Part 19 (2/2)
”Aren't you sweet,” he said. ”I almost wish I could give you a hug.”
He didn't move, didn't smile. I closed the eye slot and walked down the hallway as fast as possible. Some of the voices hissed at me. They'd figured out a female was on deck. They talked about how bad they were spanking it that very second. I'd heard it all before, but the Greek chorus of loathing was as menacing to my ears on this occasion as it had been on my first day on the job.
”Officer Williams!”
The voice spiked out above the others, more unwanted attention. But I knew who it was, and I judged through the cacophony where the sound was coming from. The voice seemed to know I had slowed.
”You need someone to steer you right!”
I was at the slot, and I shot it aside.
Roy stood at the back of his cell, good leg and peg leg splayed.
”All right, then you tell me!” I yelled, but I could barely hear my own voice.
Roy tilted his head back and bellowed at the moon, ”Shut the f.u.c.k up, you G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.knuts!” so suddenly and with such volume that the command drove my face back inches from the door.
But then, behold, with a few protests and grumbles, the shouting lulled like the release of crashed gla.s.s. No keeper, no warden, no c.o.c.ked shotgun amplified over a megaphone had that kind of imperial authority.
I think Roy read the startled blink on my face, because he tried to shrug it off. ”What do you know? They listen!” Pleased as punch, his smile back, as if we were the oldest of friends and this the most coincidental of meetings.
”You get us a room with a little privacy, and I'll fill you in,” he said.
”Fill me in on what?”
”Now, that would spoil my surprise.”
I had no stomach for such s.h.i.+t. I threw the slot back across and strode away, the chorus of degradation rising again.
”You're going to love it!” he yelled after me.
At the nest, they had the paperwork for Harrison's intake ready. n.o.body joked or smiled. I'd managed to arouse the suspicions of inmates and COs alike.
In the parking lot, sitting in the Land Rover, I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. The stress pounded in every vulnerable region, the insides of my elbows and the backs of my knees. I flipped the cell phone and dialed Ruddik's number yet again, my habit for the past three days, like fingering prayer beads. It shocked me hard when I heard his quiet voice.
I asked him where the f.u.c.k he'd been. He told me to calm down.
”Why haven't you answered my calls?”
”I've had company.” And he told me where to meet him.
36.
The Mexican restaurant was one of those pink adobe haciendas at the end of a strip mall. I arrived as bidden, despite feeling sick, something heavy pressing me down, a cold, the flu coming on. The temperature had dropped, and I was chilled walking across the parking lot and into the restaurant. Busier inside than I could handle. I barely saw the hostess, just pushed past her. Ruddik occupied a booth opposite the bar. He told me I didn't look good, as if me looking good was important. He was drinking a lime margarita on the rocks. Virgin, he a.s.sured me. I ordered a tomato juice, craving vitamin C.
When the waitress left, he slid back to the corner of the booth and stretched out to get comfortable.
”Sorry I wasn't in touch before. They're monitoring my e-mail and my phone calls.”
”Who's they?”
He didn't bother to answer.
”Is it true about the p.o.r.nography?”
”Of course it's not true.” There was anger in the abrupt reply. ”Two years ago I was investigating an Internet child p.o.r.n ring based out of a penitentiary in Tennessee.”
The waitress returned with my drink and a basket of nacho chips. She asked what we wanted to eat. I had no stomach for anything and declined. Ruddik put in an order. Something chicken.
”A p.o.r.n ring inside a penitentiary?” I asked.
”A private enterprise operated a call center inside the penitentiary and used inmates as workers. We suspected credit card theft based on a spike in inmate bank accounts, but it turned out they were using the call center Internet connection to distribute p.o.r.nographic images and videos. Anyway, I surfed a few sites back then to research what was going on, set up a couple transactions to see where the trail would lead, and, just my luck, got caught up in a sting by a different agency. They cleared the charges right away, but the word got out to my brother COs. Now someone back there must have told someone here. Whoever leaked that information to the newspaper is trying to impede us. This is what happens when you get close. It's never clean. It's always messy. But I've been through it before, so I'm not panicking, and neither should you. Things will get worse, and then they'll get better. Trust me on this.”
”I don't know if I can handle any worse. I have a bag of drugs in my truck, and Fenton thinks I put him away.”
”They want the s.h.i.+pment. You'll get a call about the new drop. The drugs will take us somewhere interesting. You don't have to do any heavy lifting anymore. Just stay in position and handle the light stuff. I'm exposed. I'm in the open now. I'll do the rest.”
He opened his briefcase and took out a file. Always a G.o.dd.a.m.n file.
”What you said about the comic book, the idea of money, pa.s.sing messages. That really gelled for me.”
”How so?”
”What is money but a kind of message? In the old days, before the U.S. had a government-issued currency, any note could serve as money. Sometimes it was just an IOU between two people, but in mining towns, for example, it might be company-issued. They called it scrip. But the problem with scrip and any currency has always been, how do you make it counterfeit-proof? You need a stamp of authenticity, some kind of marking that's difficult to copy. Otherwise it's just worthless paper.”
”You think Crowley was drawing scrip?”
”A possibility worth considering. Inside a prison, you would need to disguise the fact that scrip is currency, because of the illegal activity it symbolizes.”
The waitress interrupted with a hot plate, whatever food Ruddik had ordered sizzling and spitting on the metal griddle. Some sides to go with it and a little basket of tortillas. The way he dug in made me wonder how often he took the time to eat.
”But that's just speculation. You're going to love what I found out about Hammond.”
He folded a tortilla, overfilled it with chicken and peppers, and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.
”I've talked to my contacts and learned some very interesting things. About twenty some years ago the FBI began investigating the possibility that conventional gang business operations in several regional centers of the country were being directed by gang leaders already residing within state and federal penitentiaries. Business hadn't ended when the leaders got put away. Business got better.”
”What do you mean?”
”Once the leaders were locked inside, the organizations got more sophisticated and effective. They developed reporting and financial recording mechanisms and a.s.sumed vertical layers of control and supervision. They got better at using prison employees.”
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