The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(43)

“Scrivener’s Nook. Whatcha need?” Corman’s voice was a little touch of home. I wanted to cling to it with everything I had.

“Corman, it’s me. Listen, I don’t know how much time I’ve got left on this phone, but tomorrow’s the big day. I’m going to give you a couple of names; we need a ‘visitor’ for each one of them, and they all need to show up at the prison a little after five p.m. Is that doable?”

“Sure thing, kiddo. What do they have to do when they get there?”

“Not a damn thing. We’ll be taking a little detour on our way to the visitor center. There’s one other thing I need. You’ve got a copy of Bruhn’s Ruminations on the Spirit in your private collection, right?”

“Sure. It’s an oldie and a goodie.”

“I need the ritual for creating a Hand of Glory.”

He paused. When he spoke again, I could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“Kiddo,” he said, “you do know what you need to make one of those, right? I mean, the basic ingredients?”

I looked over at Paul’s empty bunk.

“Yeah. It’s not a problem.”

“If you say so. Sure, I’ve got the info, but how do I get it to you?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Communications with my lawyer are privileged; the guards can’t even listen in. I don’t need the whole book, just the pertinent pages. If you can copy them and slip them inside a few sheets of legal paperwork, it’ll be easy to smuggle it inside.”

“You’re forgetting one thing. Perkins took a powder, remember? He thinks your girlfriend’s going to skin him alive for losing your trial. He’s no dummy. He’s probably halfway across the world by now.”

“Been thinking about that too. I think we can find a stand-in. You know…the one in Denver.”

Corman let out a grumbling hrm. “You sure about that, kiddo? Probably gonna cost you a favor or two.”

“If it gets me out of here, it’s worth it.”

I glanced at the battery indicator. It had dropped another hair-thin notch and the readout had turned stoplight red.

“Gotta go, this phone’s just about dead. I’ll see you, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“We’ll have dinner ready. Anything you want, just name it.”

A parade of gourmet cuisine marched through my mind’s eye. I chuckled. “Y’know what? Honestly, I’d kill for a cheeseburger right now. A thick, medium-rare cheeseburger and Jack Daniels on ice.”

“I’ll fire up the grill. Hey, you be safe out there. We’ll be waiting up for you.”

I cradled the phone in my hands for a while after he hung up, not wanting to let it go. Then one of my neighbors called out, “Kite coming right!” and I hid the phone away, ambling to the bars to pass along another message. This one, though, had my cell number on it.

I carefully unfurled the page. With no staples or tape, kite writers secured their “envelopes” with complex folds that reminded me of origami butterflies.

“Good news,” it read, “heard some guards talking, pissed. Warden said ‘no’ on total lockdown, some peeps got punctured in that scrap but no casualties. We should have some ‘free time’ tomorrow hahaha. Raymundo and his buddies are all in the hole, so stay tight tonight + all is roses. We’ll pour one out for Paul. Cheers from your pals in 431.”

I grabbed a blue pen from Paul’s tiny desk. Dents and furrows covered the cap, like a beaver had spent a few weeks gnawing on it. I crossed out my cell number on the back of the page and scribbled in 431.

“Salutations from 232,” I wrote under the first message. “I’m lining up everything we need to arrange a fitting memorial for our fallen friend. I will need a little help from you both in the morning. No worries, I’ll do the heavy lifting. Meanwhile I’ve been assured that well-wishers are coming to the visitor center to express their condolences, just as we’d hoped. All is well. D.”

I mimicked the elaborate folds as best I could and sent the kite winging on its way back to Westie and Jake.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait.

Behind bars, time mocks you. You’ll think an hour’s gone by, but then you check the clock and realize your sentence is only five minutes shorter than the last time you looked. It was just me, my boredom, and a litany of fears, sealed behind iron bars painted eggshell white.

Thinking about Paul made me think about Jablonski. I didn’t know Paul well, but I liked the guy. I liked him enough to want that score settled. I wouldn’t endanger our escape plan to take a crack at Jablonski, but if the opportunity came up, I’d seize it.

And if not, I could always find out where he lived and come back in a few months once the heat died down. Pay him a little visit after business hours.

Dinner came on wheeled carts and plastic trays shoved at us through foot-wide horizontal slats in the cell bars. Emerson, the new guy, was on zoo-feeding detail. “Room service?” I asked him as I took my tray. “Sir, there’s been a mistake. I clearly ordered the filet mignon.”

Emerson rolled his eyes. “Funny. I’ve only heard that line thirty times in the last hour.”

“I’ll get some new material,” I told him. I set the tray down on the writing desk and gave it a dubious eye. My final dinner in prison was chipped beef in white gravy—at least I hoped it was chipped beef—a slice of burnt toast, and a ladleful of anemic green peas. I poked an experimental finger into the gravy. Ice cold.