“That, and two hundred thousand dollars, tax free.”
“You’ll put that in writing?” she said.
“We don’t put anything in writing. But we’ll put the money in a locker for you and give you the key.”
“What stops me from taking the money before you kill the terrorists?”
“You won’t know the location of the locker until the job is finished.”
“What, I’m just supposed to trust you?”
Quinn said, “If you like, we could just kill you instead.”
“What a charmer,” she said.
Quinn bowed.
“There’s a more immediate problem,” I said. “The Texas Syndicate. When they find out what happened they’ll want to make an example of you.”
Alison’s face tightened. “This wasn’t my fault,” she said. “Hector’s the one that got them involved.”
“That’s not how they’re going to see it, Hector being dead and all.”
She looked around, started to panic. “I can’t stay here,” she said.
We were silent awhile, Quinn and I thinking it through, Alison waiting to hear something reassuring. Finally I said, “When Darwin calls to ID the Bernies, I’ll have him find out who’s the head of the Syndicate. I’ll arrange a meeting and see if I can keep you alive awhile.”
Alison had used many voices in the short time I’d known her. The one she used now told me she finally understood the danger she was in: “If you keep me alive and give me two hundred grand, I’ll do my part.” She thought a moment about what she’d just said, set her jaw, and nodded once, firmly. “I will. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“That’s my girl,” I said.
Alison pursed her lips. “Since we’re going to work together, I don’t have to keep calling you Cosmo, do I?”
Quinn laughed. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s his new nickname.”
I frowned.
“My name is Donovan Creed,” I said to Alison.
“I like Cosmo Burlap better,” she said.
“Of course you do.”
Chapter 33
The Control Unit of the maximum security prison at Lofton, Texas, was built four years ago, in response to the riot that ended the lives of four guards and twelve inmates. The unit houses 320 male prisoners under six different levels of security. The worst offenders are locked in solitary confinement twenty-three hours each day. Their cells are concrete chambers, with steel doors and a steel grate. Cell furniture, including the bed, desk, and chair, are comprised of poured concrete. The top of each cell contains a four-inch high by four foot long window that allows prisoners a view of sky and nothing else. This design has a purpose: without landmarks, inmates can’t discern their specific location within the building. Their one hour per day outside solitary gives them an opportunity to exercise alone in a concrete bunker. Each month they’re allowed one family and one attorney visitation. My visit was an exception, courtesy of Darwin’s connections.
Roy “Wolf ” Williams had recently bought three years at Level Six security for attempting to kill a guard. Now that Roy was removed from the general prison population, I had no doubt that some other maggot would soon step up to head the Texas Syndicate. Until then, Wolf Williams was the man.
“I don’t give a shit how they died,” Williams said. “It’s on her, now.”
“Alison didn’t even know those guys. Hector’s the one that brought them in.”
“Yeah, well Hector’s dead. So that leaves the girl.” He sneered. “Tell her it’s gonna be ugly.” He licked his lips. “Real ugly.”
Wolf Williams knew all about ugly. He was a six-five, three hundred fifty pound turd, with vacant eyes, a puffy, pock-marked face, and cruel Joker-type lips that exposed a mouthful of tiny teeth in various shades of yellow, brown and black. Prison regulations ensured his hair was shaved short in a buzz, but you look at him and know he’d wear it long and filthy if he had the choice. Like the way he wore his greasy, scraggly beard.
