“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