“What day?”
“Thursday or Friday.”
“And you’ll just help me—you don’t want to come?”
“I have an appeal that may release me. I can’t risk it now. But you, facing what?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“As a young man you need to be outside. Sow your oats.”
“Never worked no farm.”
“Then perhaps an education. Look what a good education has done for me.” He spread his arms and looked around at the large, smelly dorm. Then he realized Leroy Baxter didn’t really appreciate sarcasm.
Tasker drove through the south end of West Palm Beach, cutting down some streets between Olive Avenue and Flagler Drive on the intracoastal waterway. He liked seeing the houses he had known as a kid. He’d been inside dozens of them, from the old Moore house on Palmetto to the Hutcheon house on Ellamar. He thought about the loud Hutcheon kids and smiled. One of them even worked for FDLE now.
He turned west on Southern Boulevard, in front of the ornate Greek Orthodox church, knowing he had a long ride out to Gladesville about seven miles past Belle Glade. From the intersection of Flagler and Southern, he could see the old Post mansion, which had been turned into a club by Donald Trump. Trump called the club Mara Lago, which had been the mansion’s name when Tasker was growing up. He’d never been past the entrance, which used to have thorny plants and glass glued on the top of the walls, but he didn’t like Trump coming in and turning it into a club. Maybe it was his general distrust and dislike of developers. He had a hard time accepting change in the town where he grew up.
After fifteen minutes on Southern Boulevard, he passed Lion Country Safari, then he hit the rural farming area west of Loxahatchee and the start of the massive sugarcane fields. There was no way to get lost even though he wouldn’t have minded delaying his arrival. It was one road with few turnoffs and miles and miles of cane fields on either side of what had become State Road 80.
The open road, void of vehicles, encouraged him to ease his state-issued Monte Carlo up over eighty, then a little bit faster. The well-sealed, newer car was one of the nicest vehicles he had been assigned over the years. Due to the amount of surveillance they were asked to do, most FDLE agents had cars that blended in with traffic. Fords and mid-level GMs like the Monte Carlo were the most common FDLE cars, with a new group of pickup trucks being moved into the fleet. Most of the supervisors had Ford Crown Victorias, which were often used when agents were assigned to protect the governor or some other dignitary.
The car hummed along as Tasker let his mind wander. He wasn’t in a particular hurry, but he had already seen enough cane fields and straight roads to last awhile. He cranked up the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up,” then fell into a comfortable zone where the occasional images of dead bank managers and robbers from Homestead didn’t seem likely to pop into his head. He was so comfortable he didn’t notice the Florida Highway Patrol trooper racing up behind him until the blue lights filled his rearview mirror.
“Oh shit,” Tasker muttered, shocked he could have been so unobservant. He pulled the car onto the rough shoulder of State Road 80 with a field of swaying sugarcane starting twenty feet away. He sat motionless with his hands on the wheel and watched the tall trooper with a wash-and-wear haircut slowly ease out of his brown-and-tan Crown Vic. The guy already had his metal ticket book in his hand and he didn’t look like a friendly public servant.
Tasker hit the power window and looked over his shoulder, smiling up at the trooper, who looked like an older Boy Scout or a Wendy’s manager.
The trooper just stared down at him for a moment, then said, “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
Tasker realized the trooper had no clue he was a cop. He figured once the guy found out it would be old home week and he’d be on his way. Possibly with a marked, trooper escort.
“No, sir. I know I was speeding, though.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I was surprised anyone could catch up to me.” He looked up and smiled, thinking the trooper would appreciate his sharp sense of humor.
“License and registration.”
Guess not. “Look, Trooper”—Tasker looked up at his name tag—“Miko. I was just joking.”
The trooper cut him off. “Is safety a joke, sir? I own this highway and it’s my job to keep people safe who aren’t traveling at ninety-three miles an hour.”
Tasker flinched. “Ninety-three. Okay, that is a little quick.” “License and registration.”
Tasker hated flashing his badge. He had, however, learned more subtle ways of getting across that he was a cop. “No problem.” He placed both hands on the wheel again so the trooper could see them, and added, “I do have a loaded gun in the car, sir.”
The trooper had some years on him and knew not to overreact. An armed criminal rarely tips off a cop that he has a gun. The trooper leaned down to see the entire interior of Tasker’s car.
The trooper’s eyes scanned the front and back seat, then he said, “Why do you have a loaded gun?”
“I’m a cop.”
“Do you have any ID?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Slowly reach for it and show me.”
Tasker knew he had seen the 800-megahertz radio controller under the dash and the small control box for the siren and PA secured under the hood. He reached into his rear pocket and pulled out his credential case and flipped it open so the trooper could inspect it.
“I thought you said you were a cop?”
“I am. Look, with FDLE.”
“The state considers you cops?”
Tasker realized he had walked into one of the oldest and oddest rivalries in police work and had set up his opponent with a soft pitch that he hit out of the park.
Tasker allowed a slight smile at the dig and said, “Last I checked, I was certified.”
“You guys have uniforms?”
“Nope.”
“Work shifts?”
“Nope.”
“Drive marked cars?”
“Obviously not.”
“Then how can you call yourselves cops?”
The tall trooper clomped away without issuing the ticket. But Tasker still felt the jab.
After slowing down for the next twenty miles of fields, Tasker could see buildings sprouting on the south side of State Road 80. Finally he came to a crossroad that forced him to turn right or left. He took the left toward downtown Belle Glade.
To his right was the warden’s residence for Glades Correctional, the first state prison built in the area, which sprawled out behind the two-story house. Tasker knew the prison from occasionally interviewing prisoners or helping the Department of Corrections with an investigation of corruption at the large, medium-security prison. Elmore Leonard’s book Out of Sight was partially set there, based on a true incident. Six men had tunneled out from the chapel and made their escape. It had happened before Tasker was hired by FDLE, but the stories were standard FDLE lore.
After another curve of the road, he passed the sugar companies’ administrative buildings, saw the water tower for the nice little town of South Bay, then, cutting through the town of Gladesville, Tasker saw the larger, more imposing structures of Manatee Correctional state prison. This was the close-custody prison where a twenty-eight-year-old land surveyor named Rick Dewalt had been killed. Tasker would do all he could to find out who had killed him.
Luther Williams stopped as he entered the dorm. A few inmates were sitting around the last bunk on the left. They were probably playing dice, but he couldn’t tell from where he stood. That was intentional, to keep the correctional officers from hassling them. The reason he was waiting was that the only other inmate present was Vic Vollentius, a nominal member of the prison’s best-known white gang, the Aryan Knights. A bald, fit man near forty, Vollentius was the only Knight housed in this dorm.
Lately, Luther had noticed some added scrutiny from the Aryan Knights, but he didn’t know wh
y. Having this dumb-ass in front of him made him wonder if he was paranoid or observant. His right hand rested on the tip of the handle to his shiv.
Luther kept his eyes on the man, noticing the tattoo that sprawled off his neck to some place under his white, plain T-shirt. Vollentius kept his blue eyes on Luther, too.
“You need something?” asked Luther.
“What would I need from a . . . a . . .” He paused as he saw Luther’s expression.
For his part, Luther realized this idiot was just trying to see how far he could push things.
Luther said, “You and your pals seem interested in my activities lately.”
“You might think you’re more important than you really are.”
“That may be, but I hope none of you would be stupid enough to cut in on any of my action.”
Vollentius feigned being hurt. “You got me all wrong, Williams. I don’t cut in on anyone’s action. Too much work.” He stepped closer. “But you better keep your shit straight, because if I get the chance, I’ll sell you out. Maybe to Big Tony in Dorm G or maybe to Sergeant Janzig for a little extra visiting time.”
“You would learn, Mr. Vollentius, that I don’t appreciate such activity and that you would be well advised to mind your own business.”
“What if I tried to sell you something?”
Luther looked at him. “Like what?”
“Like why you’re getting special attention lately.”
“How much?”
“An ounce of your coke.”
“An ounce?” Luther was stunned.
“And not a gram less.”
Luther smiled and said, “I’ll take my chances.”
four
Two miles west of the prison, Bill Tasker found the small gravel road marked Dead Cow Lane and turned left. He knew someone with a sense of humor must have named the road, but he was surprised the state had made an official sign for it. This was going to be home for the next few weeks.
The road cut through another cane field, then opened into a complex of nine small apartments in a U shape with three on each side and three in the rear. The white clapboard building had two parking spots in front of each unit on a coarse lime-and-gravel parking lot. He knew the state owned it but had no idea who lived there.
Pulling into the spot in front of number 3, the rear corner unit, he stepped out of his Monte Carlo and stretched, taking in a deep breath. He tried the door, as he had been instructed to do, and stepped inside. An envelope with the keys and some information were on the small table next to the front door. So far, so good.
A quick inventory of the one-bedroom apartment showed it to be furnished as promised, and free as advertised. Other than that, he wasn’t too thrilled. The bedroom had a double bed, dresser and straight wooden chair. The living room featured an old couch with a block of wood holding up one corner, a coffee table and a small hutch with a large, portable TV sitting on top. The kitchen had a new refrigerator, at least, a standard 1965 plastic-covered table and four mismatched chairs.
On his way back to the car, a young dark-skinned woman, who obviously knew she was good-looking, took her time strolling toward the door of the apartment next to his and nodded a greeting. Tasker smiled and nodded back as the young woman in the damp T-shirt pulled a wide box from the passenger seat of an old Ford pickup truck. She was petite, but no one would mistake her for a child. Her dark eyes cut to the side to get another look at her new neighbor.
She stopped and said, “Hi.”
He smiled. “Hi.”
The woman said, “I’m Billie.”
He hesitated and said, “So am I.” When she just stared at him, he stuck out his hand and said, “Billy Tasker.”
She set down the box, which didn’t look too heavy, and placed her tiny hand in his. “I’m Billie Towers.”
“You live right there?” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice.
“No, my boss does.” She eyed him and said, “But I wish I did.” She picked up the box and started to walk, saying over her shoulder, “See you around, Billy Tasker.”
He stood there grinning and then wondered what a Saturday night in Gladesville was like.
Tasker ate half a slab of pork ribs at a simple barbecue joint that looked like it used to be Sonny’s, but now was called Sonny Boy’s. They hadn’t even taken down the original sign, just tacked up a “Boy’s” next to it. He decided to wait for recommendations before trying the out-of-the-way places. About nine, he cruised the small, quiet streets of Gladesville until he found a building that looked like some kind of sports bar, named the Green Mile. He smiled at the local community’s support of the prisons.
He parked his state-issued Monte Carlo in the dirt-and-gravel lot, then walked past about thirty cars to the front door, noticing a large number of pickup trucks and older Fords.
The wooden steps leading up to the front door rattled as he hesitated on entering the busy establishment, but then a heavy woman in a huge T-shirt opened the door to come outside and the blast of music surprised him. He’d expected country-western but heard some funky Donna Summer disco rip-off. He shrugged and stepped inside. The large single room had a bar in the center and two dance floors with a dozen couples dancing. The wood floors and high rafters gave the place a barn-like feel, but Tasker realized the same building in Delray Beach would have a retro, classic feel. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but after thinking about his run-down apartment on Dead Cow Lane, he decided he’d stay for a beer.
As he approached the bar, it felt like people were staring at him. He looked around and was surprised to see a good mix of people: black people eating at the tables along the edge of the dance floors, white couples dancing. The bar had a good crowd. Somehow, without ever spending a lot of time in the western county, Tasker had come to the conclusion that it was a backward, racist, segregated area, but he was happy to have his prejudice proved incorrect. He realized it must be the same for those New Yorkers who felt that way about Florida as a whole without really knowing the state. It made him mad when they did it, so he resolved to give places and people a fair shake before labeling them redneck, backwoods shitholes. Like some of the towns farther out US 27.
A thin, rough-looking bartender with a mustache like an old-time Mexican bandit looked at him without saying a word.
Tasker said, “What do you have on draft?”
The man had a good Florida cracker accent and said, “We got both kinds on draft. Bud and Bud Light.”
“What about in a bottle?”
“We got everything in a bottle.”
“What’s everything?”
“Bud, Bud Light, Mich and Icehouse.”
Tasker ordered his Icehouse and found a stool. He still caught people staring at him, but realized that new people didn’t pop in every day out here.
After about ten minutes, a stunning black woman, almost as tall as he was, took the stool next to him. She had a light complexion and the most perfect almond-shaped brown eyes he had ever seen. She looked at him and smiled, but then immediately faced the bar. Her girlfriend slid onto the stool on the other side of her. Her friend was very dark, with unnaturally straight hair that reflected the lights off the high ceiling. They spun around on their stools to face out onto the open floor like they were checking out the crowd.
Tasker had never been the kind of guy to talk to a woman he didn’t know at a bar and hadn’t really dated since his marriage to Donna. His last attempt at dating had been a girl from work named Tina Wiggins, and it hadn’t worked out at all. He took the occasional glance at the two women to his right. Each was attractive in her own way. They started to talk about the men in the room, making slightly snide comments about height and weight.
The woman farthest from him spoke like she had been raised in a rap video. She said loud enough so everyone at the bar could hear, “I’m tired of short men. I need me a tall man for a change.”
The woman next to Tasker slapped her friend playfully, then glanced back at Tasker, w
ho smiled.
Her friend caught the smile and turned to him, “Who’re you smiling at? I know you don’t think we’ll talk to you.”
Tasker smiled at the comment. He was old enough to know better than to argue with someone as loud and obnoxious as this woman. He turned back to the bar and picked up his beer.
Then the incredible happened.
The young woman next to him—he thought she might be twenty-eight—turned to him with her hand extended and said, “I’m sorry, she doesn’t mean anything. She just likes to show off.”
Tasker set down his beer, shook her hand and said, “I hadn’t noticed.”
The woman laughed as her friend sprang up to confront a man who was staring at her across the dance floor.
The woman next to him said, “Hi, my name is Renee.”
“I’m Bill.” He held her gaze.
“I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“My first day in town.”
“Just passing through?”
“No, I’m here for a while.”
“What on earth for?”
Just as he started to answer, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find a squat but muscular black man, with two friends who were taller and less threatening-looking, behind him. The leader had an array of freckles on his cheeks that captured Tasker’s attention. His lighter skin had no continuity to it. His neck was darker than his face, and his forehead blended into his reddish-tinged hair.
Renee spoke across Tasker as they both stood. “Rufus, you had your chance. I can talk to whoever I want.”
The man glared at her. “This don’t concern you.” He looked at Tasker and said, “Who’re you?” in a surprising Bronx cadence.
Tasker assessed the three men and decided he wouldn’t stand much of a chance if things went bad. The most he could do was get in a few shots and then take his licks. Since it sounded like a domestic, he couldn’t be sure his new friend Renee wouldn’t jump in if he started swinging at her boyfriend or whatever he was. He was still weighing his options . . . when a fist whipped past his face and smashed into the man’s nose. Tasker turned his head to see the pleasant girl he’d just been talking to, Renee, swing with her other fist and knock the man off his feet.
Escape Clause Page 4