A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(99)

The thing that first struck Slawicky about jail was that it was ugly. There were modules that looked modern, and open bay sections, but those were filled up already—maybe given to favored inmates—so he was led to a traditional block with cells and iron bars. Maybe if the DA’s office scheduled a trial he would be here long enough to move. For now the guards had Slawicky in a cell alone.

Everything in the jail was made to be plain, bare, and hard. Just looking told you if you hit anything you’d just break your hand. But he needed less time than he would have expected to get used to things. He didn’t miss soft furniture or any of that stuff. He had never wasted much time thinking about any furniture besides his television set. When he had worked on crews taking furniture out of houses and heard Crane say how much some of it cost, he’d seen it as wasted money.

It took Slawicky two days to run into the first of the men Dan Crane had hired to get themselves sent to jail and kill the Indian. He was Carl Ralston, the biker. Slawicky was in line waiting his turn at the cafeteria counter when he felt someone standing too close to him. Ralston was big—at least six feet three, with tattoos that showed through his shaved blond hair and on his neck. When Slawicky turned, Ralston’s face was about a foot away and grinning horribly at him. It was hard to keep from flinching, but Slawicky was pretty sure he managed.

But Ralston laughed, so Slawicky did too. They sidestepped dutifully through the line, received their food, and then Slawicky followed Ralston to a table. They sat, and Ralston said, “There are five of us now.”

“Us?”

“You’re in here for the Indian too, right?”

Slawicky thought faster than he’d thought in years. “It’s not a competition, is it?”

“No. Whoever gets the first chance at him will do it. We have it worked out that whoever else is nearby will help—block surveillance cameras, distract guards, make noise, whatever.”

“He’s not here yet, is he?” Slawicky asked.

“Not yet, but he could be any day.”

Slawicky nodded as he considered his new situation. Crane had told him that the word had gone to the jail that the killing of Jimmy Sanders was off. Maybe the word hadn’t gotten around to Ralston yet. Slawicky would certainly never have considered trying to kill Sanders, especially to save Crane. But he was a new man in a central jail. Being one of five allies who were prepared to kill somebody was a lot better than being alone in here. If Ralston and the others would help him kill Jimmy Sanders, then they’d also help him in a fight with other inmates. “You can count me in,” Slawicky said. “I used to work with Nick. He didn’t deserve to die.”

Ralston looked at him with mild contempt. “Never met him. This isn’t about Nick. It’s about money.”

“Well of course. But I was just saying.”

Ralston watched him, but said nothing.

Slawicky said, “How do I know when it’s happening?”

Ralston shrugged. “Maybe you will, and maybe you’ll just hear about it after. But be ready to lend a hand.”

Slawicky watched Ralston chewing his food. He wanted to ask him about what Crane had said. The killing was supposed to be off because the Italians didn’t like it. He probed a little. “I heard that the Mafia has guys in here who kind of make the rules. Ever run into that?”

Ralston nodded. “I’ve heard that, and I’ve seen them around. There are a bunch of them awaiting trial for different things. They mostly hang out by themselves. I stay away from them, and you should too. You really don’t want to get into trouble with those guys.”

The next night Slawicky slept more soundly on his hard shelf of a bunk. At last he was protected. He was in trouble, but it probably wasn’t fatal trouble. The police had found the rifle he’d buried, even though he’d parked the motor home over it. But they didn’t have enough evidence to convict him of Nick’s murder. There was no way. He would probably be out of here on bail before any of the stupid bastards like Ralston who had gone to jail on purpose. After he was out he would have to stay safely out of sight until the police charged Crane with the murder. But that shouldn’t be hard. Crane had killed Nick, but he wasn’t likely to be able to hunt down Slawicky and kill him too. He wouldn’t have time, and he wasn’t the man for the job.

On the third night, the man for the job arrived. His name was Angelo Boiardo, and he was in his early twenties. He had been raised in Pittsburgh, but after he’d gotten in trouble there he had been sent to Buffalo to live with an uncle. He had been working for Mr. Malconi for about four years, making himself useful, gaining knowledge and respect. At the moment he was in jail awaiting trial for carrying a concealed firearm.

His lawyer had come to the jail and told him that Mr. Salamone had personally selected him to perform a service for Mr. Malconi. Boiardo had only a vague idea what Slawicky had done to displease the old man. There was something about endangering a business by lying about throwing a gun in the lake. It didn’t matter to Boiardo. If he had been expected to worry about that, he would have been told all about it.

What he was told was that at 2:39 am, there would be a short circuit in the electronic locking system affecting his cellblock, Slawicky’s cellblock, and the sliding gate between them.

Boiardo was sleek as a whippet and very quick. At 2:39 when he heard the electronic lock click and the bars begin to roll out of the way, he was already standing sideways beside the lock ready to slide his body out of his cell. He hurried down the cellblock, reached the gate when the bars had only opened a few inches, and slipped through to Slawicky’s cellblock. When he reached Slawicky’s cell the bars were fully open, but Slawicky was still asleep.