by a sudden apprehension. He cursed the fear. It was what made every passing day that brought him closer to his legally sanctioned end a living nightmare.
When he wasn’t afraid of the end, he was dreaming about it The frigid stainless steel tabletop upon which he’d be Velcro-strapped. The intravenous drip line, needled into a vein, throbbing helplessly from a heart that did not want to die. Then would come the lethal injection and, afterward, the hell described by his mother. A hot iron to his forehead that would brand upon him the mark of Cain, followed by the eternal torment of his burning flesh.
Just two more days.
The inmates prayed that day would hurry into night and cool their restless souls. Shoop requested to shower early and asked the duty guards if he might return naked and wet to his cell. That way the moisture on his skin would act like a coolant Hold him off until night came. The guards granted the wish, and Snoop thanked them for their mercy and grace.
Night fell, and along with it the temperature. Ten degrees. Enough to take the stink off the place. The meal that night was more putrefied grease, and Shoop refused to eat it. He’d rather starve. Fifteen minutes short of lights out Tyler arrived and wasn’t at all surprised to find the tray of food uneaten.
“Got somethin’ for ya, Shoop.”
He thought he was dreaming. The smell had hit him so hard, he thought it had to have been a subconscious concoction of peppers and cayenne.
“C’mon, ya dumb Creole. Meal’s on.”
Bolting upright on his bunk, Shoop sensed the dream wasn’t real. Eyes open, he saw Tyler, big Louisiana grin on his face, sliding a steaming tray through the slot His nose prickled.
“Can’ be!”
“Sure is,” confirmed Tyler. “Takeout all the way from Loo-siana.”
Shoop knelt at the tray, hands to his chest in amazement. There was a cup of buttery tomato bisque with baby crawdads, jambalaya, mashed potatoes with Hot Fanny sauce, and a fish and rice gumbo. He broke a sweat just looking at the tray.
“How you get dis?”
“Came in dry ice and a Styrofoam box marked Shoop de Jarnot. Return address said it was from Molly’s.”
“In dah quarter?”
“Only Molly’s I ever heard of,” said Tyler. “I had the boys in the kitchen nuke it. Oh, and there was a note.” Tyler pulled a slip of paper out of his breast pocket, the one just above his name tag, and unfolded it. “Want me to read it?”
“Please.” Shoop lifted the tray to his bunk, holding his head over the steamy spices and sucking back the smells of home.
“It’s from Mitch Dutton,” lied Tyler. “Says, ‘Looking good. Got my fingers crossed. You do me same. And in two days you’ll be on a bus back home.’” He folded the note and stuck it back in his pocket. “Ya know, I don’t think it’s his writin’, though. Look like a woman’s. Maybe Molly, ya think?”
“Ah think ah god dah bes’ lawyuh in dah whole worl’!”
“Well, eat up before it gets cold.”
“You wan’ some?” Shoop offered his first spoonful of gumbo to the messenger.
“Sorry, man. Too spicy. My stomach can’t handle it. Why do you think I moved west? Cuz the food was milder.”
“No Mexican food?”
“Now, that’s somethin’ else. I like them chips and margaritas.” Tyler picked up the uneaten prison meal. “Enjoy, brother. I’ll come back in a while to get the leftovers.”
“Won’ be none!” Shoop smiled.
He made the meal last well beyond lights out. By then, he was eating by smell alone. But that was the Creole style. His nose told him which dish he would sample next The jambalaya. Yes!
It was practically pitch-dark when he got to the dessert Bread pudding. And when it was all gone, he licked the tray until all there was lef
t to taste was stainless steel.
Naked and still, Shoop lay stretched out across his bunk, the water from his shower replaced by beads of spiceinduced sweat. He was hot on the inside. Cool on the outside. His mind, though, was clear enough. Thinking that tomorrow would make it only one day until the decision. And though the day might be the longest of his life, it would be only a day. One day. A rising and setting of the sun. Then he would be going home. The sudden burst of optimism led his mind drifting. Then came the dreamy Seconal sleep.
First there were the guards who opened his cell door, leading Shoop naked through the prison. Alex Bemardi was there to give a warm smile and shake the prisoner’s hand, as were the warden and the judge who presided over the first trial. Shoop was handed a telephone. He could hear Mitch at the other end. It was his voice, all right. But the words were strange. Another language? Angry. Some kind of warning. Shoop found himself congratulating him on a successful election, certain that had something to do with this sudden pardon.
Shoop’s sleep was deeper, still.
He was to be set free without consequence. Naked and dripping wet from one last shower, he was led to a double set of tall, riveted doors. A bolt was thrown and the doors swung outward onto a bayou of placid water and tall, lingering trees. A breeze touched his face. He was home. It smelled of boiled shrimp and spices. All he had to do was follow his nose. Just as he ‘d done with that special meal. He sniffed at the air, which had suddenly turned hot and burned his nostrils. Through his mouth he inhaled, scorching his lungs. He gasped. Held his breath. Then turned back toward the prison. Only he was no longer in the bayou. He was on the shiny table. Guards Velcroed his arms and legs. A nurse jammed a dirty needle into Shoop’s vein. Blood issued in a brief geyser, then came the TV drip connected to the lethal injection machine. The archaic-appearing device sputtered and smoked and smelled of Creole spices.
There was a gallery to watch. From behind splintered glass sat Mitch, Shakespeare McCann, his mother, his dead wife, her murdered lover, and Tyler, who was wearing street clothes instead of his usual guard’s uniform.
The warden said, “Ready?”
Shoop couldn’t speak. Velcro was strapped across his mouth.
As the dream faded, Shoop could hear the applause.
Shoop de Jarnot never woke up. He was found dead on the floor of his cell, curled in a fetal ball around the empty dinner tray. His eyes wide open. His mouth open as if in a wretched gasp.
ELEVEN
SOMK DATE, complained Shakespeare to himself. The bitch was too damn easy. He’d picked her up in a car borrowed from a willing McCann of the People volunteer. And there she was, waiting for him at the predetermined place and time: 10:45 p.m. Standing on a Strand street corner like some twenty-five-dollar prostitute, Gina tongue-kissed the candidate hello just to get a rise out of him, then suggested one of the local no-tell motels down on the coastal route. In what was nothing more than a twisted coincidence, the sleazy flophouse was less than a mile down the strip from the same dive where Shoop de Jarnot had finally caught up with his wife and her lover.
As Gina paid for the room, Shakespeare stayed in the car, keeping his baseball hat brim low on his forehead and an eye out for anyone who might recognize a Republican candidate on the prowl. Teasing and trashy, she finally stepped from the motel office, jangled the room key, and gestured at her date to follow. He tracked from the car, parking at the farthest outpost from the office. The door was wide open when he got to the room: 211. Gina was already on the bed with her shirt unbuttoned and her surgically enhanced breasts looking as if they were about to burst from a black satin bra.
“Like ‘em?” she said. “Right off the showroom floor. And I’m not talkin’ none of that Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader stuff. These are Beverly Hills, bought and paid for.”
“How’d someone with your kind of money end up so cheap?” he asked. Not that he cared a whit. He was just making polite conversation, if talking tits was polite.
“Practice,” she giggled. “Takes a lotta cash to make me look this cheap.”
“I don’t get it. You and Connie Dutton.”
“Class and Trash. That’s what they called us in school.”
“College girls?”
“Sorority sisters,” she corrected. “I Felta Thigh.” Then she fell over on the bed laughing at herself.
“You got something for me?”
Gina dried her eyes. “Maybe.”
“Don’t fuck with me, sister.” And when Shakespeare went to his belt, it wasn’t to take off his pants. He slid the thin strip of brown leather away and wrapped it around his knuckles. He was in no mood to be teased.
Gina called his bluff. This wasn’t the first cowboy with a handful of leather she’d faced. “What’re you gonna do? Spank me?”
“Haven’t decided yet. It depends on what you got.”
“Let’s get one thing clear, Mr. Candidate. We’re both on the same side. We both wanna see Mitch Dutton crash and burn.”
“Talk is cheap and my time is getting shorter,” he said, easing closer to the bed. “So give it up.”
Suddenly she noticed there wasn’t a single crease in his face. It was a blank slate, ready to be chalked with pleasure or hate. Utterly without expression. Just waiting for her answer. She teased once more. “What do I get?”
“A big kiss from your new congressman.”
“Is that alllll?”
“You want some political pork? Is that it?”
“Wasn’t so bad the last time.”
What last time? thought Shakespeare. She was out cold on that little blue bombshell. “I’m waiting.”
Gina’s lips drew back into a wide grin. Oh, she had something, all right. Something she was sure and willing to tell the world. On TV even. An eyewitness account, sure to screw Mitch in the biggest, baddest way. Even if it was a lie.
“The gentleman from Texas recognizes the lady with the new, improved titties.” He smiled. His grin was infectious. The promise of things to come.
“Okay,” she said, sitting up and crossing her legs. Those Beverly Hills miracles of plastic surgery heaving one more time before she let loose with the goods. “Mitch and I had an affair.” But the smile on Shakespeare disappeared back into that creaseless face. She shifted uncomfortably, drew back her arms and arched her back so that her breasts jutted even further, as if they were proof enough. “And Connie doesn’t even know.”
“You lyin’?” he asked.
She shook her head. But her eyes briefly darted away with her answer. A telltale sign of a liar. “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”
It was an awful mistake, Gina’s lying. Shakespeare let loose with that leathered fist right across her forehead. The impact sent her tumbling clear off the bed, finding herself ass-first on the floor. She was stunned, dazed, and stupid to show her anger. “You cocksucker—”
He already was upon her, grasping a fistful of her hair. He yanked her back to her feet and dumped her onto the bedspread. She crawled, but still he wouldn’t let go.
“Please…” she pleaded, trying to sell the lie with her own pain. “Mitch and I really had an affair.”
“Sure you did. And the wife didn’t know?”
“I swear she doesn’t.”
“You bet your ass she doesn’t. That’s ‘cause it never happened.”
“I’ll swear to it. I’ll go on TV.”
“Yeah, sure you will. Yessiree-bob! You and your new titties.” Shakespeare let go of her hair and pushed her backward as if to get a better look at her. “You know what Mitch Dutton is?”
She was scared to answer. She just tried to catch her breath.
“Okay, I’ll tell ya since you didn’t ask,” he continued. “He’s a Goddamn elitist. Know what that is, college girl? Means he thinks his shit smells like birthday cake. And most of all, he don’t like to get his hands dirty. Now, you think a fellah with that kind of bead on himself gonna dip in some trailer trash with a fat bank account?”
; “Okay. So he wouldn’t,” said Gina, trying to turn the insult around. “But you would.”
“You got no idea, sister,” he seethed. “Pick up the phone!”
“It’s not ringing.”
“Pick up the fuckin’ phone and dial him! Call fuckin’ Dutton right now!” Shakespeare picked up the phone and threw it at her. She jumped in fear, but eventually dialed. The simple task finished, he snatched the handset from her.
The phone rang and woke Mitch. He found himself sitting up in bed with the light on and glasses askew on his face. There was homework on his lap. Debate homework. He was preparing for the as-yet-unscheduled public forum with McCann. As election day drew closer, there would be less time to prepare. Meanwhile, Connie mumbled from her sleep, “Are you gonna get that?”
He caught the phone on the fourth ring, cleared his throat, and answered. “Hello.”
“How’s the wife?” asked the voice.
“She’s fine,” he found himself saying automatically. That was before he realized he was talking to Shakespeare McCann.
“Got a question for ya, Counselor,” continued Shakespeare from that dirty motel room, Gina curled up at the headboard with a pillow scrunched in her arms. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re against the death penalty. That right?”
Mitch gathered his wits, pausing briefly before his answer. “I thought we’d wait for a more public forum before we debate. Are you calling to confirm?”
“Off the record, Counselor. Are you or aren’t you?”
“Off the record, I think you’re a twisted SOB.”
“How about on the record? I’ll tell you where I stand,” said the undaunted Shakespeare, giving a wink to Gina. “Myself? I believe in the death penalty. Eye for an eye’s what the Good Book says. For example, that Creole they got locked up in El Rincón. The one you wanna send back to Loooo-siana?”
Mitch turned away from Connie, fearing he’d disturb her. Lowering his voice. “What about him?”
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