Authors: Perfect
or the risk. He wanted to remember the rage he felt the first day when the cell door clanged shut and the next day, when a gang of thugs surrounded him in the prison yard, taunting,
"C'mon, mooovie staaaar,
show us how you won all them mooovie fights."
It was pure, blind, irrational fury that had sent him plowing into the biggest of the group, fury and an unformed wish to end his life there and then, as quickly
as possible, but not until he'd inflicted pain on his tormentor. And he inflicted plenty that day. He'd been
in good shape, and all those moves he'd learned for the phoney fights in his "tough guy" roles weren't wasted. By the time the fight was stopped, Zack had three broken ribs and a bruised kidney, but two of his opponents looked a hell of a lot worse.
His triumph landed him in solitary for a week, but no one fooled with him after that. Word spread that he
was a maniac, and even the worst of the goons gave him a wide berth. He was, after all, a convicted murderer, not an ordinary petty felon. That also won him a certain amount of respect. It had taken him three years to wise up and realize that the easiest path was to become a trustee, which meant behaving himself and playing the game like a good little soldier. And he had done that, he had even come to like
some of the cons, but he had never, in all these years, known peace. Peace could only come with acceptance of his fate, and not once during his long incarceration, not even for a moment, had he been able to do what convicts were advised to do: He could not accept his confinement and simply put in his
time here. He'd learned to play the game and pretend that he had "adjusted," but the truth was just the opposite. The truth was that every morning, when his eyes opened, the inner battle began again and it continued to rage until he finally fell asleep. He had to get out of here before it drove him insane. His plan
was solid: Every Wednesday, Warden Hadley, who ran the prison like his own personal Stalag 17, attended a community meeting in Amarillo; Zack was his driver, and Sandini, his gofer. Today was Wednesday, and everything Zack needed to make good his escape had been waiting for him in Amarillo,
but at the last minute, Hadley, who was the featured speaker this week had told Zack the meeting was rescheduled for Friday. Zack's jaw clenched. If not for that delay, Zack would already be free. Or dead.
Now, he had to wait until the day after tomorrow to make his break, and he didn't know how he was going to bear the suspense.
Closing his eyes, he went over the plan again. It was filled with pitfalls, but Dominic Sandini was trustworthy, so he had help on the inside. Everything on the outside was supposedly taken care of by Enrico Sandini—money, transportation, and a new identity. After that, the rest was up to Zack. At this point, what worried him the most were the things he couldn't accurately predict or allow for, like the weather and the location of possible roadblocks.
Even with his careful planning, there were a thousand
tiny things that could happen and cause a domino effect that could result in the collapse of his entire scheme. The risk was enormous, but it didn't matter.
Not really. He only had two choices: to stay in this hellhole and let it destroy what was left of his mind or escape and risk the probability of being shot down when they tried to capture him. As far as he was concerned, being killed was infinitely preferable to rotting in here.
Even if he made good his escape, he knew they'd never stop hunting for him. For the rest of his life—probably his very
short
life—he'd never be able to relax or stop looking over his shoulder, no matter what part of the world he made it to. It was worth it. Anything was worth it.
"Holy shit!" Sandini's exuberant shout jolted Zack from his preoccupation with his escape plans.
"Gina's
getting married!" He waved the letter he'd been reading, and when Zack merely turned his head and gave
him a blank look, he said it louder. "Zack, did you hear what I said? My sister Gina's getting married in two weeks! She's marrying Guido Dorelli."
"That's a good choice," Zack said dryly, "since he's the one who got her pregnant."
"Yeah, but like I told you, Mama wasn't going to let her marry him."
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"Because he's a loan shark," Zack assumed after pausing for a moment to recall what he knew of Guido.
"Hell, no. I mean, a guy's got to make a living, Mama understands that. Guido just lends money to people in need, that's all."
"And if they can't pay him back, he breaks their legs."
Zack watched Sandini's face fall and instantly regretted his sarcasm. Despite Sandini's having stolen
twenty-six automobiles and having been arrested sixteen times before he was twenty-eight, there was something endearingly childlike about the skinny little Italian. Like Zack, he was a trustee, but his sentence was up in four more weeks. Sandini was cocky as hell, always ready for a fight, and he was intensely loyal to Zack, whose movies he'd loved.
He had a huge, colorful family who visited him regularly in the prison yard on visitors' days. When they discovered Zack was his cellmate, they were awed, but when they found out no one ever came to see him, they forgot about who he was and adopted him as if he were a close relative. Zack had thought he wanted to be left alone, and he made it clear to them by making himself scarce and pointedly ignoring their overturn when he absolutely couldn't get away
from them. It was a futile effort. The harder he tried to shut them out, the more persistently they surrounded him in their laughing, loving group.
Before he realized how it happened, he was being hugged
and kissed by rotund Mama Sandini and Dominic's sisters and cousins. Dark-haired toddlers with lollipops and sticky hands and heart-rending smiles were plunked on his lap while their olive-skinned mothers chattered about the affairs of Dominic's enormous family, and Zack tried helplessly to keep track
of all their names and simultaneously keep an alert eye on the lollipops that inevitably ended up getting stuck in his hair anyway. Sitting on a bench in a crowded prison yard, he had watched a chubby Sandini
baby take its first uncertain steps and stretch its arms out to Zack, not to any of the Sandinis, but to him for help.
They enfolded him in their warmth and when they left, they sent him Italian cookies and smelly salami wrapped in grease-stained brown paper twice a month, like clockwork, just like they sent to Dominic.
Even though it gave him indigestion, Zack always ate some of his salami and all of the cookies, and when
Sandini's female cousins started sending him notes and asking for autographs, Zack dutifully responded.
Sandini's Mama sent Zack birthday cards and admonishments about being too thin. And on those rare
occasions when Zack actually felt like laughing, Sandini was invariably the cause. In a bizarre sort of way,
he was closer to Sandini and his family than he'd ever been to his own.
Trying to negate his last damning remark about Sandini's future brother-in-law, Zack said with admirable
solemnity, "Now that I think about it, banks aren't much better. They throw widows and orphans out on the street when they can't pay."
"Exactly!" Sandini said, nodding emphatically, his good humor restored.
Realizing that it was a relief to set aside his agonizing worry about eventualities in his escape plans that he
couldn't control, Zack concentrated on Sandini's news and said, "If your mother didn't object to Guido's
profession or his jail record, why wouldn't she let Gina marry him?"
"I told you, Zack," Sandini said gravely, "Guido was married before—in the church—and he's divorced now, so he's excommunicated."
Straight-faced, Zack said, "Right. I forgot about that."
Sandini returned to his letter. "Gina sends you her love. So does Mama. Mama says you don't write to
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her enough and you don't eat enough."
Zack looked at the plastic watch he was allowed to wear and rolled to his feet. "Haul ass, Sandini. It's time for another prisoner count."
Julie's elderly next-door neighbors, the Eldridge twins, were seated upon the swing on their front porch,
a favorite vantage point that enabled them to observe most of their neighbors' activities along a four-block stretch of Elm Street. At the moment, the two spinsters were watching Julie toss her overnight bag into the back seat of the Blazer.
"Good morning, Julie," Flossie Eldridge called out, and Julie jerked around, startled to find that the two white-haired ladies were already up and outside at 6
A.M.
"Good morning, Miss Flossie," she called softly, dutifully turning toward them and walking across the damp grass to pay her respects. "Good morning, Miss Ada." Although they were in their middle seventies, the two ladies still looked remarkably alike, a resemblance that was reinforced by their lifelong
habit of wearing identical dresses. However, there the similarities between them ended, for Flossie Eldridge was plump, sweet, docile, and cheerful, whereas her sister was thin, sour, domineering, and nosy. Gossip had it that when Miss Flossie was young, she'd been in love with Herman Henkleman, but
that Miss Ada had put a spike in the couple's marital plans by convincing her submissive sister that Herman, who was several years younger than Flossie, was interested only in Flossie's share of their modest inheritance and that he'd squander it all on liquor and make Flossie into the town laughingstock to
boot.
"It's a beautiful morning," Miss Flossie added, tugging her shawl around her against the crisp January air.
"These mild days that happen now and again certainly make winter seem shorter and easier, don't they,
Julie?"
Before Julie could answer, Ada Eldridge got directly to her primary interest: "Are you going away again, Julie? You just got back a few weeks ago."
"I'll only be gone for two days."
"Another business trip or is it pleasure this time?"
Ada persisted.
"Business, sort of." Ada lifted her brows, silently demanding additional information and Julie yielded rather than being rude. "I'm going up to Amarillo to talk to a man about donating some money to a school
program."
Ada nodded, digesting this information. "I hear your brother is having trouble finishing Mayor Addelson's house. He should know better than to hire Herman Henkleman. That man is a complete ne'er-do-well."
Suppressing the urge to glance at Miss Flossie to see how she reacted to this condemnation of her alleged former sweetheart, Julie said to Ada, "Carl is the best builder this side of Dallas, which is why Mayor Addelson's architect selected him. Everything in that house has to be custom-made. It takes time and patience." Ada opened her mouth to continue her inquisition, but Julie forestalled her by glancing at
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her watch and saying quickly, "I'd better get on the road. It's a long drive to Amarillo. Bye, Miss Flossie, Miss Ada."
"Be careful," Miss Flossie admonished. "I heard a cold front's coming through here tomorrow or the day
after, from up near Amarillo. They get an awful lot of snow up there in the Panhandle. You wouldn't want
to get caught in a blizzard now."
Julie smiled affectionately at the plump twin. "Don't worry. I have Carl's Blazer. Besides, the weather forecast says there's only a twenty percent chance of snow up there."
The two elderly ladies watched the Blazer back out of the driveway, then Miss Flossie gave a wistful little sigh. "Julie leads such an adventurous life. She went to Paris, France, with all those teachers last summer, and she went to the Grand Canyon the year before. I declare, she travels all the time."
"So do hobos," said Ada in an acid voice. "If you ask me, she ought to stay home and marry that assistant pastor who's sweet on her while she's still got the chance."
Rather than put herself through the pointless misery of a verbal confrontation with her strong-willed twin,
Flossie did what she always did: She simply changed the subject. "Reverend and Mrs. Mathison must be
very proud of all their children."
"They won't be if they discover their Ted spends half the night with that girl he's going around with now.
Irma Bauder said she didn't hear his car pull away until almost four o'clock in the morning two nights ago!"
Flossie's expression turned dreamy. "Oh, but, Ada, they may have lots to talk about. I'll bet they're already in love!"
"They're in
heat!"
Ada snapped back, "and you're still a romantic fool, just like your mama. Papa always said so."
"She was your mama, too, Ada," Flossie cautiously pointed out.
"But I'm like Papa. I'm nothing like she was."
"She died when we were babies, so you can't be sure."
"I'm sure because Papa always said so. He said you were a fool, like her, and I was strong, like him.
That's exactly why he gave me control of his estate, if you recall—because you couldn't be trusted to look out for yourself, so I had to look out for both of us."
Flossie bit her lip, then she cautiously changed the subject again. "Mayor Addelson's house is going to be a showplace. I heard he's going to have an elevator."
Ada put her foot against the porch and gave the swing an angry shove that set it rocking and creaking.
"With Herman Henkleman on the premises, the mayor will be lucky if his elevator isn't wired to his commode!" she countered with stinging contempt.
"That man is a hopeless good-for-nothing, just like his
daddy was, and his daddy's daddy, too. I told you he would be."
Flossie looked down at her plump little hands lying folded in her lap. She said nothing.
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Zack was standing before a small shaving mirror above the sinks in the showers, staring blindly at his reflection, trying to tell himself that Hadley wouldn't change his plans again today, when Sandini hurried in
wearing a look of suppressed excitement and threw a cautious look over his shoulder into the hall behind him. Satisfied that no one was lurking within hearing, Sandini moved close and said in an elated whisper,