The Monarch (3 page)

Jonathan caught himself.
Maybe we don't start this with assault
. Who knew what they wanted.

“Can I help you boys?” Jonathan asked, his voice neither threatening nor timid. Let them decide how this should go.

The big one seemed to look to his friend for guidance before he answered, and in that moment, Jonathan realized he should have just kept walking. No matter what these guys said or thought when they started after him, they wouldn't have done anything. Whatever happened now was Jonathan's fault, and he knew it.

“Stay away from her, man,” the guy said.

“Her? What are you . . . wait. You mean Trudy?” Jonathan was amazed, not at the connection but at the fact that these guys had apparently followed him and Trudy and he hadn't even noticed.
Am I that rusty?

“Did you fuck her? Fuck her in
my
fucking car, you stupid fuck!” The guy's cool lasted about ten seconds. He was almost crying. This was embarrassing.

“Look . . .” Jonathan mentally scanned through the
reams
of things Trudy had said to him tonight and found her ex-­husband's name. “Look, Steve. You've got the wrong idea. Man, have you got the wrong idea.”

“Just . . . just leave her alone. Fucker.” This guy was a one-­note wonder. “She needs to work shit out and she can't do that if you're all smooth and shit in her fucking face.”

“Yeah!” the little butterball chimed in.

“I'll try and watch the, uh, smoothness,” Jonathan said. He sighed and returned to his milk, figuring turning his back on these guys was about as dangerous as taking a shower without a bathmat.

Then pain suddenly sparked in the side of his head.

“Fucker!” Steve shouted as he and his rotund friend ran off, high-­fiving as they did.

Jonathan took his hand away from his head and saw blood on his fingers. He looked down and saw the rock they'd pitched at him.

“What are you? Ten!” Jonathan shouted after them, thinking about going after them for a second, but realizing that leaving Trudy to him was punishment enough.

He grabbed the milk from its hedge resting place and heard a
pop
.

“No, no, no.” Lifting the bag up, he saw a thin stream of milk pour out the hole he'd just torn in it. “Damn it!”

Jonathan ran, holding the milk out in front of him like a bomb, all the while milk streamed out of the container and all over him. By the time he made it to his kitchen and grabbed a container, he'd saved about a cup's worth. He carefully put the cup in the fridge and went to get a bandage and some ibuprofen for the pounding lump on the side of his head.

He cleaned up the wound but when he dug under the sink for the bandages all he found was an empty box. Fed up, Jonathan tossed the towel into the sink, stomped into the living room, and opened his laptop. While it booted up, he poured himself another drink to drown out the little voice in his head whining about his promise.

“Come on!” he said a little too loud, wincing both from the headache and the idea he might wake Natalie up. When silence prevailed and the throbbing subsided, he opened a browser window and logged on to a Web site he hadn't been to in years.

The page resolved and asked for his log-­in name and password, no logo or text displayed to show the identity of the site. It made sense, since the site didn't know his real identity either.

Jonathan logged in with his numeric username and password, memorized long ago. Another minute of account fetching and the details of his bank account in the Caymans displayed. When the account balance popped onto the screen, it eased his frustration somewhat. Nine-­figure numbers tended to do that.

“Enough is enough,” he said, keying in a transfer to his local Tallahassee account. He wouldn't take much. No sense in that. A hundred thousand should suffice.

Jonathan licked his lips as he hovered the mouse pointer over the commit button. This would change everything. No more crappy photography. No more insipid clients. No more cutting coupons or counting change. No more stealing gas money from the swear jar.

He looked up at the faces of Samantha and Natalie staring down at him from the mantel, the diffused lamp light making them seem at once disappointed and angry. On her deathbed, Samantha had made Jonathan promise that he would never allow his old life to come anywhere near their daughter. He'd easily agreed, but then she'd added that she also meant his old life's bank account. Jonathan didn't like it, but he understood. She wanted Natalie raised as normal as possible. And while his money wasn't technically stolen, it was the result of less than lawful activities. A mere moment of looking into her eyes made him promise without reservation. But that was then.

After a long, self-­deprecating moment, he slammed the lid of the laptop closed, drained the rest of his drink, and fell back on the sofa, a familiar lump where a spring had slipped digging into his back. He shook off the despair and chuckled.

“Look at it this way. It can't possibly get any worse.”

 

3

FCI Yazoo City

Yazoo, Mississippi

9:00
P.M.
Local Time

“H
AVE A SEAT,”
the warden's secretary said with a smirk. Lewis Katchbrow shuffled over to one of the empty plastic chairs against the wall in his ankle chains and wedged his six-­foot, two-­hundred-­twenty-­pound frame into it as best he could. He winced as his hands, handcuffed to the chain around his waist, were squished against the chair's arms. Lew heard the secretary chuckle, but ignored him.

That's how Lew had spent most of his two years in Yazoo, Mississippi's Federal Correctional Institute—­below the radar. Minding his own business. Most, until today, that is. He still couldn't believe what had happened in the past few hours.

The cafeteria door had slammed shut, leaving Lew and about twenty inmates hungry, pissed, and milling around in the afternoon rain. A man used to regulations, Lew had planned on just heading back to his cell to wait for dinner, but somebody else's plans got in his way.

Lenny Dyson, an older inmate who used a cane to support a bum leg, stepped out of line and started shouting and swinging his cane around. Lenny normally wasn't violent, which was the reason he could have a cane in the first place, but his shouts grew in intensity until finally he flung himself to the ground and writhed around like he was having a seizure. Everyone, including Rory Dupont, the assistant warden, who was trying to calmly herd the hungry men back to their cells, walked over to see what was happening. Lew stayed put. He'd seen freak-­outs before and didn't need to see another one. He cinched his prison-­gray shirt collar up against the rain and waited.

Then he saw the real reason Lenny was freaking out. It was an act. He wasn't freaking out.

He was a distraction.

Delroy Thibideau, a lanky black inmate renowned for his temper, marched across the yard with a purpose. At first, Lew thought Delroy was coming for him. He squared off and tried to figure out how he'd pissed this guy off. But Delroy wasn't looking at him, he was looking behind Lew. As Delroy stalked closer, Lew saw him shake something out of his sleeve and into his hand—­a shiv. This wasn't a beating. Someone was about to die.

Behind him, Lew saw a little white dude named Mickey King. He hadn't met Mickey either, but knew him through the prison grapevine, a better ser­vice than even AT&T offered. Mickey had a big mouth. Probably trying to overcompensate for his size, Lew thought. He also knew Mickey was fond of certain words that no doubt would have made Delroy crazy enough to stick him. In any prison those were unwise nicknames to toss around, but in a federal pen in southern Mississippi, it was masochism.

Lew looked over at Lenny, who was still writhing like a lunatic. The assistant warden managed to take his cane away, but couldn't calm him down. Lew thought about just calling the AW and ending this, but he knew how long a rat would last. Though just being in a crowd where a prisoner got whacked could make life get more than a little complicated. His parole would be blown, at least. And that just wasn't going to happen.

Delroy eyeballed Lew for a moment, before returning his stare to Mickey, who had no idea what was happening. Lew read the stare as plainly as the evening paper:
Get
the fuck outta da way, homey
. Lew feigned a sidestep, giving the impression he was doing just as Delroy wanted. But when they were abreast of each other, and Lew was sure the AW wasn't looking, he struck.

Delroy was already in his backswing, his balance all behind him and to the left. Lew stepped behind him, grabbed the shank with one hand, and pushed on the back of Delroy's opposite shoulder with the other. Delroy's momentum did the rest. He let go of the shank in an attempt to get his balance and then slammed to the muddy ground. In one smooth move, Lew heaved the shank up onto the roof of the cafeteria building and then turned to walk across the yard toward his cellblock. He heard steps in the mud behind him, knowing there was a pretty slim chance Delroy would let this go. He wasn't out of this yet. He spun around while Delroy was still twenty feet away.

“Heading back, boss!” Lew shouted to the AW. Delroy froze in his tracks, knowing where the AW's attention was now drawn.

“What? Fine, go ahead,” the AW said, obviously just wanting the little pimple under his grasp to stop thrashing.

Delroy's stare burned into Lew's face. Lew knew he should have just turned and walked away, but he just couldn't help himself. He smiled and tapped his forehead with two fingers, as if he were tipping an invisible hat. Delroy's eyes widened even more—­which was something, considering their already saucer-­sized spin—­but he remained where he was.

Lew turned and headed back to his cell.

An hour later, as Lew stepped inside the activity room and heard the door slam behind him, he knew it was time to pay for his interference. Then he heard Delroy's signature giggle.

“Ah, crap.”

Lew made fists and turned around, readying himself. His fists quickly fell away and he realized he'd walked into something a lot more dangerous than an ambush by some pissed-­off cons.

“I think we need to have a chat,
ese
.”

Delroy was there, but he wasn't the one talking. He sat on a table by the wall, Lenny beside him, smacking his palm with his cane like a 1920s cop rousting a speakeasy. By the door were two gorillas, bigger than Lew and Delroy put together. All of that was bad. But what was worse—­and more confusing—­was the leader of the little troop, who stood in front of them facing Lew. Lew looked down into his eyes, which seemed much darker than he remembered.

“Mickey King,” Lew said. “Strange way to thank me for saving your life.” Lew eased back and sat on the edge of a table. He had no idea what was going on here, but he was pretty sure taking a nonthreatening stance was mandatory to his breathing. The only thing he knew for sure was the murder he'd stopped earlier was no murder at all.

“You just keep runnin' yo' mouth, boy,” Delroy said. Mickey turned and looked at Delroy, who recoiled like he'd just touched a hot stove.

“My associates are a little upset. They were expecting a big payday for our little charade, today. Now they're worried they won't get it. Worried enough to want to take it out of you,” Mickey said. Lew watched Mickey pace as he spoke. Not the pace of a worried or anxious man, but the pace of a lecturer, explaining what was what in the world. Lew also noticed that Mickey seemed to have grown a Mexican accent.

Lew had a few comments bubble up into his brain, but he figured if he wanted to stay healthy he'd better keep quiet a while longer. He looked at Delroy until Delroy looked away. That tiny victory aside, Lew thought he was starting to understand what was going on here. And if he was right, things were very bad indeed.

“The only reason you aren't losing blood,
ese
, is because of your intent. You didn't know who I was, or what was really happening, so you took a genuine risk when you stepped in. I'm touched.”

“Not like there was any real danger, Mr. Colero,” Lew said, taking his shot. If he showed he was smart, he might have a chance. Miguel Colero—­known mostly as White Mike, thanks to his complexion and his affinity for coke—­had been in charge of a large chunk of the South Florida drug trade until he disappeared last fall. Lew knew this from his penchant of keeping an eye on the law enforcement activity in the Sunshine State—­especially Tallahassee. Everyone figured his underlings or his competition had whacked Colero, but with very few photos of him in existence, verification had apparently become impossible.

“And apparently you can also put two and two together. Bravo,
ese
,” Mickey said. “But until I'm outside of these walls, I'm still just Mickey King.
Comprende?
”

“
Sí
,” Lew said. He was far from out of trouble, but he was still standing and that was something, considering who he was standing in front of.

Lew still had a lot of questions, like how White Mike had ended up in a Mississippi federal pen under an assumed name, or why he was working with nobodies to get himself out, but the only question that mattered was:

“What's the gig?”

“Ah, you see? You see? This is a survivor. A resourceful man adapting to his surroundings. He doesn't whine when he's in a bad situation, he finds the angle,” Mickey said, the last of it apparently directed at Delroy.

“Just keepin' it real,” Lew said. He sensed there was something spoiled between Mickey and Delroy and he didn't particularly want to watch it go to hell right in front of him.

“The gig is act two. Delroy makes another attempt on Mickey King's life, only this time he succeeds. Your job will be to make sure no more Good Samaritans stick their noses into our production. Simple, yes?”

“As pie,” Lew said. “So what happens after? Your coffin rolls on down the road until you pull a jack-­in-­the-­box?” Mickey didn't respond, apparently disturbed that Lew had figured out the plan so easily. Lew made a mental note to dial the smartness down a notch. Being too smart was just as bad as being too dumb with guys like White Mike.

“Time is a factor here, so Mickey King needs to be dead by dinner. A truck rolls out tonight and Mickey's corpse needs to be on it,” Mickey said. Talking about himself in the third person was starting to annoy Lew.

“Right,” Lew said. “Listen, not to cause trouble or anything. I think it's great that you think I'm such a stand-­up guy and all, but you just told me a whole lotta shit that could be dangerous for you. Aren't you banking a lot on your intuition?”

“It's never wrong,
ese
,” Mickey said. “But it never hurts to have a safety.” Mickey snapped his fingers and Delroy let a plastic baggie unroll in his hand. Hanging down was a shiv in the bag. Lew didn't need to ask where it had come from. Or whose fingerprints were on it.

“How'd you get it off the roof?” Lew asked. But Mickey was done answering questions.

Lew wondered how he could avoid the same fate in store for Delroy and Lenny. He knew they'd be dead before Mickey popped up out of his coffin tonight.

And now the plan included him.

A few hours later, as inmates lined up for dinner, all the players were on their marks—­including Lew. He stood in the rain, which had refused to abate, once again.

Delroy was across the yard, looking like a base runner waiting for the third base coach to wave him in. Lenny was there, but he couldn't pull another seizure or this act would never work. Delroy was just going to go for it when he got the signal, right in front of everyone. Lew thought the mob panic that would ensue could only help make the whole thing seem more real. His job was to intercept the assistant warden if he came around.

Mickey, standing in line outside the cafeteria, raised his hands while he was talking. It was Delroy's signal to make his run. Lew looked up and watched Delroy burst out of the blocks. He thought he was going to run full-­tilt all the way across the yard, but he seemed to get ahold of himself about halfway and slip into character again.

Lew moved over to the edge of the building and looked around the corner, where the line of hungry men bent. At the end, talking to a ­couple of inmates, was the assistant warden. The inmates he was talking to had nothing to do with this, so the conversation could break up at any time. And sure enough, Lew saw the AW pat one of the inmates on his shoulder and turn to head toward the main event.

“Damn it,” Lew said under his breath as he headed to intercept the AW. He caught him a few feet before the corner, where the AW would have a view of the charade. Lew had no doubt the act would fool the cons, who wouldn't really care if it was real or not, but if the AW witnessed it firsthand, the jig would be up. The doctor was well lubricated with cash, so pronouncing Mickey dead wasn't a problem . . . unless the AW got to the body before the doc did. Lew saw the doc walking toward the cafeteria; his role must've been to just happen to be in the area. He hadn't even seen the doc earlier, but Lew had been concerned about other things.

“Yes, what is it, Lewis?” the assistant warden said.

“I, uh . . . that is, I was wondering,” Lew stammered. He knew he should have worked something out before he approached the AW. He could adapt like a banshee with the threat of death over his head, but improv had just never been his thing. He needed the right motivation, and helping someone else escape just wasn't cutting it.

“Take your time, Lewis,” the AW said. Lew knew the only reason the AW was being patient was that up until now, Lew had been the invisible man, flying beneath the prison administration's radar. They loved cons who did that. But Lew was about to launch himself smack-­dab into their crosshairs.

“I know it's probably against the rules, sir, but I was wondering if I could get a . . .”
A what? A parole? A V8? An amen?
Lew's mind riffled, wondering how long it took to stab someone anyway. Especially when they wanted to be stabbed.

“A what, Lewis?” the AW asked, losing patience. Lew looked past him to the fence in the distance and the line of elms planted beyond it.

“A . . . uh . . . tree. For my cell,” Lew said, not even believing it himself.
Really? A fucking tree? Why didn
't you just ask for a Jacuzzi and a blowjob!

“A what?” the AW asked. But the commotion around the corner finally started and Lew didn't have to answer him.

Men were shouting and howling around the corner. It was the prison song of blood, and all the inmates knew the tune. The men in line tried to drift out and around the corner, but the AW knew the song too.

“Back in line!
Now!
” the AW shouted, the nice guy all but gone. Lew just wanted the AW to get around the corner so he could get the hell out of there, partly thinking in the back of his mind that this little show meant he was going to miss another meal. He hadn't thought of that before this.