Screw it, Eddie finally concluded. Being a career criminal taught him that for every crime he ever committed and got caught, there were ten others where the cops were either too stupid or too lazy to solve. Besides, Eddie had important deals to get down, deals in which a serious man like Luca Cunnio was a bigger problem than a tranny jerk whose life was a fucking comic book.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I spoke to Dupree Williams,” Jericho said, tearing apart a roasted chicken from the Amish concession amid lunchtime chaos at the Reading Terminal Market. “He said the Pennsylvania Convict Association had received loads of prisoner mail from all over complaining about food. They looked into it and filed.”
“And…?” Bill asked.
“They used to be sporadic, but the recent complaints all arose around the same time. It even caused a kitchen strike at West Penn. I had heard about incidents at other facilities, but never put two and two together. I didn’t let on to Dupree, but it was shortly after ServMark began their contract. He’ll find this out soon enough, and dig for a quid pro quo between ServMark and somebody in the Department of Corrections, maybe a lot of somebodies. Maybe higher. But he’s faced with the bureaucracy, so it won’t be easy to find out who got the quo.”
“Payoffs take a lot of forms, don’t they?” Bill added. “I mean political contributions, satchels of money, dummy sub-contractors, fake bank accounts…”
“Auditors and Inspectors General are supposed to control for that stuff. Some control! Londell White had to be part of it, else why would he set me up for a fall with the IG when Graterford got dragged into the lawsuit? It stinks of more than cover-your-ass.”
“I wonder if Graterford stood out,” Bill said.
“Dupree told me no, considering its share of the prison population. What are your thoughts on what’s next?”
“First thing, whatever we put together, we don’t tell Lanza,” Bill said. “He’s suspicious of more than Henrietta’s homicide.”
Jericho nodded. “Lanza’s bosses won’t let him spend time and department resources mucking around in somebody else’s backyard. Nor will the Captain want any phone calls from the state cops or complaints from the task force or whoever else is gonna want a piece of this.”
“And what about Mikey?” Bill asked.
“What do you mean?” Jericho set down a chicken leg as if to give the question his full attention.
“It’s becoming clear that Eddie was only a tool,” Bill said.
“Go on.”
“Mikey had skinny about ServMark. Isn’t that what he had told you? To try and get a deal?”
“And?” Jericho asked, resuming his chicken demolition.
“Think about it. Admin, except for you, is in on the scam. Their principals get wind of what Mikey has and Eddie does their dirty work.”
Bill had connected the dots yet lowered his gaze in discomfort. Peeling away mystery complicated things, and his once simple solution to a thorny problem seemed to be evaporating.
Killing Mikey’s murderer to appease his ghosts now required another plan. He had the same feeling after Mikey died in the yard and he postponed killing Eddie when Jericho’s life became complicated by ServMark. Now things were murkier. Bill needed a plan C.
ServMark had trapped him along with Jericho in its web of fraud and greed and deceit. It was no longer as simple as killing Eddie. Now it was about keeping the body count down.
“Let’s meet with Eddie like we promised,” Bill went on, “but I used to think you were bait to get Eddie. Maybe Eddie is bait to get to us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Eddie was hunched over a corner table when Bill and Jericho walked into Dirty Frank’s. Louise was in the cellar and barman Peter Jambalaya, as he was known in local twink circles because he hailed from New Orleans, danced up and down the bar in tight little shorts superfluously secured by red suspenders stretched over a bare chest and shoulders. His boyishness, difficulty with sibilant consonants, and airy sing-song voice were worn with a self-possession and charm that commanded respect. Peter Jambalaya was secure in his own skin.
“My, you’re a big one,” he said to Jericho. He turned to Bill. “I know who you are, but who’s the big fella?”
“Hi Peter. This is Jericho Lewis. Where’s Louise?” Bill asked.
“Taking inventory downstairs. What’re you guys having?”
They ordered drinks and looked around. Bill recognized the purple tattoo of a sneering, coiled python showing its fangs between Eddie’s shoulders and up his neck. He nudged Jericho and nodded toward Eddie’s hunched back.
“Hey Eddie,” Bill called.
Eddie turned and aped a friendly smile, his jaw freed after several weeks of rubber and wire constraints. He went up to the bar and slapped his former deputy warden on the back.
“Was you guys sitting here all the while?”
“Hi Eddie,” Jericho said, barely suppressing a scowl at the uninvited familiarity.
“We just got here,” Bill said. He gave Eddie his stool.
“It’s like old times, ain’t it?” Eddie said.
“Not exactly, Eddie,” Jericho said. “If it was, it would be your yard time instead of this pleasant tavern.”
“So what’s new?” Bill asked.
“Yo, Bill, let me buy you guys a round before we talk shop. Where’s your girlfriend?”
Bill stiffened. “What do you mean girlfriend?”
“You know, Louisey from here at the bar. What’re you guys havin’? Hey Petey, is Louisey around? Give these guys whatever they want. I’ll have another.”
Jericho swiveled around and half-stood, still towering over Eddie’s 5’7”. He looked down on his former prisoner’s shaved head and said, “So, Eddie, what would your parole officer say about you hanging around with Bill, an ex-con, here?”
“You wouldn’t rat me out, would you Deputy Warden Lewis?” Eddie said grinning.
The three men sat in silence, as if they didn’t know what to say despite wanting something from one another. After being served drinks, they watched Peter Jambalaya fill jars with lemon twists, olives and cocktail onions. When Louise emerged from the basement, Peter reconciled his cash drawer and chirped sing-songy, “All yours, LouLouBelle.”
“So, the big confab finally happens and you guys sit like three monkeys?” Louise quipped.
Bill saw that Jericho was having a hard time around Eddie, and probably vice versa. To Eddie, Jericho was The Man. To Jericho, Eddie was slime.
Bill finally broke the ice. “No Eddie, Jericho wouldn’t rat you out. That’s all history.”
“Yeah,” Jericho said. “I’m not even part of the system anymore. I took early retirement.”
“Well that’s good, you know?” Eddie said. “I’m tryin’ to make a clean break, make something outta my life for a change.”
“I’m glad to hear it Eddie,” Jericho said, “I knew you had potential.”
“I was afraid you’d be after me over what happened to Mikey Osborne.”
Eddie had broached the subject on his own. Whether tonight or another time soon, Bill could bring it up again, maybe get Eddie to talk about whacking Mikey.
“It’s Bill here who was friends with Mikey,” Jericho said. “Not me.”
“Yeah, ’cause you know, any one of a dozen guys coulda done it.”
“Now who would have anything against Mikey?” Bill asked.
“He bragged he had something poobahs wanted,” Eddie said. “Naturally, whatever it was, other cons wanted it too.”
Jericho still appeared to be working on not holding his nose in Eddie’s presence.
“What got him killed?” Bill asked. “And if it would bollux the system, wouldn’t the other guys want to see him do that?”
“What’s bollux?”
“Fuck up.”
“Oh yeah, that. Well, see, I don’t know that much about it. Hey, could you guys stick around for a minute, I got to check in with a friend.”
Eddie w
ent to the pay phone and spoke in a muffled tone with his hand cupping his mouth, then appeared exasperated at something said during the call. Bill and Jericho traded looks. When he came back, Eddie said, “Can we talk about this stuff outside? I dunno, I get nervous some customer will listen in.”
“Sure. Let’s.”
They convened under the street lamp. Bill hesitated to press. It might alert Eddie that Mikey had significance beyond being just another con murdered in the yard. It might cause Eddie to expect something in return.
“You know, I was close to Mikey,” Bill said. “I felt real bad that he bought it.”
“I bet,” Eddie said.
“It would mean a lot to me to find out who did it. Not that I would do anything about it, I’m way past that kind of thing. It would give me peace of mind I guess. I wonder what information he had that got him killed.”
A sociopath like Eddie Matthews wouldn’t give two shits about Bill’s feelings, even fake feelings. But dangling a little vulnerability might make Eddie feel like he had power and want to play, like a cat pushing around a dead mouse.
“Alls I know is that the guys thought the prison food was for shit. Some of us was suspicious it was on purpose, you know, that higher-ups was trying to make us sick to keep us under control.”
“Is that what you thought?” Jericho asked.
“Possibly. Sure. Yeah.”
“Where does Mikey come in?” Bill asked.
“Well, Mikey, yeah, well, he said there was something to it, that the private company Graterford used for food had a big scam going, and that he had the goods on them.”
“Like what?” Bill asked.
“That I couldn’t tell ya. You’ll have to ask Mikey…but wait, he’s dead, ain’t he?” Eddie said, snorting.
Was Eddie just a sick fuck or trying to send a message? Bill looked at Jericho who stood with arms folded, attention diverted. The big man nodded toward a green Econoline van double-parked across the street. Its driver and passenger gawked at the three men on the corner. Bill’s eyes met Jericho’s. It was midnight and though cruising was common in the neighborhood, the van’s occupants didn’t seem like types looking for blowjobs in a doorway. The van made a left onto Thirteenth and sped away.
“Who would know what Mikey had on the food outfit?” Bill asked.
“Why? Is it worth money?” Eddie said.
“Might be,” Bill said, but had no idea where to go with the thread, a fishing line dropped in the water.
“How much? Who’s interested?” Eddie asked.
Bill paused and looked down at his shoes as if pondering secrets, trying to fabricate a story to suck Eddie in. He felt Jericho’s tap on his shoulder. When he looked up, the green van had reappeared. A man got out the passenger side and slid a rear door open. The driver joined him as they crossed the street towards them. Jericho took in the scene, arms at his side in ready mode. Bill wondered what the hell was going on.
“Get the fuck in the van,” one of the guys hissed as they got close. He was holding a chromed nine-millimeter with a suppressor.
“Yo Angie, hi Paulie,” Eddie said, sporting a smirk. “Take the girl too,” he said, “she’s inside, I’ll get her…”
“No girl, just you and them,” Angie said. Eddie’s smirk dissolved.
Jericho appeared to be entertaining a move, except the chrome piece was in the argument. Bill’s mind raced. A mugging? Why the van? And Eddie apparently knew these guys. As he struggled to measure the situation, Peter Jambalaya and four friends spilled out of Dirty Frank’s and into the five men standing on the sidewalk. When Peter noticed the gun, a shouting match suddenly broke out.
“Hey!” Peter yelled. “What are you guys up to? These are our customers! You get out of here. Go rob somebody else. Shoo. Go on. Get out of here!” he said, shooing with his hands as if brushing away gnats.
“Shut the fuck up,” Paulie yelled. “Be on your way if you know what’s good.” He flashed the nine-millimeter.
Peter’s four friends, apparently secure in numbers and on their own turf, immediately surrounded the gunmen and yelled, “Yeah, get out of here!” One of them nudged Angie and screamed, “We’re not afraid of you!”
Louise came out of the bar and joined the ruckus. “Hey, you guys, knock it off!”
A muffled pop put a period on the shouting. One of Peter Jambalaya’s friends, a boy named Phillip, sank to the ground. Angie and Paulie looked panicked as Peter, eyes wide as harvest moons, dropped to his knees as if to catch his wounded friend. Louise ran back into the bar.
Jericho took advantage of the shock and confusion and grabbed Bill’s arm as they bolted into the dark. Near the end of the block, Bill looked over his shoulder and saw the green van barreling towards them. The running men turned the corner and ducked into the recessed doorway of Giovanni’s Room lesbian bookstore. Bill held his breath until the van passed and continued down Pine. He ran into Pine Street Pizza and said, “I need to use your phone! Emergency!”
A dark-skinned man with a four-day beard and white palm prints on a flour and grease-encrusted blue apron pointed to a phone behind the counter. Bill called for Louise at the bar. Nobody answered. He called 9-1-1.
“Man shot! Thirteenth and Pine! Send Ambulance!” was all he said and rang off.
Afraid the van would reappear, they walked furtively back toward Dirty Frank’s, then faster as they heard the wailing siren and saw the ambulance careen around the corner. A squad car pulled up right behind it. Louise must have called. She had come back out and stood among the knot of people with her hand over her mouth, looking down at Peter Jambalaya on his knees, holding the pale boy. The boy couldn’t be more than eighteen. Heavy-lidded eyes. Mouth agape. White tee splotched with a circle of crimson spreading like a blossoming dahlia.
Eddie was nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t die, Phillip, please don’t die,” Peter pleaded to his fallen friend, and burst into tears when the boy expelled an audible, final breath. The boy’s friends all began to cry and scream. Louise watched in shock. Bill and Jericho had reached the scene and kept watching for the van. If it passed again, who knew whether it might spray bullets into the knot of people huddled in front of the bar?
Bill stood under the street lamp in front of the dead boy, his shadow a pall over the blanched corpse with its arms outstretched and chin on its chest, held in the arms of the weeping Peter Jambalaya. A dismal reminder to Bill that but for him, the boy might still be alive. The weight of another young man’s death made his shoulders sag. He looked at Louise as if she might have an explanation, but when their eyes met he saw more fear than comfort.
After the techs gave up trying to resuscitate the fallen boy and called Homicide, an unmarked police car pulled to the curb. Detective Sam Lanza nonchalantly got out, scanned every face, the knot of witnesses, then took in the body.
He looked at Bill and Jericho and said, “You again?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Eddie didn’t run to his apartment but hopped a bus and took a room on South Broad near Snyder. He needed time to think. Things were fucked up. Luca’s boys had wanted to snatch him along with the other two guys. What was up with that?
He was awakening to disappointment from his wet dream of blackmail lucre. He was holding an empty bag. Not only had his information lost value, it had become dangerous to life and limb. But wait, didn’t the priest say he knew someone who would pay?
He would abandon his room near the bar and keep the one in South Philly. He’d go on the run, a parole violation and a felony. The cops would never buy that he had nothing to do with shooting the twink. The twinks had heard him use Angie and Paulie’s names before that fucking Paulie shot one of them. Then there was Luca to deal with. No way would Eddie dare be a witness against Luca’s men, but Luca now had two reasons to kill him. Being near Spaciad was the last place Luca’s henchmen would look.
A convenient memory lapse could clear Luca and his goons for killing Jambalaya’s pal. Why
not find a way to monetize it? And he’d follow up with the priest to be go-between on the food thing. It didn’t take long for Eddie to feel back in control, but whatever was going to happen had to happen fast.
He used a folded towel to cover the broken spring penetrating the waffle-thin mattress. He lay on the bed staring at a moth flitting around a dangling bare bulb. Tomorrow he’d call the bar, plead innocent-bystander to Louise, tell her he had nothing to do with Peter’s friend getting shot. Say he thought he knew the guys but couldn’t be sure. That being an ex-con would mean the cops would try to finger him, so he had to stay in hiding. And for her to get a message to the priest Eddie’d have an offer for him. She’d understand, see the pickle he was in, see that circumstances always conspired to work against him. Maybe feel sorry.
Thunder Woman seemed like a hundred years ago. If anybody found his address in her purse he’d have heard by now. It was one of Eddie’s strengths. He could erase a life, and the memory of taking it, like smoothing over a footprint in wet concrete, then watch it ossify.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lanza donned rubber gloves. He examined the corpse for signs of trauma. His men took measurements and evaluated angles and sight lines and other on-scene investigation. They stuck call-me cards in doorways and on windshields but would return to the station that night with little more physical evidence than the shell casing and the body.
He interviewed the uniforms for names of witnesses and whatever else they uncovered. He herded the eye-witnesses into the bar and took notes as each gave his version of events. Some sobbed as they recounted the murder. Louise tried to comfort them but the way she held her hand to her forehead showed her own struggle to cope.
I Detest All My Sins Page 9