“That’s why you choose to be single, Blood, my brother,” I said.
“That’s why any woman who gets involved with you eventually choose to be single.”
My eyes automatically shifted to Bridgette’s. She caught my gaze, read my mind, cleared her throat. I knew she wanted to change the subject like some people want to change radio stations. She stood up.
“I’m going to prepare a statement for the press,” she said. “In the meantime, I’ll make sure Karla contacts a doctor and that we get Sweet fixed up as good as possible for whatever it is you’re all going to face inside Dannemora and down inside the Crypt.”
“Oh, and we’ll need something else too,” Blood said, uncrossing his arms.
“What’s that?” Bridgette said, grabbing hold of the door knob, turning to him.
“More bullets. Lots of them.”
While a local doctor sewed Sweet back up inside his small cell and pumped him up with enough antibiotic to makes his veins glow, Bridgette prepared a short statement which she delivered to the press outside the front glass doors of the sheriff’s office. The briefing centered around an area of Adirondack real estate fifteen miles to the east of Dannemora and Plattsburgh called Willsboro. A mountainous rural area occupied by a scattering of two thousand inhabitants, plus numerous hunting cabins and even a deer preserve maintained by a hunting collective, the members of which lived and worked in New York City, but who made the drive up north on the weekends in their big black Suburban SUVs to be one with the land.
According to Bridgette, the two convicts were spotted in the area by a local resident only this morning, and that the investigation was now going to shift to a five-by-five square mile of land in Willsboro center. When one reporter raised his hand, inquired as to the reason behind the raucous noise that could be heard coming from out of the depths of the jail earlier, Bridgette thought quick. “That was nothing more than a training exercise. Make no mistakes, people, all rumors of an escape attempt on behalf of Gene Bender and Joyce Mathews are unfounded.” She failed to mention Larry Mathews, but then his arrest and murder hadn’t yet been made public. She then thanked the crowd and despite the dozen questions lobbed at her all at once, she quickly escaped by heading back into the office through the front glass doors.
But two or three minutes didn’t pass before the gang of journalists jumped back in their vans, cars, and mobile broadcasting vehicles and began heading straight for Willsboro. Clearly, the ruse worked. Now, while the press was focused on another area of Upstate New York, Blood and I could find a way to get back inside the prison without being spotted by dozens of pairs of prying eyes and cameras.
Convening once more into Bridgette’s office, Sweet was brought inside. Vincent D’Amico was also present. Sweet’s right hand was now tightly bandaged and there was a small spot of rust colored blood that formed on the area where his thumb used to be.
“Here’s the deal,” D’Amico said. “You’re going back to Dannemora.”
Sweet’s eyes went wide. I thought he was going to throw up.
“You can’t fucking do that to me,” he said. “I go back to that prison today, I won’t live to see the morning.” His eyes watered. “You hear me, sheriff? You’ve just signed off on my execution.”
Bridgette sat behind the desk looking very official and stern.
“I’m sorry, Derrick,” she said, “but the law is the law and we have no choice. If it’s any consolation, you’ll spend the next week or two in the prison infirmary. You’ll be provided with your own personal corrections officer bodyguard. One of those big muscle heads who works inside Rodney’s personal circle. You have nothing to worry about.”
Sweet was already pale. His skin turned even more white at the mention of Rodney. For a split second, I thought his heart might give out. Bridgette glanced at me quickly. She knew that I knew she was really pouring it on.
“But I thought the governor was taking responsibility for me.”
“The governor agrees,” Bridgette said. “You’re to go straight back to prison. Do not stop on Go, do not collect two hundred bucks.”
Now the tears that had been precariously balanced around the fleshy rims of his eyes started overflowing. Sweet even fell out of his chair, onto his knees. He lifted up both his hands, pressed them together like he was praying for divine intervention on his behalf. The good hand joined to the heavily bandaged bad hand made him look like a casualty of war…a prisoner of war.
“Please, sheriff,” he cried, “I’m begging you. Please don’t put me back there in that iron house. I won’t live to see the sunrise tomorrow morning.”
Blood leaned into me. “He either a real good actor, or he really scared shitless.”
“I hope, in fact, he doesn’t shit himself,” I whispered back.
I stole a peek at D’Amico standing by the door on the opposite side of the room. He was biting down on his bottom lip. As if to answer Blood’s question, I got the feeling he interpreted Sweet’s dismay not as an act, but real fear oozing from a man who clearly feared his own imminent death.
“For reasons of keeping your capture a secret and away from the prying eyes of a starving media,” D’Amico said, “we’ve arranged for Mr. Marconi and Mr. Blood here to provide your transportation back to the prison.”
Sweet, still down on his knees, turned his head, focused his eyes on the trooper. He stood up slowly, his mouth open, lower jaw hanging down by his slippered feet.
“Are you fucking kidding?” he said. “These two jerks work for Governor Valente. They’ll kill me first chance they get, just like they killed Picasso.”
“Valente fired us,” I lied. “And I didn’t kill Moss. He killed himself when he tried to kill me first. Capisce?”
“Gospel,” Blood chimed in.
“Now don’t you worry, Mr. Sweet,” D’Amico said, “me and my men will be following you every step of the way.” Cocking his head over his shoulder. “At a safe enough distance, naturally.”
“Oh, now I feel a hell of a lot better,” Sweet said. Then, looking up at the ceiling, “Sweet Jesus, I’m gonna die.”
Bridgette got up, came around the desk, slapped a cuff onto Sweet’s good hand, and then placed the other cuff around Blood’s wrist.
“Good Christ,” Sweet barked, “anyone but Black Tonto.”
“Hey,” Blood said while the metal cuff was attached to his wrist, “I take offense to that.”
Sweet peered up at Blood. He was genuinely afraid of the big ebony man. And I couldn’t blame him one bit.
“If that’s all, gentlemen and lady,” D’Amico said, “let’s get this show on the road.”
I went for the door just as the trooper opened it.
“If this doesn’t work,” he whispered under his breath, “I lose my job and my pension.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “it’ll work.”
Behind me, Bridgette tossed Blood the key to the cuffs before exiting the room. Then came Derrick Sweet, the scared-of-his-own-shadow fugitive from justice being dragged by the wrist.
“Dead man walking,” he said under his breath. “That’s what I am. Stupid dead asshole walking.”
The object that had been blocking the cell bay’s rear exit had finally been removed and the three of us piled back into my old 4Runner. Blood and Sweet took the back seat while I fired up the recently refurbished eight cylinder and waited for the backyard gates to slide open. When they did, I slowly drove on out, careful not to raise the suspicions of any of the few remaining reporters stubbornly clung to the county lockup hoping for a major scoop.
Only when we were far enough away from the sheriff’s office and heading towards Dannemora, the narrow country road flanked on both sides by tall trees and thick brush, did I ask Blood to remove Sweet’s cuffs. Blood did it, careful not to disturb the con’s injured thumb.
I watched Sweet in the rearview mirror. His expression was one of confusion.
“What gives?” he said. “Thought you guys were respons
ible for me.”
“You still want your freedom?” I said.
The confused expression turned into a smile. “Fuck yeah.”
Blood gave him a slight elbow. “It’ll cost you, thin man. But not the three hundred you originally offered.”
Blood, raising the ante. Wish I’d thought of that myself…
“How much?” Sweet said.
“Five hundred,” Blood said. “Two fifty a piece.”
The con bit down on his lips and rubbed his damaged hand.
“Fucking choice do I have?” he said. “Let’s hope that kind of cash is sitting around the Crypt and that Rodney himself isn’t sitting on it.”
“No choice,” Blood said.
Up ahead in the distance now, the big, razor wire-topped walls of Dannemora Prison. From my vantage point, it looked like most of the journos and reporters who’d planted themselves here over the past couple of days had now transported themselves to Willsboro. Looked like the media was taking Sheriff Hylton’s presser very seriously. A good thing, you asked me. The less eyes on us, the better.
“Home sweet home,” I said.
“Think I’m gonna puke,” Sweet said.
“Ain’t life grand?” Blood said.
I pulled off the side of the road, asked Sweet the best place for me to pull in.
“Service entrance,” he said. “You’re gonna see a guard shack out front, of course. An armed guard there. But if it’s the right screw, he’ll know me. Could be we’ll be okay.”
“What’s ‘could be’ mean?” Blood said.
“Means if he knows me, and he don’t hate me, he’ll let me pass after I explain the situation to him. Course, you’ll have to pay him.”
“You mean you’ll have to pay him,” I said.
“Whatever the fuck,” he said dismissively. “I probably won’t live through the afternoon anyway.”
“And what happens when he let us through?” Blood said. “We just walk in the back door, shout, ‘Home again, home again, jiggety-jig’?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “My best bet is to go in through the laundry detail. You probably already know this, Marconi, but there’s a steady stream of clean linens going in, and shit-stained stuff coming out. I go in with the clean, and out with the shit. That is, I’m still alive.”
“What’s with the I?” I said.
“Yeah,” Blood said. “There no I in team. Only an E, as in we.”
“Wait a minute,” Sweet said, “you can’t come in there with me. Rodney and his inner circle of evil maggots want me dead. Maybe I can get myself in if I promise the right payoffs to the right individuals, but they’ll kill me on the spot they see me sneaking back into prison with a couple of armed soldiers of fortune.”
“That what we are, Blood?” I said. “Soldiers of fortune?”
“More like soldiers of misfortune. A regular dirty duo, partner.” Then to Sweet, “No choice. We coming for the ride.”
“Then I want a weapon. At least do me that favor.”
“You crazier than I thought,” Blood said. “You don’t get to play with guns no more.”
“Then no deal.”
“Keep, get Governor Valente on the phone. Tell him we’re ready to bring in our prisoner.”
Sweet put both hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. Let’s just go. See what happens.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said.
I threw the tranny back in drive, pulled back out onto the road to perdition.
The service entrance to the prison was located in a wooded area maybe a full half mile away from the general prison entrance, which was situated in the center of town. Like Sweet said, there was a guard shack manned by a single CO. Thank God for rampant prison understaffing. Before you could reach the guard shack, you had to stop before a formidable gate that belonged to the much larger razor wire-topped perimeter fence surrounding the entire prison facility. I pulled up to the gates and waited, knowing that the fire engine red Toyota was being filmed by at least several different closed circuit TV monitors and that it was quite possible several black and yellow New York State Corrections vehicles might pull up behind me, flashers flashing, armed COs jumping out, weapons pointed at our heads.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, Sweet rolled down the window and allowed himself to be seen.
“Sure that’s a good idea?” I said.
“Those cameras up there,” he said, nodding to the CCTV camera mounted to both the exterior of the guard shack and the fence itself. “They’re dummies. Some of them anyway. Prison security budget always in the red. Most people don’t know that, or it would scare the hell of them.”
“You sure about that?” Blood added. “About the dummy cameras, I mean. Don’t seem real to me. That shit real to you, Keep?”
I cocked my head over my shoulder.
“Doesn’t seem unreal either,” I said. “Sweet’s right. Max prisons always run in the red. You cut where you can.”
“Sure as shit,” Sweet said. “Super’s orders. He’s all about balancing the budget. On the surface that is. But underneath it all, he’s got another agenda. You see, Mr. Blood, this service entrance is the Silk fucking Road. The main route for transporting contraband inside the joint, and the main road for bringing shit out. Every prison and jail, from minimum security to the most hard-ass super max, has got one.”
So that seals it, then. Clark is as filthy as they come.
“So why go to all the trouble of escaping through a waste pipe?” I said.
“It’s not allowed. There’d be no faster way to shut the Silk Road down than by allowing a prisoner or two to escape every once and a while.” He shoots a look at me. “Believe me, a few have tried and had their brains blown out because of it. Shit like that doesn’t get in the news because their deaths are always reported as prisoner on prisoner violence, or maybe the result of a bad accident. Usually, the bodies are cremated before a medical examiner can get at them.”
“The COs,” I said. “Men like Rodney. They run the Silk Road.”
Sweet nodded.
“Very good, Mr. Marconi. And Clark is the big boss man. The Ayatollah of rock ‘n’rolla. They run the Silk Road, control what’s imported and exported. They’re all about quality control.”
The burly guard stepped out of the shack. He was a clean shaven black man, dressed in corrections officer black military style clothing. He had an M16 strapped over his shoulder. He was also wearing a sidearm in a holster strapped to his left thigh. His eyes were shielded by a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“And that screw staring us down,” I said, cocking my head over my right shoulder, “he’s an employee of the Silk Road?”
“Yup,” said Sweet. “He damn well is, which is why I let him see me. Because when you work on the Silk Road, you take care of yourself first. That means you can be bought.” He worked up a wad of mucous, spit it out the window. “You guys are lucky. This screw knows me. He’ll work with me. If it had been anybody else, you’d be reversing the hell out of here, pedal to the motherfuckin’ metal.”
“The screws can be bought,” I said. “But not enough to traffic prisoners in and out.” It was a question.
“Listen, this guy might let us entre vous in exchange for some sweet dough-rei-mi,” Sweet said, “but no way in hell he about to let us back out. There-in lies our ultimate problemo.”
“So what you telling us,” Blood said, “is we entering the lion’s den and the den ain’t got no exit.”
“I’m sorry,” Sweet said, “you must have been counting on a nice little picnic.” The iron gate slowly opened. “Still sure you wanna do this, gentlemen?”
In answer his question, I pulled forward.
“Fun begins now,” I said.
The gate closed behind us. When the metal struck metal, the solid noise made my stomach muscles tighten, my pulse pump faster. I rolled down my window.
“Good afternoon, officer,” I said. “We’re making a delivery.”
Glancing in the rearview, I saw Sweet’s face grow taught. It also went chalky and pale again.
“How’s it hanging, Lucas?” Sweet said, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each syllable uttered.
“Derrick Sweet,” Lucas said, not without a smile and a shake of his head. “I always knew you were a dumb shit. But who the hell tries to sneak back inside a prison once they’ve already busted out?” He laughed. “You forget your wallet or something?”
Sweet smiled.
“Something like that, Lucas.” Then, “These men are my friends. They’re gonna wait while I do what I gotta do. There’s some pretty green in it for you.”
“How much?”
“Name a price.”
Lucas thought it over for a few seconds.
“Ten K. Non-negotiable,” he said.
Sweet shook his head.
“Give me a fucking break, Lucas,” he said. “I got a better chance of crawling back up my mother’s vagina than I do of nabbing that much cash.”
Good Christ, we’re parked outside the prison and these two numb nuts are negotiating…
But here’s the deal: no way I was going to allow Sweet to confiscate even one dollar of that cash inside the Crypt. That is, the cash existed in the first place. But if it did, it would be state’s evidence, and you didn’t fuck with state’s evidence unless you have a very good reason. What all of this meant, of course, was that I had to do something. Something quick or this thing would be all blown to hell before it even started. I pulled out my .45, pointed it at Lucas the guard.
“Down on your knees and lose the fucking gun before you get down there.”
He hesitated.
“Do it,” I said, thumbing back the hammer on the already chambered round.
“Fuck you doing?” Sweet said. His voice sounded like there were marbles stuck in his throat.
Blood knew precisely what I was doing. That was why he opened the glove box, pulled out the roll of duct tape that I stored inside it to utilize as a poor man’s handcuffs. Opening the door, he slipped out, went around the front of the vehicle. Crouching down, he picked up the M16 that was now set on the ground, handed it to me through the open window.
The Corruptions Page 15