The Corruptions

by Vincent Zandri

  We stopped outside the door marked No. 1. I turned to Blood.

  “You mind waiting out here?” I said. “Your presence might cause Joyce to faint.”

  “You the boss. I wouldn’t want to show you up.”

  “You’re always thinking of me.”

  “I don’t, who will?”

  As usual, Blood had a point.

  Bridgette knocked on the door, shouted, “Joyce, you have a visitor!” Then, without waiting for a reply, she unlocked the door. Placing her hand on the lever-like handle set, she peered up at me. “Watch out for this one,” she said. “She’s a classic black window. Don’t forget, she’s going to be indicted for conspiracy to commit murder one with her husband as the victim. A guy who claims he still loves her no matter what.”

  “Now that is what I call true love,” I said.

  “Joyce has that effect on people. She’s going to be a treat for the Grand Jury when they convene. No doubt she’ll turn on the tears faucet and scream spousal abuse.”

  “I’m a big boy,” I said, drawing my gun. “I’m trained to see through even the thickest of fogs.”

  “You’re a big boy,” Bridgette repeats. “That’s precisely what Joyce is going to tell you. Then she’ll try to prove it.”

  I smiled hungrily. “Please take good care of my 1911.”

  I handed her the .45, knowing that under normal circumstances, I should have checked the firearm at the front desk upon entering the facility. But Clinton County was currently engulfed in a state of emergency and SOP need not apply.

  “Remember, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said.

  “I’m not easily swayed by harlots.”

  She made a face like, Yeah, right, and opened the door with all the apprehension of a mom letting her son loose on his first date.

  I stepped inside and noticed immediately that the small white cell smelled of rose petals. Jail cells weren’t supposed to smell that way. They were supposed to smell of rot and decay and of desperation. But this one smelled like the back room of a massage parlor. Where the high rollers went for some extra tender loving care. The walls were thick, but you could still make out the sound of rain and the rumble of the thunder emerging from out of the distance.

  “Help you?” Joyce Mathews said.

  She was a small, early middle-aged woman, with bleach blonde hair parted over the left eye, and the way it draped her face didn’t make her appear unattractive, even to a guy like me who preferred brunettes. She was sitting on the thin stainless steel cot, her back pressed up against the wall, her white county jumper unzipped enough to expose a tight wife beater cotton T that showed off a pair of ample breasts. Tattooed on the left breast was a heart with a strand of thorns wrapped around it. The broken heart wasn’t dripping blood so much as crying tears of it.

  “My name is Marconi,” I said. “Keeper Marconi. I’m here to ask you a few questions about the two escaped convicts.”

  “Keeper,” she said, like a question.

  “Nickname from a long time ago. Real name’s Jack.”

  “You FBI?”

  “Private investigator, so no worries.”

  She smiled. “Never seen one of those before,’cept on TV.”

  “We exist in real life.”

  “Prove it.”

  I pulled out my wallet, showed her the laminated New York State license. She examined it, like she knew what she was examining, then looked up at me.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Whew,” I said, returning the wallet to my pocket. “For a second there I thought I might have to leave.”

  She snickered. “You’re kind of a wise ass. But funny. I like funny. My husband. He wasn’t funny. No sense of humor whatsoever. A man of Jesus who tolerated no sinners. Screwball if you asked me.”

  “You speak about him in the past tense.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You refer to him as something that’s in the past, when, in fact, he is still alive. From what I hear anyway.”

  “Oh, yeah, well. If wishes were fishes…”

  “…We’d all have a fry.” Jeez, this woman either didn’t have a clue about damning herself to death, or she harbored a serious death-by-lethal-injection wish. I added, “Your mother used to say that too?”

  “My mama run out on me when I was twelve. I quit school, helped support my little brother.”

  “I guess you were hand-delivered a shit sandwich,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Not your fault.” She lazily allowed one of her legs to fall to the side, so that she was almost spread eagle now. I tried to ignore it. “So, what is it you want from me, Mr. Keeper Marconi?”

  “Where did Moss and Sweet go after they broke out?”

  “What do you mean, where’d they go?”

  I sat down on the end of cot near her feet. She shifted her left leg so that her calf rested on my thigh. It sent a slight tingle throughout my nervous system that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She looked at me with her deep-set blue eyes. If I were a writer, I’d describe the look as longing.

  “You were helping them out in exchange for a hit on your husband. You know exactly where they went. Now tell me, was it a secluded hunting cabin? Somewhere way off the grid?”

  She brought her hand to her mouth, as if to demonstrate how shocked she was at my accusation.

  “My husband wasn’t perfect,” she said. “And as much as I hated him, he was still my husband and I’d never thought of harming him.”

  “You’re doing that past tense thing again.”

  “I am?” she said, now pressing her leg down against my thigh. “I can’t imagine why I’m doing it.”

  “Because in your mind, he’s already gone. But you reneged on your agreement to pick up the cons and they had no choice but to escape into the woods to a cabin or a safe house you know about. It was their Plan B and you know all about their Plan B, don’t you?”

  Slowly, she raised herself up, swung her legs around, and set her hand down on my thigh. She began inching the hand closer to another part of me that was more sensitive than the thigh.

  “Do we really need to speak about those two creeps? Can’t we speak about something more pleasant? Like your gun, for instance. Is it big?”

  I felt her hand on my leg. “Yeah. It’s big all right.”

  “You think you might pull it out for me sometime?”

  “Maybe. But not today. Besides, another woman is holding it in her hand right now.”

  Now her hand was pressed on my sex. “Oh, lucky girl. I so need to feel its heaviness, its hardness. Maybe both us girls can share it. No one would know.” She licked her lips. “I promise.”

  I had to admit, her idea wasn’t entirely repulsive. Not by a long shot. Still, I was a professional after all. Keeper, the ever-in-control gumshoe. I pushed her hand aside, stood up slowly.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you, Joyce?”

  “I simply don’t know anything, sweetie.”

  “I can help you. I know people who can help you with a reduced sentence when the DA indicts you. And you will be indicted and you will be found guilty and you will go back to Dannemora. But this time, you’ll be residing on the opposite side of the bars.”

  She pouted.

  “You’re simply all business, Mr. Keeper sweetie,” she said sadly. “Such a waste of a good man.” Then, grinning, “A real keeper, if I don’t say so myself.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “But I’m trying to find two escaped murderers before they succeed at murdering someone else.”

  The manly scream that erupted from out in the general office area was loud even inside the closed cell.

  Joyce sat up at attention. “What the hell was that?”

  “I think our pizza’s arrived.”

  I opened the door, slammed it closed behind me. I tried to pull out my .45, but it wasn’t there. I sought out Blood and Bridgette. Neither were to be found. Making my way back into the main o
ffice, I saw Blood down on one knee, his 9mm semi-automatic gripped in one hand while he held onto the arm of a man who was face down on the floor with the other. Blood’s knee was pressed into the small of the man’s back while the man’s left arm was pulled back awkwardly in a position that seemed painful and paralyzing. Set on the floor beside the man’s agonized face were two pizza boxes and a black revolver. A .38 Special by the looks of it.

  Bridgette stood behind Blood, her service weapon drawn. Just to the right of her, stood Karla, both her hands pressed against her mouth.

  “It’s Joyce’s husband, Larry,” she said, handing me my piece. “Looks like he came to break her out.”

  “Or kill her,” I said, returning the .45 to the shoulder holster.

  Blood grabbed Larry’s other arm and pressed both his wrists together. Bridgette leaned in and cuffed him. Then Blood drew him up off the floor, stood him up. He was a dumpy man of medium height. Thick salt and pepper hair that hadn’t seen a comb or a shower in ages. A pudgy face covered in stubble.

  “I’m not gonna kill my Joyce,” he cried. “I wanna bring her home into the arms of her loving husband and her savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “I admire your passion, Larry,” I said. “Guns and Christ. You really thought you’d get away with it?”

  “I want a lawyer,” Larry said. “I don’t say nothin’ till I see my Joyce and a lawyer. You got that, sinners?”

  “Who you callin’ a sinner?” Blood said.

  I swear, there were real tears falling down Larry’s cheeks. If only he knew how much Joyce hated him. Outside, the reporters were salivating, their faces and cameras pressed against the glass door.

  “Karla,” Bridgette said. “Lock the front doors.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “I got another good idea,” Blood said. “Leave the gun, take the pizza.”

  “This town is truly fucked up at the moment,” Bridgette said, bringing the triangular edge of a slightly damaged piece of pizza to her mouth. She took a small bite, turning her eyes back towards the peg board and the map that was attached to it. “Why do you suppose Joyce’s husband would try and spring her, knowing what he knows about her wanting to kill him?”

  “Love is blind,” Blood said, devouring half a slice of pepperoni in one single bite. “Christians are all about the forgiveness and the redemption. No world is so corrupt it cannot be redeemed. Less of course it’s Sodom and Gomorrah, in which case, the Lord wipes the slate clean, starts all over.”

  “Blood’s on to something,” I said. “Sometimes love can be obsessive and it looks like he would have done anything to get her out, get her home, get her back into his bed and begging Jesus for forgiveness. Back to whatever they call normal. If such a thing is possible.” I bit into my pizza. Bridgette was right. This was good pizza. “Question is, how did he know enough to pick up our pizza and deliver it to us?”

  “He works at Sal’s part time,” Bridgette said. “Drive’s for them, usually on weekends. Never thought to make that connection. Nor figure out that he must have picked up new hours now that Joyce was living directly across the street.” Shaking her head. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m fit for this damn job.”

  Blood set his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged, sheriff. Forces at work here beyond your control. Beyond anybody’s control. You dig?”

  “I dig,” she said, her face blushing. Blood’s touch had that effect on women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and creeds. Turning to me, she said, “We can head back to Maude’s in a half hour. You still wanna meet Gene? See what he knows?”

  I grabbed another slice of pepperoni, set it on a paper plate.

  “We’ll bring him lunch,” I said. “Food can be a powerful motivator. Maybe it will make him talk.”

  “So can waterboarding,” Blood said.

  Gene’s pizza in hand, Bridgette and I stepped out of the office and into the general booking area. A handcuffed Larry Mathews was sitting beside one of the three desks, just staring off into space while Karla took down his vital information. It dawned on me that if he’d been able to discharge his weapon, the press and more press would have been surrounding the sheriff’s office like green flies on a fresh corpse. As it was, the press was hovering over the place. But by the looks of it, Larry’s Banzai scream didn’t quite register with them, and that was a good thing.

  “Good pizza,” I said as I passed him by on my way to the cell bay.

  “Sal’s is the best,” he said nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just burst into the sheriff’s office only moment’s ago brandishing a loaded hand cannon. “That’s all I’m gonna say ’til my lawyer gets here. You got that, sheirff? And when do I get to see my Joyce?”

  She doesn’t want to see you, pal…

  “You go get that lawyer, Larry,” I said. “Stick it to the man, that’s what I say. Even if the man, or sheriff, in this case is a beautiful woman.”

  Bridgette slapped my arm.

  “Aren’t you the charmer,” she said. “I’m going to take you up on that dinner offer after all.”

  In the back, I found the cell marked number 4. I stood just to the left of it while Bridgette repeated the process of knocking on the metal door and shouting through it, warning Gene of a visitor. Removing my piece, I once again handed it to the sheriff. She took it, shoved the barrel into her pant waist. Unlocking the door, she opened it.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  Pizza in hand, I stepped inside, and for the first time ever, laid naked eyes upon a naked Mean Gene Bender.

  “Gene,” I said, averting my eyes. “Any chance you can put some clothes on while we talk?”

  No lie. No exaggeration. He was naked as the day his mother birthed him, as if his cell doubled as a dressing hut on a nude beach in Miami. Like I anticipated, he was a big man. Cropped black hair, his skin the color of coffee ice cream , as if he were of Hispanic or Latin decent. Face clean shaven, along with the rest of his body. Other than his scalp, every bit of hair on his body was shaved or waxed or somehow eradicated from his skin. In the end I decided his skin tone was the result of a tanning booth rather than genetics. The name Bender had to be Irish, after all. Or maybe Scottish.

  “Please, Gene?” I repeated. “A covering of some sort. Or no pizza.”

  He winked at me, smiled.

  “God,” he said, “can you say, homophobe?”

  I guess Dannemora is definitely a prison where dropping the soap in the shower could turn out to be a major miscarriage of judgement. But then, what prison isn’t.

  Gene had a deep voice, but smooth in tone and, how do I put this mildly, more than a bit effeminate. Bitchy effeminate. Like my sudden presence intruded upon his aforementioned tanning booth time. Begrudgingly, he grabbed the bath towel hanging off the rack over the stainless steel toilet, wrapped it around his junk.

  I immediately felt relieved, but then, maybe he was right. Maybe I was homophobic. Or maybe just plain old-fashioned and out of date, like stale white bread. Blood and I both. Or maybe I just didn’t feel comfortable sharing a dead-bolted cell with a naked, body-shaved man, who was twice my size and professionally trained to protect himself against the most violent killers.

  I handed him the pizza. He stared down at it, as if examining it for worms.

  “The crust doesn’t happen to be gluten free, does it?” he said, smirking.

  “Hey, Gene, it’s free of charge.”

  “Beggars,” he said, taking a bite. “A little cold. But not bad.” Then, “So, who are you, and are you the reason for all the screaming and shouting out in the booking room?”

  I told him my name, my reason for being there, and that no, I wasn’t the reason for the commotion. Although the woman locked up inside the same cell bay could be constructed as the reason.

  “Oh God,” he said, his voice long and drawn out. “Larry never did have his head screwed on right. Joyce should have had him killed a long time ago.” Then realizing what he said, and who he said it to, “Oo
psies, I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not the cops and our conversation is between thee and me.”

  “Thee and me. My, my, Mr. Marconi, you must be educated beyond your means.”

  He opened up his legs a little, not unlike Joyce did three cells down. Unlike Joyce, however, the maneuver didn’t turn me on in the least. He ate more pizza. Or, should I say, nibbled.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m gonna get right to it. I’m not interested in why you helped Sweet and Moss, or how much you helped them and for how long. What I’m interested in is where exactly did they go after they escaped?”

  “How should I know?” he said, his eyed focused not on me, but at the plain white wall across from him. Dollars to donuts, he wasn’t looking at the wall though, but instead, Reginald Moss.

  “From what I heard, you and Moss had yourselves…how shall I put this delicately…a rather personal, if not intimate relationship.”

  He cocked his head. “Reginald liked to paint me pictures. His artwork is incredible. Such a sensitive, tortured, helpless, misunderstood artist.”

  “And in return…”

  “And in return I’d bring him gifts. Food, booze, new CD recordings of my band, grass sometimes, stuff like that.”

  “And…”

  His face turned red. Maybe I’d only just met him. But if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Mean Gene Bender had real feelings for Reginald Moss, escaped cop killer.

  “And?” he repeated. “I really have to say it?”

  “You don’t have to say anything, since we already know the nature of your relationship with the escapee.”

  “Okay, you ready for this? I used to suck him off. He has a huge cock. Bigger than yours certainly.”

  I looked down at my lap. “It’s not the length that counts.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “Take it from one who knoweth.”

  “Now that we have that established, I’m guessing Reginald told you precisely his plans. Where he’d rendezvous once he killed off Joyce’s husband, Larry.” Pressing my lips together, cocking my head. “You know, pillow talk stuff.”