One last try. He readjusted himself over Matusic’s arms, then closed his grip with a slow, patient strength. He could hear the laughter from behind him, quiet enough not to draw the guards. Shake was gurgling something. “... I... rrr... rokay... rokay.” Shephard let up. “I’ll tell you... no more...” Shake’s chest was working deeply.
“You’re on, Shake. Spill it and grow rich.”
Then the big man’s arm fell to the mattress, and his expression relaxed. Shephard got off and pulled him up, propping him against the cell wall. Face to face, Shake’s lips trembling into a smile. Still, he kept the money, clutching it away from Shephard like a child.
“Mercante... just died. Like I told you.”
“Shake, you disappoint me.” Shephard wrenched the man’s money hand from behind the bed and tore away the bills. He put them in his pocket and retreated to the far end of the cell. Then, a sound more agonized than any he’d managed to beat out of him, a high-pitched sorrowful keen that came from deep inside.
“Nooo... oooh nooo! I earned that. It’s miiine...”
“Death and taxes, Shake. I’m charging you this sixty plus the twenty more I was going to give you. For feeding me a bunch of shit and making me break a sweat. Deal’s off.”
Shake scooted up against the wall again, eyeing Shephard with a heartbroken pout. His chin trembled. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“You broke the deal.”
“Shut up, Matusic. Have a nice life.” He leaned toward the cell door, looking for the guard.
“Wait! I can maybe tell you something.”
“I just about strangled you. Now you want to talk.”
“It’s a matter of honor.”
“Tell me about it. I’m all ears.”
“The money?”
“Stays where it is until I hear what I need.”
Shake buried his fleshy face in his hands. Shephard heard him sigh. “Okay, but when I tell, you pay. Right?”
“That was the deal ten minutes ago. Weren’t you paying attention?”
“This is it. Come here. Come a little closer and I’ll tell.”
Shephard sat on the end of the bed. Shake scrunched up closer to the wall, hugging his legs to his chest. It was almost a whisper: “Azul didn’t die in ’eighty. He just played a little cut and run.”
“Cut and run?”
“Get somebody else’s tags. Get their clothes and cell. Be them, if they’re up before you. You know... out before you.”
“Won’t work unless they’re twins, Shake. Am I going to have to keep your money?”
Shake leaned forward, licking his lips, boring into Shephard with his tiny eyes. “They practically were twins, except for a beard. Azul grew a beard, and when I saw him do that I knew what he was gonna try. Knew it. They were real alike. Enough to make it work. And Azul worked in Records, so I’ll bet that helped. He could change shit. Azul even cut off his middle toe — right behind the first joint — because that’s how—”
“What was his name?”
“Manny Soto... because Manny had a joint missing. Azul pulled it off during the riot. Caught Manny alone, then shanked him, dragged him off to his own cell. Changed everything with him and left him there. I was the only one who ever knew. I... swore I’d never tell.”
“And he helped your money collection to make sure.”
“Five hundred dollars. It’s still under the bed, with my books.” Shephard stood up, his mind racing but his body heavy, as if in a dream. “I never thought he’d get away with it. After the riot was done, bunch of us got transferred out so they could rebuild what we wrecked. I think Azul went to Lompoc. I never saw him again. He just got lost. I thought they’d find out, send him back. After a year I quit even thinking about it. Azul gave me money lots of times.”
“I’ll bet he did.”
“Wanna see it?”
Shephard went to the door and called the guard, yelling over the din of the music and singing. The prisoner below was still mangling the Dylan song, but the harmonica had wandered off to its own wild melody.
“Hey... what about our deal?”
Shephard tossed the sixty on the bed, then chased it with one more twenty. He had eight dollars left. “Shake, Azul bought a lot of honor for five hundred bucks. I almost strangled you and you wouldn’t give. But I take away sixty dollars and you squeal. Why?”
Matusic gathered up his hard-earned pay, organizing the bills in a neat stack. “I told you. I collect it.”
“But what the hell for, if it’s sitting there under the bed?”
The damaged grin again, self-satisfied and cruel. “Don’t you know anything about the world? Shit man, money is freedom.”
TeWinkle was in his office, halfway through dinner. “Ah, Shephard. Find anything?”
“Manny Soto. Remember him?”
TeWinkle rearranged his diced carrots, frowning into the plate, then looked back up with a nod. “Vaguely. I think we relocated him after the riot. In for murder too, I think. You keep some nice company, Shephard.”
“Lompoc?”
“Think so. Here. Try ’em yourself.” He pushed his telephone toward Shephard, who dialed and was put on hold. Five minutes later, he was put through to the assistant warden. No need to check the files, said the assistant, Manny Soto was released two weeks ago.
Shephard hung up, retrieved his Python from the desk, and walked out.
Twenty-three
As the last boarding call for Flight 321 droned through the Sacramento terminal, Shephard repeated the three names to Pavlik. Judge Francis Rubio, District Attorney Jim Peters, Wade Shephard.
A condemned trinity, he thought. “Carl, you’ve got to get them out of wherever they are, and into someplace else. Anyplace. Just get them out. You got that?”
Pavlik’s voice came back thin and unsure over the long-distance wires. “Tom, would you mind telling me—”
“I can’t, Carl, buddy. My plane’s leaving without me, and this is one I don’t want to miss. Trust, Carl. Call me at my father’s in an hour and a half.” He gave the number. “And Carl, try Wade last. I just called the church and he’s gone home. Should be there in half an hour.” He hung up, hustling toward the gate with a sweat-drenched boarding pass in his hand.
The landing at Orange County was vicious and abrupt, the jet buffeted by winds that still howled in from the desert. Even the LaVerda seemed tentative as he sped down 405, for the first time in his recent life keeping an eye out for cops.
Wade’s car wasn’t on the street, nor was it in the garage. Shephard wheeled in his motorcycle and closed the door. He let himself in with a key he hadn’t used for a decade and a growing sense of dread.
The house smelled of dried eucalyptus, and of Sunday bacon and eggs. He realized he had been expecting smoke.
“Pop?”
The living room was empty, the kitchen as spotless as ever, the den door closed. He listened, then pushed it open. The evening sunlight slanted through the blinds, ribbing the wall in light and shadow. He passed down the hallway with a faintly growing optimism, went through the main bedroom to the bath. “Pop?” When he pulled back the shower door, he saw only the glistening tub and a bar of soap that had slid off its tray and now covered the drain. Shephard picked it up and set it back in place. Wade’s secretary had said he’d left, he thought. Almost two hours ago, for home. Dinner? Date? A party?