“Yes.... It can be arranged.”
“Fine. Now for the details for your end of it. First, a contact point. And a time for the contact. Noon is the best time, so we'll make it between twelve noon and one o'clock. Now the place. I used to know the town pretty well—let's see, at the north end of Main Street there is a big service station, just before you get to the railroad tracks. That's a good place, easy to spot. Now west of that service station there is a quiet residential street, as I remember, which should be all right. The second block to the right of that station, midway in the second block, between twelve noon arid one o'clock, is that all right for the time and place of contact?”
“You make it sound pretty simple.”
“It
Only a moment's hesitation, then positively: “I go for it. I'll see to it myself, but only for one day a week, over a three month span from the day they release me.”
“That's fair enough, make it Friday. Friday's the best day, it's always the most hectic, and if there is a shortage of guards it will be on Friday, just before the week end.”
For one long moment he had said nothing. At last he murmured, “Yes... Yes, it sounds all right.” Then, with no warning at all, he stepped forward and hit me in the mouth with his fist.
The suddeness of the attack stunned me. I reeled back and crashed against the bars of the cell. “Goddamnit,” John Venci hissed under his breath, “fight!”
Then I got it. In case of an assisted escape, the cops always suspected the escapee's friends, and John Venci was merely striking off such a possibility. The entire cell block seemed to know the instant the first blow was struck. At the top of his lungs, John Venci yelled, “You sonofabitch!” Then he grabbed up a stook and hurled it at me, and the place burst into bedlam as every con in the block began rattling bars and yelling. All right! I thought. All right, there's no sense doing a thing half way! We might as well make it look good!
My mouth was pouring blood, and I'd caught one of Venci's shoe heels under my left eye. He kept digging in as though his very life was at stake, cursing and yelling like a crazy man, as savage as a lion. But it was no match. He was tough, all right, and vicious, but I had weight and youth on my side, and every time I knocked him crashing against the bars I thought: Jesus, I hope those goddamn guards break it up before I kill him!
So that was John Venci, as I knew him. He played it to the hilt, and by his rules only the winner ever walked away. After the brawl, after the guards finally got tired clubbing us, after their legs wearied from kicking us, they finally dragged us off to the hole.
I don't know what John Venci thought about during his stay in solitary, probably it didn't bother him at all.
What I thought about was that escape. I nursed my two splintered ribs and tried to breathe as lightly as possible, and thought of that dazzling day nine months in the future when I would crash out of this hell hole for good. And when I did, somebody was going to pay for those two splintered ribs.
Still, the thing that fascinated me most through those endless days of darkness was the fact that I never doubted John Venci. When the time came, he would be there, and I never doubted it for a second. I understood that it was not going to be a free ride, and that I would have to “earn” my passage, as Dorris Venci had put it.
That was fine with me; I had never cared for free rides anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
WE HIT TOWN about nine o'clock that night, Dorris Venci and I, and quite a town it was, too. It was like a fairyland, all that color, the dancing lights, garish show windows, the buildings.
I was completely delighted. “This is the most wonderful thing I ever saw,” I said.
Dorris Venci said, “Turn left at the next corner. I'll tell you where to go from there.”
I was afraid she was going to take me away from the lights. I felt like a child who had been allowed to watch a carousel for a moment and then jerked away. “Where are we going?” I said.
“Stop here,” Dorris said.
“Here on the corner?”
“Yes. The Tower Hotel is just across the street. Go to the desk and tell the clerk you are William O'Connor from Dallas; he has your reservation.”
“This is going to be a little rich for me at first, but I hope to get used to it. What do you do while William O'Connor checks in?”
“Take the car around to the hotel garage. Stay in your apartment; I'll want to talk to you later.”
“All right, but shouldn't I have some luggage or something. It's going to look pretty fishy walking into a hotel like that without any luggage.”
“That's been taken care of,” she said. “The luggage is already in your apartment.”
She thought of everything. Well, almost everything. I got out of the car, and then turned back again. “I hate to bring this up,” I said, “but could you let me have a dollar?”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Unless hotels have changed a lot in five years, the boy who shows me to my room is going to expect more than handshakes and fond wishes.”
It wasn't good for a laugh, or even a smile. She got a five dollar bill out of her bag and handed it to me. I hadn't thought much about it until now, but she was in a pretty sour mood and had been ever since I had known her. I headed for the lobby.
“Mr. O'Connor...” The desk clerk frowned, thumbing through his reservation file. “Oh yes, Mr.
“I'm sure I will.” I smiled and tried to keep my dirty hands and grimy fingernails hidden in my pockets.
The so-called apartment was nothing special, but it was certainly better than a prison cell. I gave the bellhop the five and he took it as though it were a debt long overdue.
“Would there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you; that's all I can afford.”
I got the fish eye for an instant, just before he slipped out the door. Well, I thought, it has been a busy day. It has been the most wonderful day of my life. I owed John Venci plenty, for what he had done for me this day, and I didn't mean to forget it. He could have anything he wanted out of Roy Surratt, all he had to do was ask.
I opened the bedroom closet and there were two leather suitcases with the initials W. O. C. stamped in gold letters near the handles. I opened them up and there was more haberdashery.
I was standing at the window looking out at the city and all those exciting, dazzling lights, when there was a knock at the door. It was Dorris Venci.
“I was just looking at the city,” I said. “You have no idea how beautiful it is to me. Look at the way those lights shimmer, they never stand still. A painter would have a hell of a time getting a thing like that on canvas.”
Dorris Venci frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I laughed. “Nothing, I guess. It's just that there are a lot of sights and smells and sounds and experiences that I haven't been exposed to for a long time. I'll get over it.”
“I hope it's soon. Is the apartment all right?”
“The apartment is fine, but I'm not sure I understand all you're doing for me. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate all this and expect to pay for it, but it seems like a lot of trouble to go to when all I expected was a lift out of Beaker.” Dorris looked at me, then moved across the room and sat on the edge of an uncomfortable sofa. “By the way,” I said, “when do I get to see your husband? He's not too sick to talk, is he?”
Without a flick of an eyelash, she said, “My husband is dead.”
I wasn't sure that I had heard her correctly. “What did you say?”
“My husband is dead. He was murdered a week ago.”
This news stunned me. After all that had happened, after all that he had done for me, I simply couldn't believe that John Venci was dead. But it was no joke—a person didn't joke while looking at you the way Dorris Venci was looking at me. John Venci
