Vic’s eyes narrowed and Oliver nervously stepped back. He had to watch himself. Avoid making enemies. Especially now.
“Did you just call me a liar, Ollie?” Vic breathed.
“No…no, of course not,” Oliver said, but the placating words tasted bitter in his mouth. Ollie? He was better than Vic, better than all the rest of the prisoners and even the guards. He’d graduated from dental school, had established a successful practice. These guys were losers—dope addicts and thugs. Most had never even been able to hold down a job.
But he’d get back at Vic later. If a man had enough patience, there were ways. He always evened the score.
“I’m anxious to get what I paid for, that’s all.” Oliver’s gaze roved over the crowd as he tried to determine whether Vic had any friends close by who might spring at him with a homemade weapon. “I’m out in two days.”
“And you’re still worried about her damn address? Shit, man, she must be pretty important to you.”
She was important. Extremely important. Skye had cost him everything. He wouldn’t forget that. “I owe her…some money.”
“Right.” Vic laughed again, then quickly sobered. “Tell you what, Ollie. I’ll get you her address—as soon as you give me a little something in return.”
Oliver eyed him warily. “I’ve already paid.”
“I’m afraid it’s gonna cost you more than we originally agreed.”
Standing with his back to the cinder-block wall, Oliver studied the men around him even more carefully.
“Not money,” Vic went on. “That’s not good enough this time.”
“What, then?” Oliver asked. “Smokes?”
Vic leaned in close and whispered, “Get me a boulder.”
Oliver stiffened in surprise. “Crack? You want me to get you drugs?”
Vic’s eyes remained hard and glittery. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“But…I am shocked. I’m not involved in the drug trafficking that goes on in here. I never have been, and you know it. Why are you asking me?”
“No one’s really watching you right now. You’re a short-timer, eh? Anyway, it’s the only way you can redeem yourself, snitch.”
“Snitch” made Oliver’s pulse race. How did Victor know about his deal with the San Francisco police? The detectives had promised they wouldn’t say a word or make a move until he was free. Informing on someone, especially while he was on the inside, could get him killed.
Or was that the point?
Oliver couldn’t trust anyone not to turn on him. Except Jane.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, feigning bewilderment.
Victor’s mouth twitched. “Right. You’re walkin’ outta here on Friday ’cause they like you.”
“I’m getting out on parole.” But he wouldn’t be going anywhere, even to work in the prison dental office, if they caught him with drugs. They’d revoke his parole, maybe send him to the Adjustment Center on a rule violation, and he’d rot there for as long as they wanted.
He couldn’t let that happen. San Quentin was killing him a day at a time. The stench of the place already seemed to seep from his pores. He wondered if he’d ever wake without the memory of it.
Victor scuffed the dirt, spat again. “See that smokestack over there?”
Oliver glanced at the green pipe protruding from the roof of North Block. He knew it originated from the infamous gas chamber. Everyone did. “What about it?”
“That’s the only way I’m gettin’ outta here.”
“You’re not condemned.”
“I will be. They’re bringing new charges against me. And these will stick.”
Oliver didn’t care. The sooner they killed Vic, the better. As far as he was concerned it’d save him the trouble. “They don’t gas people anymore,” he said, unmoved. “They use lethal injection.”
“What’s the difference, smart guy? They gonna kill me, right? I got nothin’ to lose.”
Oliver was smaller than Vic, smaller than most guys. He shrank back to make Vic believe he was frightened of him. “We’ve always had a good relationship. I’ve paid you a lot over the years.”
“So? Now someone else is paying me more.” He kicked a pebble that hit Oliver’s shin. “Get me what I want.”
The stinging pain spread through Oliver’s body. As he watched the rock roll to one side, he almost didn’t notice that Vic was walking away. “I can’t,” he called after him. “I don’t even know how.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
But that would risk everything! “I don’t understand. Why are you turning on me?”
“Turning on you?” He laughed without mirth. “Who turned on who, Ollie? Wasn’t Johnny Pew your friend? Didn’t he trust you when he told you what he done?” He made a tsking sound. “It’s a damned shame you have no loyalty, that’s what it is, a damned shame.”
Oliver’s mind stumbled over itself, searching for a solution. Vic was setting him up. If he got the drugs, someone would tip off the guards, he’d be caught and his parole would be suspended. If he didn’t get the drugs, someone would stab him before he could walk out the front gates. “This isn’t right,” he yelled after Vic. “I didn’t snitch on anyone.”
“Just be sure you don’t snitch on me, or the only way you’re gettin’ out of here is in a body bag.”
8
Miranda Dodge had a Web site.
David skipped lunch with Tiny and one of the other detectives to view the photos she had posted, most of which were taken years earlier, while she was at the height of her modeling career. Tall, with auburn hair, Ms. Dodge had a face and figure reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe’s. Very curvy. Big-busted. A build that hadn’t always been an asset. She’d been trying to break into modeling during the nineties, when Kate Moss set the standard and women were starving themselves to achieve the “waif” look.
She hadn’t gotten as far as she would’ve liked. The spread in Playboy was extensive—five pages of her in various stages of undress, standing beneath a waterfall, swimming in a tropical pond, lying on the beach covered only in sand. But she hadn’t appeared in any other major publications. David guessed she kept her Playboy pictures on her site, despite the fact that they were rather dated, simply to build demand for what she was doing now—selling a workout video and diet plan with her own label.