Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(94)

“We don’t report to that bastard,” Gerry said. “Do you think we have to do what he says?”

“You want to take that kind of chance? Let’s get going.”

Gerry replaced the radio, feeling sick to his stomach. It was murder, pure and simple. But at least they wouldn’t be there when it happened—and they couldn’t be blamed for that, now, could they?

Ninety seconds… He moved swiftly across the yard and opened the metal doors. Then he turned and threw one last glance back at the special prisoner. The man was still leaning against the chain-link fence behind the backboard. Pocho’s gang was already starting to close in, packlike.

“God help him,” he murmured to Benjy as the doors swung shut behind them with a deep metallic boom.





43





Juggy” Ochoa sauntered across the asphalt of the yard, glancing at the sky, the fence, the basketball backboard, his brothers scattered about. His eye turned back to the metal doors that had just clanged shut. The two guards had split. Just like that. He could hardly believe they’d put “Albino” back in the yard—and left him there.

There the sucker was, leaning against the fence, coolly returning his gaze.

Ochoa glanced around again through slitted eyes. His prison instincts told him something was going on. It was some kind of setup. Ochoa knew the others felt the same way. They didn’t need to talk; everyone knew already what everyone else was thinking. The guards hated Albino as much as they did. Somebody in high places wanted him dead.

Ochoa was only too eager to oblige.

He spit on the asphalt and scuffed it in with his shoe while he watched Borges pound the basketball on the ground with his fist, once, twice, as he made a slow round toward the hoop. Borges was going to reach Albino first, and Ochoa knew Borges could be relied on to be cool and sit tight. There would be plenty of time to take care of the problem, nice and quiet, in a way that nobody got singled out. Sure, it would mean a few months in solitary, loss of privileges—but they were all lifers, anyway. And this was sanctioned. Whatever the consequences, they’d be mild.

He glanced up at the distant tower. Nobody was looking their way: the tower guards mostly looked to the side and out, toward the perimeter fences. Their view of the interior of yard 4 was limited.

He turned his gaze back to Albino, disconcerted to see the man was still staring at him. Let him stare. In five minutes, he’d be dead, ready to be rinsed off and shipped out.

Juggy glanced around at the hermanos. They, too, were taking it slow. Albino was a fighter, a motherfucking dirty fighter, but this time they’d be more careful. And he was banged up; he’d be slower. They’d take him down as a pack.

They continued to slide in, tightening the ring.

Borges had reached the three-point line. With a smoothly practiced motion, he tossed the ball up and it swished through the hoop, dropping down—into the waiting hands of the Albino, who had stepped forward with a sudden deft movement to catch it.

They all stood and stared at him, hard. He held the ball, returning their looks, his stitched-up face utterly neutral. Juggy felt a surge of rage at the raw challenge in his look.

He glanced over his shoulder. Still no guards.

Borges stepped forward and the Albino said something to him, talking in a rapid undertone, so low Juggy couldn’t hear what he said. As he approached, Juggy reached down and pulled the little shank out of the crotch seam of his underwear. The time was now: shank the bastard and have it done.

“Hold on, man,” said Borges, gesturing with his palm out as Ochoa stepped forward. “I want to hear this.”

“Hear what?”

“You know you’re being set up,” Albino was saying. “They want you to kill me. And you know it—every single one of you. Do you know why?”

He stared in turn at the group that now encircled him.

“Who the fuck cares?” said Juggy, taking a step forward and readying the shank.

“Why?” said Borges, holding his arm out toward Juggy again.

“Because I know how to escape from here.”

An electric silence.

“Bullshit,” said Juggy, darting forward with the shank. But the Albino was ready and shot the ball at him, taking him by surprise, and in dodging it Juggy lost his stride. The ball bounced off and rolled away.

“Are you going to kill me and then spend the rest of your lives in here, never knowing if I was telling the truth?”

“He’s full of shit,” said Juggy. “He did Pocho, remember?” He lunged forward again, but the Albino skipped sideways and turned, like a matador. Borges grabbed Juggy’s arm with a grip of steel.

“He fucking did Pocho!”