The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(3)
The white-line highway ran between two walls of fencing, an open yard on either side where inmates did pull-ups on chin bars, played chess, walked, and shot the breeze. Mostly, though, they watched. Casually glancing to my left and right, I saw more cons watching me than guards. They were casual about it, too, but I knew when I was being sized up.
Just ahead of me, my seatmate said softly, “Don’t make eye contact, bro. Don’t wanna start shit ’til you get the lay of the land.”
It was good advice. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open. I wasn’t planning on moving in, anyway; as soon as I got the ear of somebody in charge, he’d figure out the mix-up and I’d be on the first bus out of here. I was already working on my exit strategy.
My lawyer, J.T. Perkins, was a demon in the legal arena—and everywhere else, for that matter. He’d make sure I’d be granted bail. I’d walk out of jail and keep walking. Just take Caitlin and go.
Vegas was over. Nicky Agnelli was on the run, his empire in ruins. Jennifer would have to run, too, just in case Nicky decided to try his luck at turning state’s evidence. The Chicago Outfit had won. That stung, but all I cared about was breathing free air. Maybe I could pack up my whole crew: take Corman and Bentley, Jennifer and Mama Margaux, and escape to someplace without an extradition treaty. Find a white-sand beach on the edge of paradise with crystal-clear water and frosty pi?a coladas all day long. Early retirement.
The fantasy kept my feet moving. Reality waited on the other side of a reinforced steel door, inside a lobby that reminded me of a DMV. Whirring, overtaxed fans pushed stagnant air around, and we followed the white line across a grimy linoleum floor.
“Head of the line, halt!” a basso voice shouted. The voice’s owner had a head like a block of granite, with a broad lantern jaw and a flattop buzz cut. He walked up and down the line, taking time to give each and every one of us the stink eye.
“My name is Correctional Officer Jablonski,” he bellowed, puffing out his chest. “You will address me as Correctional Officer Jablonski, or you will address me as sir. I do not know where you came from, and I do not care. You are now in my house, and so long as you are living under my roof and eating my food, you will obey my rules. The first rule is to keep your toes on that white line.”
“Asshole thinks he’s a drill sergeant,” my seatmate muttered next to me.
Jablonski’s head snapped on a swivel. He was up in the con’s face in a heartbeat, leaning in so close I could smell the liver and onions on his breath. “What did you say, prisoner?”
He held up his hands in a nervous apology. “Nothing, man, nothing. Sorry.”
Jablonski stared him down, daring him to open his mouth again. I held my breath. The convict cast his gaze to the floor. Satisfied, Jablonski slowly turned away.
The baton slid from his holster so fast I barely saw it coming. My seatmate didn’t see it at all. Jablonski spun around, whipping the baton across his head with a deafening crack. Blood spattered the shoulder of my jumpsuit as the convict dropped like a sack of rocks, dribbling a trickle of crimson across the white line.
Fight or flight. My heart pounded, mainlining on a sudden speed pump of raw adrenaline. How many guards in the lobby? Six? Seven. Too many guns. No chance to fight, no chance to run. And while I wasn’t up on the latest in prison administration policies, I was pretty goddamn sure what I’d just witnessed was illegal as all hell. I swallowed it down, bottling the fear, standing still as a statue and digging my nails into my palms to keep my hands from shaking. Same as the other convicts.
“Take this joker to the hole,” Jablonski told a nearby guard. “Write it up. Prisoner was reaching for my weapon. Self-defense.”
They dragged him off by his wrists. I felt like I had a chicken bone lodged in my throat.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I wanted it to. “Correctional Officer Jablonski. Sir.”
His gaze swung my way, steady and harsh as a spotlight.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I’m supposed to be in county, waiting for a bail hearing.”
“What’s your name, prisoner?”
“Faust. Daniel Faust.”
He waved over a guard with a sheaf of papers on a stainless-steel clipboard. His finger slid down a list of names, his lips moving as he read silently.
He rapped the clipboard, twice. Then he looked my way. His voice low, on the edge of a growl.
“Do you enjoy wasting people’s time, prisoner? Let me phrase that a different way. Do I look like somebody whose time you should be wasting?”
“No,” I said, bracing myself. “Sir.”
His hand eased toward his baton.
On the street, I’d know what to do. Throw the first punch, and make it a good one. Get inside his reach and beat him down before he knew what hit him. If we were alone, away from witnesses, whip out some magical firepower. On the street, I could have handled Correctional Officer Jablonski.
We were a long way from the street. And I realized, feeling the eyes of every guard in the room burning into me, I didn’t have any options. Jablonski could do whatever he wanted to me, and all I could do was take it.
Helpless. I’d learned what it meant to be helpless as a child growing up in my father’s house. And I’d dedicated most of my life to making damn sure I’d never feel that way again.