Martin cursed silently. How in hell did they find him so quickly? He picked up his phone. “Martin Sloan speaking.”
“Mr. Sloan, good morning. Benjamin Lawson here. I’m the warden now up at Barnaby Prison. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No. I haven’t been there for many years.”
“I imagine you’ve heard about Roger Kalb deciding he wants the rope instead of the needle.”
“Yes, it’s all over the news today.” Martin looked down at a newspaper on his desk. A headline read: Killer of Wife, Lover, Wants Rope.
“I imagine you know why I’m calling you, then,” Warden Lawson said. “Looks like we’re going to need your services one more time.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Martin said, trying to keep a businesslike tone in his voice. “I retired from that line of work many years ago.”
“Well, that’s understandable, Mr. Sloan, seeing as how the old noose isn’t still on the books anywhere but our own state, and Roger Kalb is the only death-row inmate in the country still entitled to a choice. But even though you’ve retired, I imagine you still know how to do it, don’t you? I mean, isn’t it kind of like riding a bicycle? You know, once you’ve learned how—”
“Mr. Lawson—” Martin began to interrupt.
“It’s Warden Lawson,” the caller corrected.
“All right then, Warden Lawson, it’s not a matter of knowing how to do it or not, it’s a matter of whether I’m willing to do it. And I am not. As I just stated, I am retired from that line of work. You’ll have to find someone else.”
“Just how would you suggest I do that?” the warden asked in a flat, correctional-officer voice. “Run an ad in the classified section?”
Wonderful. Just like Vivian had said.
“I don’t know how you would go about it, Warden,” Martin replied evenly. “In any case, it is your problem, not mine. Good day, Warden.”
Two-bit political appointee, he thought. Just like most every warden he had ever met. Put a man in total charge of hundreds, even thousands, of other men and he suddenly thinks he’s a god. Thinks he doesn’t have to take no for an answer. Well, Martin resolved firmly, he’ll take no for an answer this time.
At home that evening, Martin and Hazel were joined for dinner by Hazel’s daughter Susan, a pudgy young woman who, in Martin’s observation, seemed to have a somewhat prodigious appetite, and who was engaged to be married within the month.
“Has Don still not told you where you’ll be going on your honeymoon?” Hazel asked.
“No, the stinker,” Susan replied with mock dissatisfaction, chewing on a fried chicken leg. “Not even a hint. But it better be someplace I like.”
“Marty, he hasn’t let on to you, has he?” Hazel asked her husband.
“No.” Why the hell would he? Martin wondered. Don Engle was a bank manager, equal in pudginess to Susan, and he and Martin barely knew each other. “Why do you think he’d let on to me?”
“Oh, you know. Maybe a guy thing, a secret between the boys.”
“No,” Martin repeated. “Not a word.” And he hoped it would remain that way.
“It just better be someplace I like,” Susan said again, accentuating it this time with a pout.
The Sloan telephone rang and Hazel got up quickly to answer it. “I’ll bet that’s your bad boy right now, looking for his bride-to-be,” she said with what sounded to Martin like a middle-aged giggle. A moment later, she returned and said to Martin, “It’s for you, hon.”
“Who is it?”
Hazel shrugged. “I didn’t ask. Some man.”
Martin got up and went to take the call on the kitchen extension. “Hello—”
“Warden Lawson again, Mr. Sloan. Sorry to bother you at home, but in going through our old files I discovered something I thought might interest you. It’s your old employment contract with the state.”
“My what?”
“You signed a contract with the state back when you first took the job as executioner—”
“My God, that was more than twenty years ago,” Martin interjected. He felt a rising frustration. “Is that what this call is about? An employment contract I signed that long ago? Look, I told you I wasn’t available, Warden—”
“Well, sir, this contract says different,” the warden told him, with the smugness of authority. “See, this contract has an automatic annual renewal clause in it. That clause states that the contract will remain in force year after year unless and until either party terminates it—”
“All right, then,” Martin snapped. “I terminate it! Okay?”
“No, sir. The termination has to be in writing.”
“I’ll put it in writing!” He felt his frustration rising to anger. “It’ll be in the mail tomorrow, special delivery.”
“That won’t do, Mr. Sloan. See, the termination has to be thirty days in advance. You know, like thirty days’ notice. And you don’t have thirty days. Roger Kalb is due to be executed in eight days.”
“Look, for the last time,” Martin said tightly, “I am not going to do this. Don’t call me at home again!”
Back at the table, Hazel asked, “Who was it, hon?”
“Just a customer with a minor complaint. Nothing serious.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll take care of it in your usual efficient manner,” Hazel practically cooed, patting his hand affectionately while Susan smiled on.
Martin forced a smile of his own, trying to remind himself why he’d left Vivian for Hazel.
The next morning, for the first time in years, Martin’s breakfast was not settling. Pulling in to work, he parked his car in a space where a sign read: RESERVED — MARTIN SLOAN.
Opening the glove box, he searched around for any kind of antacid Hazel might have put in there, but found none. Exiting his car, he hurried into the main entrance of Stockman Cordage Company, one of the nation’s largest, oldest, and most respected manufacturers of rope and twine products, where Martin had gone to work after retiring from his previous occupation as a paid executioner for a number of states that had not yet converted from hanging, electrocution, and firing squad to the gas chamber, then to lethal injection.
Isaac Stockman, third-generation owner of Stockman Cordage, was the only one in the company who knew of Martin’s past work, and by mutual agreement they had kept the information private to avoid any stigma or snide amusement being attached to the firm. For his part, Stockman was pleased to employ Martin, because of his extensive familiarity with the world of fibers such as hemp, jute, cotton, sisal, and other materials that went into the manufacture of a wide variety of ropes and twine. Martin had proved his worth many times over in the years he had worked for Isaac, and the company owner had promoted him time and again, until Martin achieved his current position as vice-president of manufacturing.
Reaching his office, Martin spoke to Barbara, his secretary. “Barb, do we have any Turns or Alka-Seltzer anywhere?”
“No, Mr. Sloan, but I’m sure I can find you something. Stomach upset?”
“Yes. Breakfast not settling.”
“Let me see what I can find,” Barbara said, and hurried away.
Even with a queasy stomach, Martin did not pass up the opportunity to watch Barbara walk away. She had an amazing walk, kind of a roll, like she was on the deck of a ship. Martin’s first wife, Vivian, had a sexy walk like that. His current wife, Hazel, did not have a sexy walk at all, but what she had above the waist made up for it.
Barbara returned with a glass of something that was fizzing and bubbling. “This ought to do the trick, Mr. Sloan. I got it from Al Dixon down in shipping; he’s got an ulcer.”