Dressed to Kill

by Vincent Zandri

  Blood carried the same gear I did, only he looked much cooler doing it. Excepting his black windbreaker, his outfit of black jeans and T-shirt looked almost identical to the one he might wear down on Sherman Street. We were also hauling two AR-15 semi-automatic rifles and five hundred rounds of .223 caliber Remington ammo, some freeze-dried food, a case of bottled spring water, a two-man tent, sleeping bags, cooking equipment, portable stove, an eight-inch fighting knife apiece, night vision devices, and a case of beer in the back cargo area of the 4Runner. If nothing else, we were up for a nice vacation away from it all in the great Adirondack Mountains.

  But somehow, I knew this was going to be anything but. If the voice that seemed to be getting louder and louder in my gut was any indication, we were up for more than just a hike in the woods. We were about to come face to face with two killers who, already being charged with life sentences for their separate murders, had absolutely nothing to lose.

  We arrived in the small town of Dannemora just after eight p.m. Like Blood had said, there wasn’t much to the place other than the giant walls of the penitentiary to the right side of Main Street as we entered it, and the small commercial establishments on the left. Beyond those sat the small suburb made mostly of ramshackle wood clapboard homes. You could feel the tension in the air, the same way you might feel the presence of an intruder standing at the foot of your bed in the middle of the night.

  More than one front porch contained a man or woman holding a shotgun or rifle. The streets weren’t by any means crowded, but several people were dressed in camo as if it were hunting season, holstered pistols plainly visible.

  You ask me, this was a small town where people were scared. On edge. And when that happened, you could almost guarantee someone was going to get shot, one way or another.

  We passed by the many network news mobile broadcasting trucks, the camera crews, producers, and glamorous on-the-spot reporters who lazily roamed the Dannemora Prison parking lot, smoking cigarettes, mobile phones pressed up against their ears, or simply pacing the asphalt lot, waiting for something disastrous to happen. Something that would boost their ratings and extend their contracts.

  We pulled into the Super Eight Motel within eyeshot of the prison, exited the 4Runner, stretched out, and entered the check-in office located at the far north end of the two-story motel-no-tell. Unlike the parking lot, which was full of cars and trucks belonging to the many reporters and cops who’d converged on the scene, the reception area was empty. I went up to the counter, slapped the bell, and waited.

  Blood stood by my side. Taller. Bigger. More put together.

  “Not many keys left,” he said, referring to the pegboard mounted to the wall behind the counter, and the small hooks that supported the room keys which were almost entirely picked over.

  “Only one left,” I said.

  “Hope there’s two beds,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re homophobic, Blood. Just last week the president lit the White House up in the colors of the rainbow to celebrate gay marriage.”

  “His house, his choice.”

  I laughed. “Blood, say it ain’t true. You are homophobic.”

  “I don’t care what anybody does between consenting adults behind closed doors. But I don’t cross swords, you dig?”

  I laughed some more. “I’ll try to keep my teeny-weeny package away from your Jimmy Dean pork sausage if worse comes to worse.”

  “I sleep on the floor worse comes to worse, Mr. Teeny Weeny.”

  A man appeared from the back office. He was Asian-Indian and small, wearing black, square horn-rimmed glasses. “Can I help you?” he said in a heavy Indian accent.

  “We’d like a room,” I said. “Preferably with two beds.”

  The clerk nervously pulled on the top button of his cotton cardigan sweater, cleared his throat, then turned to look at the board.

  “You are together?” he said.

  “We work together is all,” Blood stated.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to the keyboard. “But there are no more rooms. The entire town is sold out. Many apologies.”

  I turned to Blood. “I guess we could set up the tent in the park. Camp out.”

  Blood’s eyes went wide. “I prefer civilization for as long as I can get it.” Nodding to the final key hanging off the board. “What about that one?”

  Again, the clerk nervously pulled on the button, smiled.

  “I am sorry, sir,” he said in his almost sing-song voice, “but that would be quite impossible. You see, that room is reserved.”

  “What?” Blood said, shifting his massive torso so that it hung over the counter and therefore over the little clerk. “Reserved for who? We’re here first. First come, first served. That’s the law of the land.”

  The clerk cleared his throat once more, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “That room is for Mr. Anderson Cooper. He would be very disappointed if I were to give his room away.”

  “Anderson Cooper,” I said. “The CNN guy.”

  “Reporter,” Blood said. “CNN big shot.”

  Nodding, the clerk said, “You do not like CNN?”

  “What I don’t like,” Blood said, “is Mr. Cooper acting like he’s more important than me.”

  “Blood,” I said, “Mr. Cooper has a reservation. Let’s go pitch the tent.”

  He turned to me. “You getting soft,” he said. Then, stretching his long frame over the counter, he reached out above the clerk’s head and grabbed hold of the key.

  “Please, sir!” the clerk shot back.

  Blood planted his feet, pocketed the key in his jacket. Then he dug into his black jean’s pocket, pulled out an impressive roll of bills.

  “How much for the room?”

  The clerk held up his hands. “Under normal circumstances, fifty for the night. Ten extra for towels and maid service.”

  Blood shaved three hundred off the stack, slapped it down onto the counter.

  “That’s for three nights. Not sure we’re staying that long since it’s possible we’re heading into the woods for a time.”

  The clerk’s eyes lit up as he looked one way and then the other, and pocketed the cash in his trouser pocket and therefore, under the table.

  “How much is Mr. Anderson Cooper paying?” Blood asked.

  “Fifty,” the clerk said. “Per night. Corporate Amex.”

  Blood cracked a smile. “See, we’re better clients. You make a better profit on us. No credit, cash. Keep Uncle Sam out of it.”

  Blood pulled the key back out of his jacket pocket, about-faced, and walked out of the office.

  “Thanks,” I said to the clerk, turning for the door.

  “Excuse me?” he said as I put my hand on the opener. “What shall I say when Mr. Cooper arrives?”

  “Tell him the truth,” I said over my shoulder, opening the door.

  “What truth would that be?”

  “That a man named Blood is currently staying in that room, and Blood doesn’t cross swords.”

  Laughing on the inside, I walked out.

  Chapter Seven

  The first-floor, far corner room housed two beds after all.

  We tossed our packs on our respective beds, along with the weapons, the ammo, and the case of beer. The rest of the gear remained stored in the 4Runner.

  “You think he’s being straight about a celebrity like Anderson Cooper taking this room?” Blood said, stealing a beer from the case, popping the top. “Or you think he’s trying to take us for some dough?” He drank some of the beer.

  “If he took us…you…for some dough with that story, then he deserves the money.” I grabbed one of the beers, opened it, drank. The cool, as opposed to cold, beer tasted good after the long drive.

  He smirked. “Guess you’re right. Blood, taken in by a little Indian man.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, Blood. Even super humans have their vulnerabilities.”

  “Superman could use a real drink,” he said, snee
ring at his beer can like it was beneath him. And it was. “Some food, too.”

  “How about that Chinese restaurant?” I said. “Fangs.”

  “Only restaurant in town not attached to a chain,” Blood said.

  “Should be full of interesting people. Some of whom we might like to speak to in the interest of pinning down our escaped cons.”

  “My guess is most people don’t know shit. Especially the police.”

  “Come on, Blood,” I said, draining my beer. “Let’s go make some friends.”

  Since Fangs was located only a few hundred feet from the motel, we took it on foot while listening to the many sounds of the prison leaking over the big concrete wall. Electronic buzzers sounding off, metal smashing against metal, tinny indiscernible voices blaring over loudspeakers. The prison was a living, breathing entity. The beating heart of Dannemora.

  There were a lot of vehicles parked out in front of Fangs, which told us business was booming these days for the Fang family. Soon as Blood and I entered the single-story, wide open dining room, the entire crowd fell silent while turning to stare at us, size us up. As we stood side by side next to a tall table that held maybe a half dozen, plastic coated menus and was presided over by a short Chinese woman in her mid to late 70s, all you could make out was the piped-in Chinese music. Listening closely, I noticed the music was actually Christmas songs being performed on traditional Chinese instruments.

  “Isn’t that Silent Night, Blood?” I said, making out the twang of a Chinese harp and the sad bowing of a violin-like instrument.

  “That it is,” he said. “Silent Night…in June. Kinda makes me homesick.”

  “Maybe we’ve entered a time warp. Like that FOX series, Wayward Pines.”

  “Maybe it’s the year 4045,” he said. “Christmas time. Good to know there’s still Christmas in 4045.”

  Maybe a dozen tables filled the wide open, brightly lit space. Some long and others round. No booths. Two tables to our right were occupied by what looked to be reporters. You could tell by the many mobile cameras resting on the floor and the number of empty beer and wine bottles that sat on the table beside plates of Moo Goo Gai Pan, poo poo platters, bowls of shrimp low mein, pork chow mein, and wanton soup. One of the women sitting at the closer table was tall with dirty blonde hair. Her Fox News T-shirt fit her snuggly. I recognized her from the local Albany Fox News affiliate. She caught my glance and smiled. For a split second, I assumed she was smiling at Blood. But when I realized her happy face was devoted to me and me alone, I felt a wave of warmth shoot up my spine. I smiled back.

  A couple more of the long tables were occupied by the state police. Their table was far more orderly with soft drinks only on hand set beside their gray Stetsons. Sitting at the head of the closest table was a short, fit man, his hair brush-cut short, his gray and blue uniform impeccable. To his credit, he was the only man from the table not staring at us while he carefully sipped soup from a white ceramic spoon.

  The long table beyond them was filled with big men dressed in uniform blues, the sleeves on their shirts rolled up, showing off bulging, HGH-fed biceps. The patches on their shirts revealed their occupation as corrections officers for the Empire State of New York. Their drinks of choice were shots and beer chasers. And from where I was standing, most of them looked plastered.

  One of them, a man with no neck, his hair shaved, and bearing a goatee and mustache, cupped his hands over his mouth.

  “Go home, cocksuckers!” he shouted, to the laughs and snorts of his compatriots.

  Funny…

  The tables of reporters shot him a quick glance but quickly returned to their meals as if they were used to his outbursts by now. Like an exhausted set of parents made to endure yet another temper tantrum from their toddler.

  “So much for making friends,” I said.

  “Tension’s thick enough to shoot a bullet through it,” Blood said under his breath.

  To our left was a bar. There were a couple of people seated at it drinking, including one very attractive woman who was also dressed in a gray and blue law enforcement uniform.

  “Maybe we should enjoy a cocktail first,” I said, “while the tables and the rabble clear out. Keep the peace that way.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Blood said. “I hate to hurt anybody on an empty stomach.”

  “You like table now?” the sweet little Chinese woman said.

  “We’re gonna grab a drink or three if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “Three?” she said. “You must be boozer, like prison guards.” “No,” I said. “Just a figure of speech.” Her face lit up, her dark eyes wet and kind.

  “Ha ha,” she said. “Figure of speech…like cocksucker. That what Correction Officer Rodney always say.” She identified Rodney by pointing her pencil at the loud-mouth, thick-necked, head shaved one.

  “Cocksucker this, cocksucker that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”

  Together, Blood and I made our way to the bar.

  Chapter Eight

  By luck or divine Providence, the bar stools that surrounded the attractive woman at the bar were unoccupied. Or, maybe luck or God had nothing to do with it. Maybe it had everything to do with the fact that her uniform pegged her for the local sheriff.

  Bridgette Hylton.

  Since she was sitting on the ninety-degree angle at the far corner of the L-shaped bar, Blood took the seat to her right-hand side, and I took the seat to her left. If I scooched to my right a little on my stool, we could all face one another.

  She was drinking a Budweiser long neck. My brand. Raising my hand to snare the attention of the young man tending bar, I said, “Three Buds, please.”

  Blood waved his hand as if to block my order.

  “Not on your life,” he said. Then, “Bartender, might I inquire about your wine selection for the evening?”

  The kid behind the bar was tall, impossibly thin, wearing a T-shirt that bore a black and white photo of a UK boy band called The Rixton. Printed on the back of the T-shirt were the tour dates, including one in the neighboring town of Plattsburg. He had one of those thick, round, earlobe piercings that you might see in the bush country of East Africa. His black hair was short and covered by a baseball cap with an extra wide flat rim and the gold sticker it’d come with still stuck on. The hat wasn’t pulled onto his head but merely balanced on it, cocked to one side. Ghetto style.

  “Wine selection?” the kid said while washing out a beer glass with a damp gray rag. “Why, we have an excellent Heineken, a fine Miller High Life, the classic but oh so subtle Pabst Blue Ribbon, and of course, a very rare but lovely Budweiser, two thousand and fifteen. Unless, of course, you prefer a cocktail from our primo selection of generic bottom shelf booze.” He swept his left hand over the shelves of no-name alcohol like gameshow host Vanna White used to do when Don Pardo belted out, “A new car!”

  Sheriff Hylton burst out in laughter until she put her hand over mouth like she’d merely coughed.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “Something in my throat.”

  For a man who rarely demeaned himself by showing any kind of emotion whatsoever, Blood looked deflated, but not defeated.

  “I choose the Budweiser, young man,” he said after a beat. “When in Rome.”

  “Dannemora is a far cry from Rome.” The kid smiled. “Two Buds coming right up.” Then, looking at the sheriff, “You ready?”

  She picked up the bottle, glanced at what little was left. “I’ll allow myself one more since these nice gentlemen are buying.”

  The kid dug into the cooler, retrieved the beers, and popped the tops. He set them before us. I reached into my chest pocket on my work shirt, pulled out a twenty, set it on the bar.

  “Glass?” he asked, making change.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  We all took sips from our beers.

  Then, looking neither at Blood or me, the sheriff said, “So how much is this beer gonna cost me, Mr. Marco
ni and Mr. Blood?” Blood and I exchanged glances.

  “You know who we are?” he said.

  Finally, she looked at Blood, then at me, smiling at us warmly.

  “I’m the sheriff,” she said. “As you probably are already aware. Maybe I’ve been completely cast aside in the search for those two on the-lamb murderers, but I still command the respect of the governor.”

  “Valente called you?” I asked, recalling his ordering me to check in with Hylton as soon as I got into town.

  “His assistant texted me, actually,” she said, picking up her iPhone from the bar, setting it back down. “She asked me to be kind to you.”

  “Good of him…or her,” I said. “Then you know why we’re here.”

  “Take a good look around you, Mr. Marconi,” she said. “The entire joint is here for the same reason.”

  “True dat, Ms. Hylton,” Blood said, stealing another sip of his beer, no doubt wishing it were a 2010 Malbec. “Got enough lawmen in there to start a small war.”

  “So, you know my name too,” she said, holding out her hand to Blood.

  He took it in his, as if it were a delicate leaf. Her face blushed.

  Blood, working his magic.

  She turned to me, with the same hand held out. I just shook it. No magic.

  She was younger than Blood and me. Maybe just a year shy of forty. Her hair was dirty blonde and natural. It was long enough to hug her shoulders and parted on the side neatly over her left eye. The eyes were brown and big and deep, and her lips were thick and wet from maybe one beer too many. When she smiled, it wasn’t out of happiness so much as out of resolve. A woman who, having gained the trust of the town of Dannemora enough to be elected sheriff, was nonetheless being told to step aside by some big-wig law enforcement agencies in the investigation to locate its two escaped cons. Something that was either going to stop her or make her more determined to go rogue and take matters into her own hands whether they liked it or not. In any case, Governor Valente was going rogue, and she knew all about it. So maybe the two of them were working together. Which meant, she was more or less working with us.