“What the fuck are you doing, Rourke?”
Bunny blessed himself. “Can’t say that without righting the score.” He joined his hands. “Our Father, who art in heaven …” Bunny continued, branching into Irish halfway through, as he realised he wasn’t one hundred percent on some of the words. “Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated Blake. “Now get the hell on your feet. I’ll walk you in.”
Blake turned and started to walk towards the doors to his building. For a moment, Bunny considered not following, but some offers you don’t turn down. Instead, he hurried to catch up and then matched Blake’s stride.
“You know, Rourke. I don’t like you.” Blake’s tone was casual and chatty. “I don’t think I have from the first moment I saw you. Always been my way – I take an instant dislike to some people. Guess you could call it a character flaw.” He laughed. “Something doesn’t sit right about you. I’ve been trying to figure it out and I think I’ve got it. You think you’re too good for this place. Like, somehow you’re just passing through, and the rest of us are trapped here.”
Bunny didn’t say anything as Blake smiled at him.
“Here’s a thing you should know, though, Rourke. I choose to be here. This is my little slice of heaven.” Blake waved a hand around him expansively. “Do you know who the most prolific killer within these walls is?” He put his arm around Bunny’s shoulder. “I’ll let you in on a little secret – it’s me.”
He giggled. “You see, prisoners – well, you’re subhuman, aren’t you? The scum of the earth. Aside from a few weirdo libtards, nobody gives a fuck about you. Hell, you kill each other with such tedious regularity, it’s perfect. Every prison in America has unsolved murders, so someone like me? Well, now – I can hide in plain view. Cops got oversight, but we really don’t. Not anything worth a damn. That’s why I wear this uniform. I can do as I like, if I’m smart enough.”
He tousled Bunny’s hair genially. “And I’m plenty smart. There’s all the unsolved murders, and then there are the ‘escapes’.”
He laughed hard at that, but Bunny noticed it didn’t reach his eyes. Those stayed fixed on him the whole time.
“Remember Phillip Moss and Randy Everett? The two bozos who died falling off a wall? I got a commendation for that – can you believe it? Got rid of two inconvenient assholes and I got a fucking plaque. Isn’t that beautiful?”
He lowered his voice as they neared the doors, although the inmates that were clustered around the entrance had already begun to disperse upon seeing Blake heading their way.
“Go tell your lawyer I said this, if you like. See how much you’re believed. Got to be honest, it’s a relief to share this with someone. It’s lonely being me. You see, the warden thinks he runs this place, but the reality is that I do. So he’s all freaked out about you being in with the Quiet Man, but I’m not. Honestly, I hope you mess up. I truly do.”
In the palm of Bunny’s left hand, the tightly wrapped bundle he’d picked up off the ground while praying was now covered in sweat – none of it from the heat.
Blake lowered his voice further to a gleeful whisper. “Truth is, I don’t need a reason, but it’s always nice to have one. I get the slightest hint that you’re up to something – just a suggestion – and I’ll kill you and enjoy doing it. That’ll make you number twelve. They’ve not all been here, of course. I’ve been having fun for a while.”
With that, Blake took his arm from around Bunny’s shoulder and walked off in the direction of the administration building. “You have yourself a lovely day.”
Bunny stopped to watch the man go. He knew how to saunter too.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Freddie Draper sat down and perused the menu. He didn’t need to – he knew it off by heart – but he liked doing it. He found it relaxing. It was part of the reason he was here.
He hadn’t tried every restaurant in Vegas, but he’d certainly been to enough of them to be considered something of an expert. You could keep all your overpriced celebrity eateries. Freddie had no interest in whether or not a guy who was famous for swearing on TV had once attended a meeting where they had planned the menu he was presented with. He didn’t give a damn whether the food had been flown in from Japan, or wherever, and he certainly didn’t care if Beyoncé or Ralph Lauren or Fred Flintstone had eaten there.
He just wanted food. Good food. It relaxed him. He went to the gym every morning so that he could eat out every night. He also dined alone, with just a paperback book for company. He turned off his cell. Between eight and nine in the evening, he was able to disappear, and Martha’s latest meltdown, or whatever violation of the Geneva Convention Rhonda from merchandising was responsible for now, could wait for an hour, while Freddie enjoyed a great meal in glorious solitude. For the last couple of weeks, he’d eaten exclusively at Yardbird in the Venetian. It was down-home, southern comfort food. Exquisite.
Marcus, his regular waiter, came up and took his order with minimal chitchat, just how he liked it. Freddie took a deep breath for what felt like the first time all day. The stress was getting to him. They were so close, but he knew Dionne was out there. He could feel her breath on his neck. Whatever goodie-two-shoes kick she was on, she was determined to take down him and the church; he knew that much. Maybe he could have negotiated with her, but since he’d broken the golden rule and reported her to the cops, and had her name added to the Black Book, negotiations were off
