“Escape!”
A Bridge Thriller
By Carl Coppolino
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Carl Coppolino
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DEDICATION
Without the constant and unremitting support of my wife, Mary, and my daughter, Lisa, I would not have finished this manuscript.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I was inspired to write “Escape! a bridge thriller” because of a bridge column written by Bobby Wolff of the Aces on Bridge fame. He wrote that he could not find a bridge fiction thriller novel that he could recommend. Six months and many pages later, I hope I filled that gap.
Suzie Lowenstein and Teddi Sanford were extremely helpful in critical areas of the novel’s development.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER ONE—9 PM Wednesday, a day in February
“Four hearts”, Angelo growled.
The count cleared at 9 PM, and we were sitting around a scarred bridge table and four folding chairs I had scrounged from the hospital. This was the last bridge hand for that night. The beam from the searchlight, off the nearest gun tower cast crazy shadows as it passed through the barred dirty window.
Our cell’s walls were painted prison green as was the concrete floor, and had dimensions of ten by fifteen feet; enough for a rack in the corner by the door which was Herb’s, on the opposite was Frieda’s, and Angelo’s was by the left side of the window, with mine across the room from his.
I looked across the table at Herb, who was my partner for tonight’s bridge game. He was poker-faced except for his brown eyes, which squinted at his cards because of smoke coming from a lit cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. At 250 pounds of muscle and ebony black, he could scare any convict, and did. When he wasn’t working on the roads in the prison, his assigned job, he was at the weight pile in the courtyard. All of the cons gave him respect, not only for his size, but also for his story.
Herb and his partner plotted and timed to rob an armored car on the Tamiami Trail, Sarasota, Florida. On the appointed day, they stole a sanitation truck and drove it into the right front fender of the armored car in the middle of an intersection. Herb spilled out of the driver’s side of the truck dousing himself with fake blood he had bought at the local costume store. The armored car had stopped and the back door burst open, two uniformed guards ran out to help him. “Are you hurt’? They yelled.
Herb took his silenced weapon and shot both of them in the head. Meanwhile, his partner was out of the truck, ran and threw a gas bomb deep into the vehicle. The armored car driver tumbled out of the vehicle coughing and trying to clear his burning eyes to draw his weapon. Herb shot him in the face They had parked a station wagon, the previous night, on a side street. His partner now drove it next to the armored the car. They donned gas masks, went into the bowels of the vehicle and began to remove sacks of currency, diamonds and rubies, carefully loading them into the station wagon. Three minutes had passed. No sign of police cars.
When they were finished Herb shot his partner in the head and drove off in the station wagon.
The wrinkle in the ointment was a helicopter flying over the area, piloted by a student and his instructor, had watched with horror. They were talking with the police as Herb sped away in the station wagon. He did not get far with all the roadblocks in place.
That escapade netted him four life sentences running together. After serving 12 years he was scheduled for release on parole in less than a week and back to Atlanta. His contact place was Dusty, a restaurant he owned in the Southwest part of town.
“Are you going to bid or what Angelo asked?”
“You have been teaching us bridge for the last five years. You joined the ACBL, and receive the Bridge Bulletin every month from that organization. We have teaching sessions, where you discuss all the conventions like Jacoby two no-trump, Stayman, transfers, weak two bids, 1430 Roman Keycard Blackwood, whatever. And you’re always drilling into our heads to take our time to think before we bid. So I’m thinking”, I shouted.
Frieda on my left, Angelo’s partner, snickered. “You think that’s funny!” Angelo shot back at Frieda.
Wisely Frieda did not respond. Angelo had a vicious temper and many a convict is walking around with a history of broken arms. I should know, since I set some of them.
Frieda had been living in our cell for the past seven years. Outside the prison, he was called Fred. But here he wanted to be known as Frieda. He was a gifted accountant and artist and a homosexual that would give you his last cigarette, if you needed one. He worked in the laundry area sewing, repairing uniforms both for the guards and for the convicts. It was through him that we received extra clothes to wear. His facial tics were now severe. He was afraid of Angelo He was doing two life sentences running wild. In Key West, he caught his boyfriend in bed with another guy and shot them both. Then he set fire to the house and stood on the sidewalk watching it burn throughout the rest of the day and into the next. That’s where the police found him looking at the smoldering debris. His only regret was that his dog was in the house.
“Okay, I’m going to bid”, I said, reaching for my right ear lobe that wasn’t there, shrapnel sliced it off, a gift from the Vietnam war. It’s a nervous habit that pops out when I am under stress.
“About time”, Angelo responded I looked at my hand. I had seven spades led by the ace queen. A stiff ace of diamonds five clubs led by the ace king and queen and was void in hearts.
“Six spades”, I said.
Frieda on my left went into the think tank. I could hear convicts talking and walking up and down the corridor. We had five cells on each side, a communal shower and a dayroom with a television. The supply closet in the corner of the corridor held new uniforms sheets and towels. There was a locked metal door at the end of the corridor. Mr. Evans, the guard assigned, sat outside the door. To leave our quarters you had to knock on the metal door for Evans to open it up to let you out and you better have a good reason.
“Seven hearts”, Frieda announced.
Herb studied his hand. He had three choices, pass, bid or double for penalties.
“Seven spades”, Herb responded.
Angelo immediately doubled.
Frieda let out the ace of hearts, and Herb’s cards, the dummy, came down on the table. He had the king of spades! The rest of the hand was garbage. I trumped the Ace of hearts, drew trump and claimed. “Seven spades, doubled”, I announced with glee. Herb let out a big laugh!
Angelo moaned. This was going to cost him a carton of cigarettes. Frieda also owed a carton. Cigarettes were prison currency. You wanted a ham sandwich, stolen from the kitchen? It would cost you two packs of cigarettes. You want some Uppers or Downers, five packs of cigarettes. You want to gamble? You needed to negotiate with Bubba, an enormous black Mother who controlled all the gambling. That probably would cost you a carton. I didn’t know, for sure, because I didn’t gamble, but that’s how life was in prison. You had cigarettes, you did fine.
“That’s it “, Angelo announced, “I’m through for the night.”
***
I struggled to breathe.
I opened my eyes. Herb had his hand across my mouth. It felt as if I had only fallen asleep. The last bridge hand that Herb and I won had put me in a good mood which led me into a deep sleep. The searchlight beam was causing crazy shadows from floor to ceiling .Frieda was snoring. “What the hell Herb!” I said “It’s Angelo. He’s hurt real bad.”
“What time is it?”
“2 AM. Angelo is in the shower. He is bleeding”
I swung out of my rack and put on my brown shoes. I slept fully clothed not knowing whether we’re going to have a riot or fire or some other danger.
“Let’s go”, I said to Herb.
I knew that Angelo finished his work at the bakery at about 2 AM and took a shower before he returned to the cell. Herb quietly opened the door to our cell and silently closed it behind us. The corridor was dimly lit from the emergency overhead lights No one was walking around. I entered the shower. The glaring lights highlighted Angelo lying on the tile floor surrounded with bloody water. His head was jammed alongside of the gutter and he was moaning.
“Who did this”, I asked Angelo “Leroy”, he whispered.
“You need to go to the hospital”
The blood leakage from the wound had increased with Angelo’s movement.
“No hospital, Doc”, Angelo croaked. “You take care of it”
I gave Angelo a cursory examination and discovered that he had a deep cut on the right side of his chest. It looked like somebody attempted to stab him between the ribs but failed with the blade bouncing off the rib cage. Maybe the intercostal artery was damaged since there was a significant amount of blood pooling around him.
‘Herb, help me get him out of the shower and back to the cell”.
“I’ll carry him”, he said. I turned the shower head on full blast and wash the blood down the gutter into the drain. Then I followed Herb carrying Angelo down the corridor into our cell.
“Freda!” I touched his shoulder waking him up. “Angelo has been cut. Get a couple of coffee cups, of water and bugs. I need boiling water, black and white thread, needles, scissors and your tweezers that you use to pluck your eyebrows”.
Frieda sat up and blinked. “What the hell’s going on Doc”?
‘Angelo’s been cut real bad and we need to patch him up”.
Frieda put on his shoes and started collecting the coffee cups. Meanwhile, Herb placed Angelo on his rack. The sheets, were immediately soaked with blood. “Get the light switch”, I said to Frieda.
Angelo started to cough. I looked at the wound. No bubbles. Thank God! It meant that the lung had not been punctured. I felt his pulse-rapid.
“Frieda, break into the storage closet. We need wash cloths, towels, and pillowcases”
I turned to Herb, “You knew about this hit. No way was Bubba going to order Angelo to be hit in our cell unit without you knowing! You were Leroy’s lookout.
That’s why you knew Angelo was hurt. Why didn’t you finish the job?” I glared at him.
“Stay out of it, Doc. It’s just business. It was Leroy’s gig. He failed. He can take the heat .It has nothing to do with you. Stay out of it! This is Bubba’s business and got nothing to do with you”. He gave me a hard look.
“You’re wrong!” I yelled. “It puts heat on us right here where we don’t need it. We got a good thing going and we don’t need to get it fucked up”
“Come on, Frieda”, I said, “we need to wash our hands”.He and I walked down the still silent corridor to the bathroom and scrubbed our hands When we were finished, I took a bar of soap with me to wash the wound. It was better than nothing.
Back in the cell, I took a look at Angelo I needed to inspect and wash out the wound before I could figure out how I was going to attempt to close. There still was some arterial seepage, which made me suspect that the intercostal artery, which ran alongside of each rib had been nicked by the blade. If it had been cut the hemorrhage would have been quite severe I washed the wound with soap, using some of the washcloths Frieda had stolen.
Soap works real well. It did in Vietnam when we were short of supplies. Certainly I would like to have some peroxide solution, because infection was going to be a severe problem. But I had to use what we had. Next I looked at the wound. The gash was at least 5 inches, and there was still seepage of blood coming from underneath one of the ribs.
“Are the needles, tweezers, thread and scissors ready?” I asked Frieda “Yeah Doc everything is ready what do you want to do first?”
“Thread the needles with both white and black threads and leave them in the boiling water. I need to stop the bleeding and you are going to help me. What time is it?”
“Me!” Frieda exclaimed, frightened.
“Yeah you”
“What time is it?” I asked again “About 3 AM”, Herb said. “We got an hour to do what needs to be done before the guard starts the 4 AM count”.
“I am going to clamp the artery with the tweezers. Then I am going to tie off the artery while you hold the tweezers tight.”
“Okay”, Frieda acknowledged I took the tweezers and gently probed the wound finding the area where the arterial blood was seeping. Angelo was moaning with pain, but I couldn’t be concerned about that. I wasn’t going to have many chances to grab the lacerated artery. If I didn’t do it properly the artery would tear completely and then we would have a serious situation. Carefully, I found the affected area and clamped it with the tweezers. The bleeding stopped.
“Frieda. Hold it tight now”
I took some black thread and tied off the intercostals artery. “Okay. Release the tweezers”. The field stayed dry. I wasn’t concerned with slight oozing since it came from superficial lacerated veins and I knew would stop once I put pressure on them by tightly closing the .wound.
“Okay, now I want the threaded needle with white thread” Frieda handed me one long threaded needle.
Starting at the top of the wound I closed it with a running stitch. There was no time for niceties. I need to get the wound closed and covered with a clean pillowcase. It was the best I could do under the circumstances.
“Get rid of the bloody clothing”, I said to Herb. “We got ten minutes before count”.
CHAPTER TWO—9 PM Thursday
“Angelo! How are you feeling man?”
“Doc, I feel terrible”.
The nine o’clock evening count had cleared and Frieda was lying on his rack reading a paperback. Herb was in the Day Room watching the Miami Dolphins play the Buffalo Bills. It was Thursday night football. Snow flakes were falling some sparkling like diamonds as the searchlight beam hit them. The forecast was for snow throughout the night. This particular moonless February evening was bitter cold. The outdoor thermometer read 30°.
I looked at Angelo. Drips of perspiration covered his pale forehead. He was propped up on a pillow in his rack, eyes closed. His trembling hands were clutched at a thin blanket. I walked towards him and placed my hand on his forehead. It was hot. I could feel his bounding carotid artery in his neck.
“You need to go to the hospital”.
He opened his eyes. “No way Doc!. Please give me a hand. I want to get up”.
“You can’t make it. You are too weak. Let me look at your wound.”
I gently pulled the sheet back and lifted up his shirt. The pillow case dressing that, I had placed over the sutured wound was covered with clotted blood, but there was no sign of fresh bleeding. It was 20 hours since I patched him up.
“Doesn’t look good, does it?” Angelo asked me.
“Not bad. But you have a fever. You need better care than what I can supply here in this cell.”
“Doc, I got to be able to walk out of here tonight and get to the bakery after the midnight count clears.”
“Forget it! That is impossible, Angelo, Come on, I will show you”. I helped him sit up at the edge of his bed and supported his elbow as he tried to stand up. He immediately stumbled almost hitting his head on the scarred table which sat along side of his bed. I slowly and gingerly eased him back onto his bed.
“You see what I mean?”
He looked at me with pleading eyes and groaned. “Doc, I have something to tell you and I need to do it now. But we need to be private.”
I’ve looked at Frieda still in his rack reading a paperback.
“Frieda, I need you to leave, close the door and keep guard outside. Angelo and I have some business to take care”
“Ah! Doc! I was just getting to the good part in my book”, Frieda complained.
I walked over and opened my locker, which Frieda had built for me out of scrap lumber which he had stolen from the electrical workshop, and took out two packs of Camels, Frieda’s favorite cigarettes.
“Here,” I said, tossing the cigarettes, “keep watch. Nobody gets into the cell except a guard. You know the drill”
“Okay”.
Frieda slowly got up from his rack, stuck the paperback under his pillow and walked out of the cell silently closing the door behind him.
I looked at Angelo. “Okay Angelo, What it is it that you want to talk with me about?”
“Doc, this is going to take a long time and I do not know how much energy I have.”
“Okay”, I said, “first let me make us both a cup of coffee”.
Angelo grunted and closed his eyes.
I took our coffee cups, and his electrical bug, an electrical wire with bared ends, and filled the cups with water. Next, I plugged the wire into the wall outlet and inserted the bared wires into the water and watched as each cup of water reached a boiling point. I scooped a teaspoonful of instant coffee into each cup, stirring as I went along. Everything I was doing was a serious prison infraction and, if caught, could put me into solitary confinement for 60 days. I wasn’t concerned. Frieda would warn me.
“Okay, here’s your cup of coffee. Can you manage?” I asked.
“Yeah, Doc, Lets get going. Who knows how much time we have before we get interrupted”
Angelo took a sip of his coffee; put the cup on the table looked at me and began to speak.
“I have a long tale to tell you. Be patient with me”.
I nodded.
Angelo moved slowly and took a deep breath.
“You may or may not know that I am part of a criminal organization which I call the Outfit that is based in Arizona. I am not going to name any names, because it is not important to what I am going to tell you”. He paused reached for his cup and took another sip of coffee, I had the distinct thought that he really did not want to tell me, but, for some reason, had to.
“The Arizona Outfit had a relationship with the Vatican Bank. We sent boxes of cash, American currency, to the Vatican Bank and in turn received from them bearer bonds drawn on the Vatican Bank. The trade was a clean one: for every 5 million dollars in cash, we received one million dollars in value of bearer bonds, each bond had a face value of $1,000 US. You need to realize that our criminal activities generated huge amounts of currency; that we had to wash and get into other assets. This was a good deal for the Outfit. You could take the bearer bonds and walk into any financial institution and cash them since they were not registered in anybody’s name. You understand?” he asked I nodded wondering where this story was leading. It was almost 11 PM and Herb would be getting back before midnight count. Angelo continued.
“The Church needed cash, and we needed to get rid of cash. Therefore, it was a perfect marriage. However, the organization wanted their own man in the Vatican, in order to protect our relationship and investment”. He stopped and closed his eyes.
“You want to stop?” I asked “No. We don’t have much time”.
“I was chosen to represent the Outfit because I had four years of training at a Jesuit seminary. The Outfit arranged that I would be part of the Pope’s secretary group, which consisted of two priests. It was my responsibility to carry the bearer bonds by diplomatic pouch back to Arizona on a monthly basis. The currency got shipped to the Vatican by cargo in lots of $100 bills. Once you realize that each note weighed one gram, you will understand the logistics. There are 454 grams to a pound, meaning that 454 $ 100 dollar bills, $45,400 dollars, weighed one pound. We were shipping in from 50 to 100 million dollars at a time. “That is a lot of cargo. I had no knowledge and did not want to know how that operated. My job was to make sure that the transactions were successfully completed on my end.”
Angelo paused to catch his breath. The snow was falling faster now.
I took a sip of my coffee and waited. “These money transfers were on a monthly basis. I made sure that here was an accurate count on the amount of money received at the Vatican Bank and that I received the correct amount of bearer bonds. I was the one that transported the bonds back to Phoenix. Therefore each month I made a trip as a diplomatic courier from the Vatican to Phoenix, Arizona.”
“This procedure went on for three years, while Pope Leo the 10th was alive. And it worked like a well oiled wrist watch; the trouble began when the Pope died, and a new Pope was elected, Pope Luke the third.”
“You want to continue?” I asked, “You look exhausted”.
“I need to continue to tell you the story. It involves you and time is running out.”
“Me!”
“Yes! You!” He drank some more coffee.
“Problems arose with the new Pope. The new Pope was not a fool. He had been part of the College of Cardinals for many years, and his duties resided in Rome. Therefore, he had a great suspicion as to what activities were going on at the Vatican Bank. Now that he was Pope, he launched an investigation and his suspicions were verified . He had made it clear that the Vatican Bank would no longer accept money from the Outfit and no longer would there be any bearer bonds issued. This became a significant problem, as you can imagine. And it had to be quickly solved. The solution, as far as the Outfit was concerned, was very simple. This Pope had to be removed before he could make any significant changes in our operation. We would then take our chances with a new Pope.
“What!” I said, “Kill the Pope?”
“Just wait. Give me a chance”, Angelo said.
“The assignment came to me, of course. I was one of two secretaries for the Pope without any worry of removal because there are never any changes in personnel. It was decided that I would quickly do the hit. An agreement was reached for payment of $ 100 million dollars in bearer bonds, which I would carry back to Phoenix”.
“The method of execution was strictly left to me. Knowing that there never would be a Papal autopsy, I did not have to worry unless I picked a method that was visibly bloody. I arranged to have the $100 million worth of bearer bonds given to me before I would perform the execution, The officials at the Vatican Bank were not happy over this arrangement, but I insisted since I trusted no one.
“I was given a satchel containing the bonds and then was asked when I would act. I informed them that I would take care of the problem, the next evening. However, I did not wait for the next evening. I completed the hit that evening. The method I used is not important for what I am telling you. However, after the deed was done, about midnight, I left the Vatican through a side gate. The guards were familiar with my leaving the Vatican at all hours of the night. This night’s departure did not cause any alarm. I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to a jewelry store next to Gucci near the Spanish Steps”.
The door opened and Frieda said, “Doc, Herb wants to come in”.
“Tell him to wait just a few minutes more”. Angelo continued. “The owners were connected with the Outfit based in Naples and did a brisk business in stolen gems. I was of some service to them in the past, when they had cash flow problems and needed to move some rubies, The Church was always looking to buy diamonds, rubies and emeralds at a reasonable price. Over time, trust developed between us. That night, I put it to use”.
Angelo had another fit of coughing. This time it resulted in bright red blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. I hoped that the tie on the cut intercostals artery had not loosened. If it had, Angelo would soon bleed to death without quick medical intervention.
“Angelo, you got to get to the hospital,” I pleaded “No, Doc. It’s too late for that. Let me continue to tell you what you need to know and do”. He sighed.
“I negotiated a deal and was able to trade the $100 million worth of Vatican Bank bearer bonds for $70 million worth of diamonds and $200,000 in US currency, which I placed in the satchel. Next, I took a cab to the airport. I had the documentation for diplomatic seal for the satchel both in Italy and the United States. The Custom officials were familiar enough with my monthly trips under diplomatic pouch seal. Therefore, I had no problems.
“After my arrival in Phoenix, I decided that I was going to go my own way. It was too risky for both the Church and the Outfit to let me live. I came to this conclusion before I made the hit. When I was in the papal apartments, I took out some insurance and the way I did this was to remove the papal ring from the Pope’s dead finger. I also found some documents on the Pope’s nightstand that gave in great detail what we were doing for the last three years, naming names, including mine. So, what I had in the satchel was not only $70 million worth of diamonds, and the $ 200 thousand in cash, but I had the papal ring and the documents implicating both the Outfit and the Vatican Bank. Powerful stuff! That’s why I got hit by Leroy. The Outfit finally found me and reached out to teach me a lesson”. He coughed again, paused, and then continued.
“I bought clothes at Dillard’s and changed out of the priest outfit. There was a photographer’s shop that the Outfit used to create false driver licenses, passports and credit cards. I became Angelo Guido. Next I flew to Atlanta and disappeared through some contacts that were different than the Outfit. Finally, I completed arrangements to hide the satchel’s contents. Then I left for Florida where I was able to do some business. That got me a life sentence, and here we are.”
Angelo had another fit of coughing, followed by wheezing.
“Doc, I got a daughter, her name is Nina Boca. Nobody knows about her, not the Outfit, not the Church. She is an astronomer at the Vatican Observatory, out in the mountains in Tucson, Arizona. What I’m going to tell you concerns not only you but her. “It took time for the Brotherhood, which is the enforcement division of the Church, to trace me to this prison. That was a year ago. We have been in communication, and I cut a deal. They help me to escape and I give them back the Papal ring and documents. The plan is for me to escape tonight from the bakery after the midnight count clears.
“You know, I work at the bakery until about two in the morning doing cleanup. The Brotherhood has arranged for a new driver for the Turner Bread truck and a new guard. After the midnight count is cleared tonight, you need to take my place. It’s all arranged .
You will be hidden in the warming container in the back of the truck. You will fit if you fold yourself in real tight. After you get through the gates, they’re going to drive you to Tampa where you will be met by others of the Brotherhood. Like, I said, what they want from me are the documents, and the papal ring I took.
“Doc., they are going to torture you because you can’t tell them what they want to hear. You don’t know where the documents and ring are. And they’re not going to believe you. If you want to survive, you need to make your move from the time the bread truck leaves the prison, and before you arrive in Tampa. And remember, the Brotherhood and Outfit will always try to get you”.
“What the hell! Why me?”
“I can’t trust anybody. When you find the documents and the ring, you will see something else that will direct you to the diamonds. I want you to go see my daughter Nina . She has the other part of the puzzle to find the diamonds. She will help you. That’s all I’m going to tell you. Once you get free go to the storage unit that is on Blackwood Street in midtown Atlanta. It is the only one there. Find storage Unit 1430.If you are ever stuck, no matter what, you will always find the answer buried in bridge conventions, in bridge terms, names of cards, names of contracts. That will be the key that nobody else will be able to figure out. Your journey will start when you enter the 1430 unit,” Angelo stopped. He closed his eyes. I stood up off the rack; His hands snuck out from under the blanket and grabbed my left wrist. He opened his eyes and said, “Remember after count clears tonight. Go to the bakery follow their instructions, and when you get free go to my daughter in Tucson. Lots of things will happen to you, between now and then. Be careful!”
I backed away from Angelo’s rack and open the cell door. “It’s about time.“, Herb said. “It’s cold and drafty in this hallway. What the hell were you and Angelo talking about?”
“Nothing important, where’s Frieda?”
“He’s visiting in the next cell. Its five minutes to count”.
CHAPTER THREE—Midnight Friday
The midnight count cleared.
Frieda was in his rack engrossed in his paperback. Herb sat on the end of his rack giving me a hard look. He was scratching the scar on his neck; a sure sign that he was uncomfortable, but did not know why. Things were out of the pattern. And he was cunning. I looked at him and remembered how he got that scar.
The prison served steak twice a year: Christmas and New Year.
. I was stuck at the hospital helping our doctor treat a convict that was dying of tuberculosis. Herb said that he would save me a steak. I believed he would because no convict was going to stop him. I finally reached the dining room which was jammed with convicts. The noise was deafening. The guards were circulating around the walls looking for trouble.
Every table was taken. But Herb stood out. I sat down and began to thank him when he started to gag. Frieda, who also sat at the table stood up and banged him on his back in an attempt to dislodge whatever was stuck in Herb’s throat .It was not working.
Herb tore at his throat. His eyes were watering and I could hear high pitched crowing as his vocal cords vainly attempted to open to let in air. He was going to die because of the blocked airway.
I jumped up and quickly, jabbed my penknife into his trachea creating an artificial airway. It still took time for Herb to extract the morsel, which turned out to be dried steak. If the guards noticed they decided not to intervene.
Herb owed me.
I looked in my locker and decided there was nothing I wanted to take with me. I kept telling myself that I had not made up my mind and would wait until the last minute before making a move. It had taken me 10 years in the prison system to reach this point where I could live decently.
Like everybody else entering into the system you’re packed like anchovies with other convicts into holding cells fronted floor-to-ceiling by steel bars. The talk among the cons was always their big scores when really they were junkies broke and locked up doing time. Sleep was almost impossible with the screeching of other cons and the screaming and the clang of barred doors opening and slamming shut. Then I was transferred to a ten man cell with a sink in the corner, open commode in the middle, and bunks stacked like crates on either side.
I finally had a good prison job, assigned to the hospital and no hassle from the guards. The convicts respected me, because I was able to take care of their minor medical problems without putting the authorities into the mix. True, I had little or no hope of ever leaving here, but I had seen enough of life to wonder if I wanted to run. Or did I want to leave and take my chances dealing with the Brotherhood, the Outfit, and the cops? That was my dilemma.
I put on Angelo’s jacket and walked out the cell, down the corridor to the locked metal door. I knocked and Mr. Evans opened the door. He was dressed in his crisply pressed brown correction officer uniform radiating authority like he did when he was a Colonel in the Army. He still wore the “Army haircut”. He respected the convicts and they, in turn, gave him respect.
“Angelo still not feeling well?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Evans, hopefully, he will be better tomorrow and able to do his job at the bakery.”
“You’re wearing Angelo Guido’s jacket”, he noted. “You know that is a prison violation”.
“I know, Mr. Evans, but it is bitter cold out there and Angelo’s jacket is warmer than mine”.
Mr. Evans nodded.” Go on. Just make sure you wear your own from now on”.
“Yes sir”.
The wind blew from the North with a stinging bite. It was bitter cold. Snow was still falling and there was no moonlight. It was 1 AM There was nobody walking the various pathways. The bakery was 1000 feet away.
It consisted of a small red brick building but looked black in the moonless night. Before I opened the metal front door, I could hear the clanking of trays as they were unloaded from the bread truck .
What the hell was I going to do? Angelo was going to die. Maybe I’ll be blamed, maybe not. There still was a good chance of a pay-back against Leroy and Bubba. Herb will be caught in the middle. The prison officials would not be happy with paybacks and worse even a race riot. Not good. The chances were that nothing will be the same Life had not been easy for me. I was born and brought up in the tenants of New York City. On my own since I was 10 years old, knocked around doing odd jobs first in the local pool hall and bar until one of the drug dealers decided that I could be of use to him. I started delivering drugs, collecting money, and by the time I was 16 I had an apartment and plenty of women. I was not stupid. I could see what was happening to other guys like me. They were either in prison or dead. One day, I got up, packed a bag and left the Bronx. I quit everything and moved to Brooklyn where I found a job as an orderly at the local community hospital .My work assignment was in the Emergency Room. Unknown to me, it was preparation for the future .I enjoyed the work and learned as I watched the doctors suturing wounds, setting fractures and treating infections. It did not take long before my Bronx associates found out where I was working and applied pressure on me because I could, with some manipulation, have access to prescription drugs.
I found a solution to my problem by enlisting in the Army. The draft was on because of the Vietnam war. The Army was happy to have me. They saw my background as a hospital orderly and I was assigned to the First Cavalry Division medical corp. in-country in Vietnam. It wasn’t long before I was close to the field of battle at a surgical unit. The surgeon in charge was an Irishman by the name of Mike; cadaverous looking with a thatch of shocking red hair. He was, a good trauma surgeon and he was a junkie. Good surgeon but needed his drugs. This did not turn out to be a problem, because I met Tony.
Tony was a wise guy connected to the Outfit in Jacksonville, Florida, and a supply sergeant who dealt in stolen property and illegal drugs. Tall and heavy set with black curly hair that could be a model in any fashion magazine, he fancied himself as an upper crust society man about town to the point of using a long cigarette holder cocked FDR style. It was not long before I had my own business routine. I was buying all sorts of drugs from Tony, reselling them and pocketing the difference. This is how I took care of Doctor Mike. Mike had a terrible temper particularly coming “down” from his self-induced high. Therefore, it wasn’t long before I was Doctor Mike’s first assistant at the operating table. The nurses were happy to let me do their job because they got away from Doctor Mike’s moods. I had seen worse in the streets of New York. So he didn’t bother me I was setting fractures, putting on casts, performing minor surgery like incision and drainage, cleaning out infected war wounds. Eventually, I was doing more than minor surgery because Mike was rarely able to function properly as a surgeon at the operating table. The nurses could see that I I knew what I was doing. Before long, I was performing major surgery, way beyond what I thought I could accomplish.
The war came to a close and we were discharged and mustered out of the Army thankfully before both Mike and I got into severe difficulty. Mike was headed for Jacksonville, Florida and asked me to join him. I had no place else to go. So I tagged along with him. Tony was headed in the same direction back to the Outfit Jacksonville Florida was a great town to do business. The Vietnam War treated it well, because of the amount of goods going through the docks. Also there was a direct pipeline of heroin from Saigon to Jacksonville. Mike decided that he wanted to open his medical practice in Jacksonville by building a surgical clinic. Naturally, he needed money. I had stashed the money I made in dealing in Vietnam, but that was mine. Not to be risked. With a plan for a clinic, I went to see Tony to get the money. This turned out not to be a problem. Tony told me that the Outfit was in need of a legitimate investment. The clinic could be a place where they could send their people who needed to be medically/ surgically treated without law enforcement being involved. The money arrived, interest free and the clinic was built. Our first patients actually came from the Outfit. This created personnel problems. We couldn’t use just any nurse, no matter how well qualified, we needed someone we knew and Mike found a nurse that worked with us in Vietnam, liked the money, and could her mouth shut.
Business was booming. Mike and I spent a lot of time plucking out bullets, suturing wounds and doing a variety of surgical or medical treatments that needed to be hidden for law enforcement and rival gangs. It wasn’t long before we were approached by so-called good people to perform services that they did not want anybody to know about.
They came from all walks of life. There was a local politician who was running for public office, who had a blood-borne disease due to some sexual encounter; a police Captain who got his mistress pregnant and wanted her to have an abortion with no paper trail. We were so busy that I need an executive secretary that controlled all our appointments took care of the money and made Mike and my life easy That’s when Jane came into the picture. What I did not know, it was the beginning of the end.
Jane was five feet and five inches tall and weighed 120 pounds; with blond hair and blue eyes. Think a movie star and you would capture Jane. Absolutely knockout beautiful and it wasn’t long before she and I had not only a professional relationship, but we were sleeping together. We talked about marriage but never could take the final step. This went on for several years and life was good and evil was steady. With Mike being stoned most of the time, I was doing most of the surgery. He had the diploma on the wall. So it all worked out.
My world began to come apart without me knowing with the arrival of a new patient. Mike and I shared a house close to Fernandina Beach and the call came from Jane into our house about two in the morning. There was a woman who had a gunshot wound and needed to be taken care of immediately.
Mike was stoned, as usual, so I got into my BMW and raced to our clinic.
Jane was already there and our patient was a small brown haired woman, about 40 years old, visibly in distress. Skin pale, blood pressure was 90/60 with a rapid heart rate of 180. Careful examination showed that she had a gunshot wound to her abdomen. Fresh blood was still seeping from the wound. I asked Jane what her name was and where she came from, but received no answer. That should have set off bells in my head. But my patient was critical and I had no time to think along any other line but trying to save her. Jane told me that the operating room was ready and the surgical nurse was standing by, already gowned and gloved. I went to the surgical locker room, undressed, put on my scrubs and started scrubbing my hands at the surgical sink. Our nurse anesthetist had the patient under anesthesia. There was an IV running with O negative blood. There was no time for the nicety of typing and cross match. Mentally, I was back in Vietnam. After the patient was prepped and draped, I took the scalpel and opened the abdomen and found trauma consistent with several gunshot wounds. A good portion of her spleen, stomach, and multiple loops of the intestines were shredded. This was going to be an almost an impossible job. However, I had to try..
Three hours later it was no use. She died on the table, Who the hell was this lady, I shouted at Jane. How did we get her, and that’s when my world begin to unfold. It turns out that this lady was the mistress of one of the State Senators who reached out to the State Attorney for Jacksonville for his help. What a shock! Mike and I did not need this! I found out later how Jane got to know the State Attorney; Jane was having an affair with him. So here she was sleeping with me and sleeping with him. Instead of being a street smart guy, I turned out to be a sucker .And it got worse.
I found myself under arrest and going to trial for second-degree murder, killing somebody, while acting as a doctor. They put pressure on Mike threatening him with loss of his license if he didn’t testify the way they wanted. Jane broke bad and helped drain my bank account so that I was broke; Before it was over, I was looking at other charges. The pretrial publicity was immense. News organizations from all over the world came to witness the spectacle. And I was found guilty and sentenced on five separate counts of 20 years on each count, adding up to a total of 100 years.
There was always a chance for parole, but realistically speaking. I saw no way out.
Now all of a sudden I was handed the possibility of freedom.
I opened the door to the bakery and immediately saw Mr. Williams. He was the guard assigned to the bakery. He hated me. Why, I never figured out. His eyes peered at me from his fat folds. He was slovenly dressed with cake crumbs on his brown shirt. I could see the bakery truck over his left shoulder. The back door was open but I saw no sign of the driver or new guard. Shit! This could be a problem.
“What are you doing here and wearing Guido’s jacket?” he snarled.
“Angelo is not feeling well so I’m going to work in his place .Mr. Evans said it was okay to wear the heavier jacket with the snow and cold, you know”. I looked at the concrete floor silently hoping he would go away.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Williams?” I brazenly asked. “Aren’t you off by now?”
“We got a new guard and a new driver for the bakery truck. I had to spend some time showing them the routine. Neither one of them seemed to know what they needed. But I am leaving now”.
He left and I turned and went further into the bakery. The first thing I noticed that the guard was one I had never seen before. He was thin, with black hair, hooked nose and spoke with a very quiet voice “You Angelo Guido?” he asked, looking directly at me. I nodded not knowing if they had recordings of Angelo’s voice and pointed to the jacket with the name tag I was wearing.
“Wise guy”, he said, “get in the back of the truck and into the warming oven. The shelves have been taken out. Stay quiet and we will make it”. His manner was silent with deliberate moves. He did not give me his name.
I messaged my missing ear lobe. This was it. Go or stay? This guard was looking at 10 years if we were caught. The odds looked good in my favor.
As I approached the back of the bakery truck, an obese man with florid complexion dressed in a Turner uniform gave me a quiet look. He opened the door to the driver’s side and slid in. He poked his head out of the driver’s window and said, “Come on! Get a move on! I want to get out of here while it is still snowing”. I open up the swinging back doors climbed in. The space was cramped in the warming oven, but I was able with some difficulty to fold myself in and close the door behind me. Almost immediately, I heard the back doors slam shut, and the guard get into the passenger side.
CHAPTER FOUR
There was no moonlight; all that would be seen were the trucks headlights. And it was still snowing heavily. It was three blocks from the bakery to the first gate. There was still time for me to back out. But I knew I wouldn’t do that; this was my opportunity to get out of here and no matter what happened I was going to take it.
The truck reached the inner gate; there was a gun tower and two prison guards. I could hear murmuring voices, one particular voice was from Sgt. Quinn. He was on duty from midnight to eight in the morning, Smart, competent. He would thoroughly search the truck, physically inside and underneath with a long pole that had a mirror attached.
I heard him say to the guard in the truck that he was going to open up the backdoors and quickly make his inspection so that he could get back in the gun tower and out of the snow and wind.
The backdoors opened. I could hear the whistling of the wind even in the closed warming oven. The doors quickly slammed shut. The guard in the truck called to Quinn to save himself from pneumonia and pass us through. He wanted to get home before the weather really turned nasty.
I felt a slap on the truck and we slowly moved to the second gate. This was the second and last checkpoint. The space between the two gates was twenty feet and was patrolled day and night by guards on foot with dogs.
When the truck reached the second date, the backdoors of the bakery truck soon opened again. I held my breath. I could hear the officer in charge of the outermost gate from midnight to eight in the morning, asking the correctional officer in the bakery truck how long he had been working at the prison system. Apparently the officer was satisfied with the response, because the backdoors slammed shut and I could hear the creaking of the outside gate. We slowly drove through the gate.
As soon as we were outside the prison, I open the door to the warming open and got out. Looking through the back door window, the gun towers receded and the searchlight beams dimmed. Free! At last! I hugged myself I had no idea what I was going to do, but Angelo said that I should not have these people, bring me to Tampa. It would be the end.
Suddenly the truck slowed and turned to the right and stopped between parked cars .in the middle of the parking lot. Visibility was almost nil because of the swirling snow. I heard the guard tell the driver:. “He is all yours; get him to Tampa as fast as you can in this weather. You know where. I’ll report that you are on your way.”
.The passenger door of the bakery truck opened and the guard hurried out slamming the door behind him. I looked around the floor of the truck and found a heavy wrench. Clutching the wrench, I slowly opened the back door to truck and slid to the ground. Snow was falling and coupled with the howling wind, I did not have to worry about being heard. I snaked between parked cars as the truck left and watched as the guard walked down a row of vehicles stopping at one. Once I heard the key going into the lock I came up behind him and smashed in his head with the wrench. He dropped like a stone.
I wrenched open the passenger door to his Chevy pickup and dumped him into the passenger side of the front seat Then, I went around the back of the car away from the road into the driver’s seat. I found the keys still in his hand and started the engine. Using the dome light I found the windshield wiper switch, and cleared the windshield of snow so I could see. Driving a vehicle is like riding a bicycle, you never forget.
I remembered from 10 years ago when I entered the prison that the road ran straight into town. I had to find a place to pull over to change my clothes. The dashboard clock read 1:15, two hours and forty five minutes until the 4 AM count. The prison wouldn’t blow the whistle until they were absolutely sure I was not somewhere on the prison ground. This means I had until 9 AM- about eight hours before my face was plastered over the television. I had to get out of these convict clothes and off the street It was three miles before I hit Main Street. Snow was still falling creating weird shadows on the street lighted ground. I turned right in a side street looking for someplace to stop. The guard was still unconscious. He might be dead. Up ahead was a For Sale sign in the yard of a dark house. I killed the headlights and turned into the driveway. Fortunately, the driveway continued to the back of the house where there was a unattached carport. I parked and shut the engine Five minutes passed without a light in the house .Time to remove my convict uniform: blue cotton shirt and white slacks which had a blue strip running down the side I took off the guard’s brown jacket, shirt, slacks and brown shoes. His clothes were a little tight’ and I had the worse time putting on his tie. This was one time where ten years made me rusty. The shoes were too tight so I kept my convict brown shoes. His slack pocket contained a wallet with a name (Alan Jones-sounded phony to me) and a local address and about four hundred dollars in mixed bills. I felt his carotid artery. It was beating slowly. He was still alive, but he was unconscious. Brushing his eyelashes elicited no response. He was in a coma. I had to get off the street. The best place to go was to this guard’s house. I needed to ask for directions. I opened the passenger door, dragged him out, and propped him against a wall. The carport would protect him and the low temperature would act like hypothermia and increase his chances of recovery.
I start the engine and backed out into the street, turned left back to the main road.
Which way? Left? Right? I turned right, the direction away from the vicinity of the prison. The streets were empty, and the roads slick because of the snow. Thankfully, the snow had stopped and the wind died down I traveled about two miles when I spotted what looked like an all night diner. There were three cars parked-one of which was a white State Highway patrol car. I pulled into the parking lot and parked next to the police car. I remember when I was in college, reading a short story called Purloined Letter.
This letter was hidden in plain view, and that is the tactic I decide to use. I flipped the visor down. The mirror in back of the visor showed a dark haired middle aged guy dressed in a brown Florida Correctional outfit who worked at the prison. I needed to find out where this man lived to get off the street and the best way to do that is to find somebody in his diner who could tell me.
When I opened the front door to the diner, the smell of apple pie and coffee hit me and caused me almost to faint. I realized that I had nothing to eat since noon.
Looking around, I saw a black man in a booth in the back, an elderly couple sitting in a middle booth. And in the front booth was a heavy set patrolman .His cheeks bulged with pie, crumbs pasted on his lips. His black eyes which were buried in layers of fat were staring at me. He gave me an intense look. The fact that I was a stranger no doubt bothered him. The first thing I needed to do was act normally. I sat on a stool at the counter and a very pretty blonde waitress took my order for apple pie and coffee. I swiveled on the stool turned and looked at the police officer catching his eye .If you don’t think my stomach was in knots then you have no idea what fear is all about “Maybe you could help me?” I asked him.” We had a birthday celebration at the Administration Building and Jones was a bit too tipsy to drive. I volunteered to drive his truck to his house then I’ll call and get picked up. He lives on Starke Drive. How do I get there?”
“You work at the State Prison?” the patrolman asked.
“That’s right.”
He stared at me.