D’Agosta turned the wheel of the meat van and slowed, guiding it out of the woods. Herkmoor rose ahead of him, a brilliant cluster of sodium lights bathing the maze of walls, towers, and cellblocks in an unreal topaz light. As he approached the first set of gates, he continued to slow, passing a cluster of warning signs telling drivers to have their paperwork in order and to expect a search, followed by a list of forbidden items so long it took two billboards to name them all: everything from fireworks to heroin.
D’Agosta took a deep breath, tried to calm his unsettled nerves. He’d been in prisons before, of course, but always on official business. Driving in like this, bent on some extremely unofficial business, was asking for trouble. Real trouble.
He stopped at the first chain-link gate. A guard came out of a pillbox and sauntered over, carrying a clipboard.
“You’re early tonight,” he said.
D’Agosta shrugged. “It’s my first time up here. Left early, in case I got lost.”
The guard grunted, shoved the clipboard in the window. D’Agosta attached his paperwork and handed it back. The guard flipped through it with the tip of a pencil, nodding.
“Know the drill?”
“Not really,” D’Agosta answered truthfully.
“You’ll get this back on your way out. Show your ID at the next checkpoint.”
“Gotcha.”
The chain-link gate withdrew on wheels, making a rattling noise.
D’Agosta eased forward, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. Glinn claimed to have planned everything down to the last iota-and had, with remarkable ease, secured his employment under an assumed name with the meatpacking company and arranged for him to get this route. But the fact was, you could never predict what people might do. That was where he and Glinn parted opinion. This little adventure could turn to shit in a heartbeat.
He drove the truck up to the second gate and, once again, a guard came out.
“ID?”
D’Agosta handed him the false driver’s license and permit. The man looked them over. “New man?”
“Yeah.”
“You familiar with the layout?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.”
“Go straight through, then bear to the right. When you see the loading dock, back up to the first bay.”
“Got it.”
“You can exit the vehicle to supervise the unloading. You may not handle any of the merchandise or assist prison personnel. Stay with the vehicle at all times. As soon as you’re unloaded, you leave. Understood?”
“Sure.”
The guard spoke briefly into a radio and the final chain-link gate rolled up.
As D’Agosta eased the van through and made the right turn, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a pint of Rebel Yell bourbon. He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, swishing it carefully around in his mouth before swallowing. He could feel the fiery bolus burn down his gullet into his stomach. He shook a few drops on his coat for good measure and slipped the bottle back into his jacket pocket.
In a moment, he had backed up to the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were already waiting, and as soon as he unlocked the back, they began off-loading the boxes and sides of frozen meat.
D’Agosta watched, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, then turned to a worker. “Say, you got a restroom around here?”
“Sorry. Not allowed.”
“But I’ve gotta go.”
“It’s against the rules.” The worker hefted two boxes of meats to his shoulders and disappeared into the back.
D’Agosta buttonholed the next man. “Look, I’ve really gotta go.”
“You heard him. It’s against the rules.”
“Man, please don’t tell me that.”
The man put down his box and stared at D’Agosta with a long, tired look. “When you get out of here, you can piss in the woods. Okay?” He lifted the box.
“It ain’t pissing I got to do.”
“That’s not my problem.” He hoisted up the box and carried it off.
As the first man approached again, D’Agosta stepped in front of him, blocking his access and breathing heavily into the man’s face. “This is no joke. I need to pinch one off, and I mean now.”
The man wrinkled up his nose and stepped back. He glanced at his fellow worker. “He’s been drinking.”
“What’s that?” D’Agosta said belligerently. “What did you say?”
The man returned the look coolly. “I said, you’ve been drinking.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can smell it.” He turned to his co-worker. “Get the super.”
“What the hell for? You gonna give me a Breathalyzer?”
The other worker disappeared and a moment later he came back with a tall, grim-looking man incongruously dressed in a black blazer, with a belly that hung over his belt like a sack of grain.
“What seems to be the problem?” the supervisor asked.
“I think he’s been drinking, sir,” said the first worker.
The man hooked up his belt and stepped toward D’Agosta. “That right?”
“No, it isn’t right!” D’Agosta said, getting in his face and breathing hard with indignation.
The man backed off, unshipped his radio.
“Look, I’m leaving,” D’Agosta said, trying to make himself sound suddenly accommodating. “I’ve got a long drive to get back to the warehouse. This place is in the middle of frigging nowhere and it’s six o’clock at night.”
“You’re not going anywhere, pal.” The supervisor spoke briefly into the radio, then turned to one of the workers. “Take him into staff dining and have him wait there.”
“Come this way, sir.”
“This is bullshit. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Come this way, sir.”
Grudgingly, D’Agosta followed the guard through the loading dock and into a large pantry, empty, dark, and smelling strongly of Clorox. They passed through a door in the far wall into a smaller room where, it seemed, the kitchen staff took their own meals when they were not on shift.
“Have a seat.”
D’Agosta sat down at one of the stainless-steel tables. The man took a seat at the next table, folded his arms, looked away. A few minutes passed and the supervisor returned, an armed guard at his side.
“Stand up,” the super said.
D’Agosta complied.
The super turned toward the guard. “Search him.”
“You can’t do that! I know my rights, and-”
“And this is a federal prison. It’s all spelled out on the signs in front, if you bothered to read them. We have the right to search anyone at will.”
“Don’t you frigging touch me.”
“Sir, at the moment, you’ve got a medium-sized problem. If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to have a big problem.”
“Yeah? What kind of a problem?”
