The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(26)

Didn’t explain why Fleiss wanted to take out a hit on me, but I’d solve one problem at a time.

Speaking of problems, my original plan—prove I never got a trial, post bail, and flee the country—had just gone down in flames. I could get myself out that way, but that’d mean leaving Buddy behind. There was only one way to save my skin and get Buddy where he needed to go.

A good old-fashioned prison break.

“Buddy,” I said, “you and me, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

*

Funny thing was, I was okay with it. Trouble had a way of sharpening my senses, putting me on top of my game. And I had plenty of trouble to keep me occupied.

As evening fell, I found myself shuffling along in the chow line, chewing over the problem. It was better than chewing the food. I was so wrapped up in plotting that I almost missed the change in temperature. I was still catching dagger-sharp glares from the Cinco Calles and their buddies, but now they weren’t the only ones. A few of the whites—some of Brisco’s guys and a handful of strangers—gave me the side-eye and dropped into low murmurs as I walked by.

Westie cleared a seat at the table for me, but he didn’t look up from his food.

“Tell me something good,” I said, setting my tray down beside his.

“All out of good news, friend. Brisco spent most of the afternoon in deep consultation with a gentleman of the Latin persuasion. Word is, talks didn’t go so well.”

“The Calles want me that bad?”

“Far as they’re concerned,” he said, “every day you’re breathin’ their air is an unforgivable insult. The Calles are having some kinda leadership shake-up on the outside. Raymundo is up for parole in a few months. He puts you on ice, that’s a feather in his cap once he rejoins his brethren in sunny Las Vegas.”

I dragged a plastic fork along a gray lump of mashed potatoes. I didn’t have much of an appetite.

“Makes sense,” I said. “Killing me, and getting away with it, will make him look like a guy who can get things done. Somebody who isn’t afraid to spill a little blood. What’s Brisco think?”

Westie shrugged. “Brisco doesn’t want a war. And his general course of action, when it comes to problems, is to do whatever makes said problem go away. As quietly as possible.”

“You think he’ll hand me over to the Calles?”

“Not a chance, friend. The prisoners who take this white-solidarity business seriously would skin him alive for it. But just because he’s not handing you over…”

He let the thought trail off.

“Doesn’t mean,” I said, “he won’t stand aside and let them take a shot at me. ‘Oops, sorry, they shanked him when we weren’t looking. It couldn’t be helped.’”

Westie twisted his lips into a bitter smile.

“Now you’re thinking right. Watch your arse, Dan. Raymundo will make a move on you, and soon—it’s not if, it’s when.”

When I’d finished choking down dinner, I fell in with a ragged crowd of men heading back to Hive C. All my shade of pale, most of them Brisco’s boys.

I’d never felt so alone in a crowd.

Back in my cell, I caught Paul up on current events. He sat on his bunk, a dog-eared paperback by Voltaire nestled in his lap, and sighed.

“You’ve got options,” he said, “but ultimately it comes down to a choice of evils. There’s voluntary segregation, for instance.”

“Voluntary?”

Paul nodded. “Sure. Any prisoner who feels threatened has the right to request voluntary segregation.”

“How’s that work?”

“You know Ad Seg? The hole? Solitary confinement? That’s where they stick you. Hell, you can do your whole sentence in solitary. Pros: you won’t get stabbed. Cons: you’ll probably go insane from the isolation.”

“Not an option,” I said. “What else have you got?”

“Kill him first? Not easy to pull off, considering Raymundo never rolls with less than three of his, er, ‘homies’ to play bodyguard, but you seem like a resourceful gentleman. Of course, then the banger who takes his place will have to kill you to avenge Raymundo, and so on down the line.” He wagged his paperback at me. “Vengeance is an endless cycle. Tragic, really.”

That idea had some merit. Not sure how I’d pull it off, though. I set it on the back burner.

“Of course,” Paul added, “you could also…not be here when the attack happens. Those questions you asked me about people breaking out of the Iceberg. Those weren’t hypothetical, were they?”

I caught the glint in his eye.

“Paul?” I asked. “By any chance, would you be interested in getting out of here?”

“Hmm.” He glanced at his bare wrist, as if checking an invisible watch. “Well, I’ve got nothing else to do for another…forty years or so. So yes, Daniel, yes I would.”

“Forty more years? Christ, what’d you do?”

Paul smirked. “Less than you did, according to your rap sheet. But to answer your question, I’m a bad, bad man. A bad, bad man who made the mistake of trusting a public defender with a heavy caseload. I may have committed a tiny little murder, but there are such things as mitigating circumstances, you know?”