by James Swain
“Comprende?” Valentine said.
His son blew out his cheeks. Whenever Yolanda wanted to get Gerry’s attention, she spoke to him in Spanish. Valentine had found it worked wonders.
“Yeah, Pop,” his son said.
Chapter 21
O’Sullivan went into the interview room first, and cuffed Bronco’ left wrist to the arm of his chair. Not handcuffing him earlier was an old ploy, designed to make Bronco think he was more in control of his fate than he really was.
When Bronco was securely locked down, Valentine and Gerry entered, and stood against the far wall. Garrow looked woefully at the floor, shamed by what he’d done, while Bronco stared right at them, having never felt shame a day in his life.
“You boys are in a lot of trouble,” O’Sullivan said, standing between the two chairs while glaring at his suspects. “If either of you have a lick of common sense, I’d suggest you play ball with these gentlemen. It will make your lives a lot easier.”
“I want another lawyer,” Garrow said loudly.
“What’s that?”
“You heard me.”
Valentine took a step forward. Bronco instinctively brought his legs together like a dog expecting to be kicked.
“Garrow’s your lawyer, so we brought him to you,” Valentine said. “You don’t get any more requests.”
“You’re violating my rights,” Bronco said, looking straight into the video camera that was perched in the corner. “I have the right to counsel. This man next to me is injured. He can’t represent me. I want another lawyer.”
Bronco was as cute as an outhouse rat, delaying things as long as possible. Valentine leaned forward, and put his face a few feet from Bronco’s. Up close, he was really ugly, and Valentine thought of the woman on the tape he’d seen in Bronco’s house. She’d seen something good in that face. She was probably the only one who had.
“You want another lawyer?” Valentine asked.
“That’s right. I know my rights.”
“If you release Mr. Garrow as your attorney, you realize he’ll be free to discuss your dealings with him.”
The blood drained from Bronco’s face. Behind his eyes, Valentine imagined he saw the gears churning, Bronco’s mind weighing every conceivable angle that he had left. That was what made cheaters so dangerous; they always understood the odds.
Bronco nodded toward Gerry.
“That’s your son standing over there, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“I remember that night on the Boardwalk. As I was running away with my crew, we ran past a car, and I saw your boy in the passenger seat. Looked just like you, even back then. I stuck my face to the glass, told him what a pussy he was. Know what he did?”
Valentine shook his head.
“He pissed in his pants, just like you’re about to piss in your pants.”
“Why am I going to do that?”
The sensation that Valentine felt between his legs was almost indescribable. Looking down, he saw that Bronco had taken his free hand, grabbed Valentine’s testicles, and was squeezing them for all he was worth.
Gerry remembered the night his uncle Sal had died like it was yesterday. He’d just turned fourteen and was already shaving. He was a man, or at least he thought he was. His father had picked him up from basketball practice, then gotten an urgent call from his Uncle Sal. His father had driven over to the beach, parked on Atlantic Avenue, and told Gerry to stay put. Then he’d gotten out, and started running to the Boardwalk. Gerry had climbed behind the wheel, and pretended he was driving. His father had already let him drive in a deserted parking lot. It had been scary, but also exhilarating. Each time he’d pumped the gas, the vroom of the car’s engine had made his heart race. He was spinning the wheel when four men ran past. Gerry had guessed the men had something to do with his father being here. They looked like bad people, and he had locked the car doors. One of the men stopped, and came over to the car. He was scary-looking, and had stuck his face to the driver’s window.
“Hey, pussy, what you afraid of?” he taunted him.
“Go away!” Gerry yelled.
“Want me to go get your daddy, momma’s boy?”
“Go away!”
He had started punching the window with his fists, making Gerry cry. Gerry had felt something warm between his legs, and stared at the growing wet spot in his crotch. The man had seen it as well, and laughed. Then, he’d run away.
A week had not gone by when Gerry hadn’t thought about that night. Why hadn’t he blown the horn, and gotten an adult to come to his rescue? Why hadn’t he done something besides piss in his pants? It had been the first true test of his manhood, and he had blown it.
But what Gerry remembered most was the mocking look on the man’s face. Later, when he learned that the man and his friends had murdered his Uncle Sal, that look had become burned in his memory. As he sprang across the room to help his father, it was that look that he was determined to wipe away, once and for all.
Chapter 22
Bronco had been punched in the face plenty of times. By security guards in casinos, cheaters he’d double-crossed, and by irate husbands who’d caught him making sandwiches with their wives. But, he’d never eaten a punch as hard as the one Gerry Valentine delivered to his jaw.
Being cuffed to the chair didn’t help; he was a sitting duck, and even though he tried to get out of the way, he still caught most of it on the face. The blow hurt more than he could have imagined, and in Gerry’s eyes he saw the little boy he’d terrorized long ago in Atlantic City. Bronco had imagined that when he died there would be a lot of people waiting on the other side to pay him back for things he’d done, but he hadn’t imagined he’d encounter one during this lifetime.
He released his grip on Tony Valentine’s nuts, and saw Valentine stagger away. Then, Bronco fell forward, his free, uncuffed hand grabbing Gerry’s leg. Gerry had continued to punch him on the shoulders and arms. Several guards came into the interview room, and Bronco waited for them to pull Gerry off of him. To his surprise, they didn’t, and Gerry kept hitting him. Bronco saw stars in front of his eyes, then for a brief instant, nothing at all.
When Bronco came to, he was being half-carried by Klinghoffer back to his cell. The guard had stuck his head under Bronco’s armpit, and was guiding him down the hallway past several other guards going the other way. One guard leered at Bronco, and said, “You do that to him, Karl?”
“Naw,” Klinghoffer said.
Klinghoffer came to the electronically-operated door that led to the cellblock. A black guard sat on the stool with a shotgun in his lap. Normally, weapons were forbidden inside the cellblock.
“What’s with the gun?” Klinghoffer asked.
“Couple of inmates were giving us trouble.”
The guard flipped a switch and the door swung open.
Bronco had regained his senses and glanced upward. Above the stool was a video monitor the guard had to look at when someone wanted to come out of the cellblock. The screen’s picture was grainy.
Bronco felt the strength slowly return to his legs and his head begin to clear. Tomorrow, he was going to feel like he’d been thrown off a cliff, but that was tomorrow. He pretended to still be half-conscious, and let Klinghoffer drag him.
Reaching the cell, Klinghoffer stopped to dig a key ring out of his pants pocket. The cells were still operated manually, and he struggled to find the correct key. Bronco stole a glance into the cell. Johnny Norton lay on the top bunk with a smug look on his face. Bronco winked at him.
“Can you stand on your own?” Klinghoffer asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then do it.”
Bronco stood on shaky legs. Klinghoffer found the key and unlocked the cell. As he did, Bronco removed the pen he’d lifted from Gerry Valentine’s shirt from his underwear. He’d also gotten Gerry’s wallet, which was thick with cash. “In you go,” Klinghoffer said.
“I’ve got another slot machine jackpot for
you,” Bronco said under his breath. He saw Klinghoffer stiffen.
“Yeah — where?”
Bronco went into the cell and turned around. “Same routine as before — three, two, and one. Jackpot will be less than ten grand, so you won’t have to report it.”
Klinghoffer stood in the open cell door. “Where?”
Bronco told him, only he didn’t tell him, the word coming out of his mouth a jumble of syllables. Then, he pretended like he was going to faint.
“I didn’t hear you,” the guard said.
There was an open crapper in the cell. Bronco sat on it, and shook his head like he was trying to clear the cobwebs. Klinghoffer stepped into the cell, his huge feet scuffing the floor. A little closer, Bronco thought.
“Say the name of the casino again,” Klinghoffer said.
“Swordfish,” Bronco said.
Johnny Norton leapt off the bunk and grabbed Klinghoffer from behind in a bear hug. For a little guy, Johnny was strong, and for a moment Klinghoffer couldn’t use his arms. A look of desperation crossed his face, like he suddenly realized that everything Bronco had done and said in the past twenty-four hours had been setting him up for this moment. He wasn’t as dumb as he acted, Bronco thought.
Bronco jumped to his feet, plunging the pen into Klinghoffer’s throat, piercing his windpipe and sending a stream of blood spurting out of his neck and onto the floor.
“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” Valentine asked his son. They were driving away from the Washoe County Detention Center in their rental, Gerry holding an ice pack over his bruised hand while staring out the windshield. His son had been disobeying him for as long as Valentine could remember. It was about to stop, or Gerry was going to start working for someone else. “I told you not to touch the guy, didn’t I? His lawyer was sitting right there. Garrow is going to claim police brutality, and you and I will have to explain ourselves in front of a judge.”
“He had your balls in a vice grip,” Gerry said.
“So what? I told you not to touch him, and you disobeyed me.”
His son shot him a look. “If a guy was holding my balls like that, I sure hope you’d hit him.”
Valentine stared at the road. His son didn’t get it. Gerry had let the situation dictate him, instead of him dictating the situation.
“Would you?” his son demanded.
“Beat up a guy squeezing your balls?”
“Yeah,” he said indignantly, his eyes burning a hole in his father’s face. “Or would you just stand there and whistle the Star Spangled Banner?”
They came to a traffic stop. Valentine braked the car while laughing silently to himself. He loved his boy more than anyone in the world, but that didn’t change who Gerry was, or the fact that his son wasn’t going to change his stripes. The quicker Valentine accepted that, the better off he was going to be. He said, “Yeah, probably.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’d probably beat up a guy doing that to you.”
“So what makes what I did to Bronco any different?”
“I’m thirty years older than you.”
“So?”
He tapped the accelerator. “I’m not using my balls as much as you.”
They came to a shopping center with a pharmacy, and Gerry asked his father to pull in so he could buy some painkillers for his hand. There was an empty spot by the front door, and he pulled in and Gerry hopped out. Before he shut his door, he stuck his head into the car. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Pop, but Bronco had it coming, and I gave it to him.” Then his son went inside.
A minute later, Gerry came out of the pharmacy and jumped into the car, his face a deep crimson.
“What’s wrong?” his father said.
“That son-of-a bitch stole my wallet and my pen!” Gerry exclaimed.
“The guy inside the store?”
“Bronco! He picked my pocket.”
Valentine stared at his son. The first thing a cop did when he got into an altercation was to check his pockets, and make sure they hadn’t been picked. He ran over the curb leaving the pharmacy’s parking lot.
Chapter 23
Johnny Norton walked out of the cell with his arms handcuffed behind his back. Bronco came out behind him, wearing Klinghoffer’s baggy uniform. As he closed the cell door, he glanced at Karl lying face-down on the bunk bed, bleeding to death. He hadn’t wanted to murder him, but sometimes there was no avoiding it.
They walked down the hall toward the electronic door. Beyond that door was the booking room, and beyond that the entrance to the jail. Maybe a hundred yards from here to freedom. Bronco kept his face hidden behind Johnny’s back and whispered, “You’re doing great. Walk with a scowl on your face, and keep talking.”
Johnny obliged him, and spit out a steady stream of chatter. He spoke to the new arrivals, while keeping a running commentary on the crummy food. If someone was watching them on a surveillance camera, they would be drawn to Johnny’s mouth, and not focus on Bronco. Hustlers called it the turn, and had been using it for years to distract casino security.
They came to the electronic door. It was massive, like something you’d see inside a bank. Bronco got behind Johnny and said, “Open sesame.” to the speaker in the wall, trying to imitate Klinghoffer’s delivery. As if by magic, the door slid open.
“Oh, baby,” Johnny said under his breath.
They marched out of the cellblock. In the hallway sat a big, bored black guard with a twelve-gauge shotgun lying across his lap. It was rare to see a firearm inside a jail, and Bronco felt like he’d hit the lottery.
“Top of the morning,” Johnny said.
“Same to you,” the guard said.
Drawing the baton from his belt, Bronco whacked the guard in the head, and dropped him to the floor. Placing the shotgun on the stool, he dragged the guard into the cellblock. Coming back, he closed the electronic door, then picked up the shotgun, and placed it vertically against Johnny’s back.
“You’re one smooth talker.”
“My speciality,” Johnny said.
“I’m going to buy you a steak and a Lowenbrau when we get out.”
They walked down the hallway to the next door, which led to the booking room. Then, they waited. Bronco had told Johnny that he didn’t know how this door operated. Not that it mattered: There were so many prisoners flowing through, he’d assumed the door opened fairly regularly.
“You sure this is gonna work?” Johnny whispered.
“Positive.”
Sweat was pouring down Johnny’s face and drenching the collar of his shirt. Bronco kept whispering sweet nothings in his ear, knowing Johnny was scared. Thirty seconds later, a white cop leading a black prisoner came through the door. The cop was pushing his prisoner like he had a grudge. Bronco gave him room, then grabbed the door before it closed. In the next room he could hear lots of men talking and phones ringing. Stupid sounds, yet beautiful to someone facing a life without them.
“Start walking,” he said.
Johnny stepped into the booking room. Bronco followed him, his eyes doing a quick sweep. A half-dozen cops in uniform, another five or six dressed in street clothes, a couple of secretaries, and a bunch of punks getting booked. The punks sat at desks with their wrists handcuffed to their chairs, giving information to the cops who’d arrested them. Just one big happy family, Bronco thought.
Johnny stiffened, and Bronco followed the path of his eyes. Johnny was staring at a skinny cop with sandy brown hair sitting at one of the desks. Bronco guessed this was the cop who’d arrested Johnny. All the cop had to do was lift his head, and he was going to see Johnny and Bronco and know something wasn’t right. Bronco thought back to the inscription on the desk in the interview room. NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE
No one but me, he thought.
Bronco removed the handcuff key resting in his pants pocket. He shoved the key into the handcuff on Johnny’s right wrist, and heard the lock click open. Johnny whispered “What
you doing?” and Bronco said, “Shhh,” then took the baton hanging from his belt, and shoved it into Johnny’s hands. Johnny’s fingers clumsily grabbed the handle.
“This my ticket to freedom?” he whispered.
“You bet,” Bronco said.
Lifting his foot, Bronco placed the heel of his shoe into the small of Johnny’s back, and shoved him into the center of the booking room. Johnny fell forward like a man slipping on ice, then righted himself, the baton clutched in his hands.
“Escaped prisoner!” Bronco yelled at the top of his lungs.
