his brain somehow. “Listen to me. You’ll never get away with this. You need to turn yourself in.”
Moroconi snorted into the phone. “You must be kiddin’.”
“Think about it. What are you going to do, run for the rest of your life? Sooner or later you’ll be caught. Probably sooner. It would be smarter to let the judicial process run its course. We were making real headway in court today—”
“Aw, cut the bullshit, shyster. You know damn well the fix is in. The police can put a schmuck like me behind bars anytime they want to. And they want to. Someone got to them. Hell, most of those jurors assumed I was guilty the minute I walked into court.”
“That isn’t always true—”
“Besides, I can’t turn myself in. If I go anywhere near a police station, they’ll blow my head off and ask questions later.”
Travis pondered for a moment. There was some truth in that. Especially if anyone had been hurt during the breakout. “All right, how about if I pick you up? We’ll go in together.”
“What’s to say they won’t kill you, too?”
“They won’t,” Travis assured him. “They’ll listen to me.
“What if they want me to do extra time for the attempted escape?”
“You’ve already brought that on yourself, Al. The best I can do now is see that you don’t aggravate matters.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Travis could tell he was thinking—but what was he thinking? “All right,” Al said at last. “If you come meet me, I’ll go in with you. If you promise you won’t tip off the cops first.”
“I promise. This is the wisest course of action, believe me.”
“Meet me at the West End. In front of the Butcher Shop.”
Travis nodded. “I know the place. It’s near my office. I’ll be there in half an hour. See you then.”
Travis hung up the phone and began dressing. He didn’t relish the prospect of being alone in the dark with Al Moroconi, but he didn’t see any workable alternative. He tried to imagine what the bar association would advise, but the Rules of Professional Conduct didn’t cover bizarre situations like this one.
He considered calling the police—but no. He had made a promise. A promise given in the course of legal counseling, no less. That was sacred. He’d do exactly what he had promised—he’d pick up Al and drive him to the station.
Besides, what did he have to fear from Al Moroconi? After all, the man was his client.
The brown-haired technician wearing the headphones smirked. “Did you get all that?”
His boss nodded. “West End. The Butcher Shop. Half an hour.”
“Maybe sooner. It won’t take Byrne half an hour to get there.”
“Depends on how long it takes him to get his head together. Did you get a trace on Moroconi?”
“No. But he was calling from a pay phone. He’d be gone before we could get there. Doesn’t matter. We know where he’ll be in half an hour.”
“True.” He walked to the back of the truck. “Better keep monitoring. Just in case.”
“Your wish is my command.” The technician changed the tape on the reel-to-reel recorder and reactivated the machine.
The other man buttoned his overcoat and stepped into the bracing night air. “By the way, if I haven’t mentioned it lately, you do damn fine work.”
The technician smiled. “That’s why you pay me the big money, Mr. Kramer.”
22
1:20 A.M.
T RAVIS EXITED STEMMONS FREEWAY and headed for the West End Historic District, just north of Commerce and west of Lamar. He pulled into the empty parking lot on the opposite side of the railroad tracks. It was the closest open parking; he hoofed it from there.
The streets were quiet; all the restaurants and boutiques were closed. The West End had been refurbished several years before and converted into a trendy upscale shopping and dining haunt. A less panoramic version of San Antonio’s Riverwalk. The yuppies were all in bed tonight, though, as any sensible person would be at this time
Moroconi snorted into the phone. “You must be kiddin’.”
“Think about it. What are you going to do, run for the rest of your life? Sooner or later you’ll be caught. Probably sooner. It would be smarter to let the judicial process run its course. We were making real headway in court today—”
“Aw, cut the bullshit, shyster. You know damn well the fix is in. The police can put a schmuck like me behind bars anytime they want to. And they want to. Someone got to them. Hell, most of those jurors assumed I was guilty the minute I walked into court.”
“That isn’t always true—”
“Besides, I can’t turn myself in. If I go anywhere near a police station, they’ll blow my head off and ask questions later.”
Travis pondered for a moment. There was some truth in that. Especially if anyone had been hurt during the breakout. “All right, how about if I pick you up? We’ll go in together.”
“What’s to say they won’t kill you, too?”
“They won’t,” Travis assured him. “They’ll listen to me.
“What if they want me to do extra time for the attempted escape?”
“You’ve already brought that on yourself, Al. The best I can do now is see that you don’t aggravate matters.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Travis could tell he was thinking—but what was he thinking? “All right,” Al said at last. “If you come meet me, I’ll go in with you. If you promise you won’t tip off the cops first.”
“I promise. This is the wisest course of action, believe me.”
“Meet me at the West End. In front of the Butcher Shop.”
Travis nodded. “I know the place. It’s near my office. I’ll be there in half an hour. See you then.”
Travis hung up the phone and began dressing. He didn’t relish the prospect of being alone in the dark with Al Moroconi, but he didn’t see any workable alternative. He tried to imagine what the bar association would advise, but the Rules of Professional Conduct didn’t cover bizarre situations like this one.
He considered calling the police—but no. He had made a promise. A promise given in the course of legal counseling, no less. That was sacred. He’d do exactly what he had promised—he’d pick up Al and drive him to the station.
Besides, what did he have to fear from Al Moroconi? After all, the man was his client.
The brown-haired technician wearing the headphones smirked. “Did you get all that?”
His boss nodded. “West End. The Butcher Shop. Half an hour.”
“Maybe sooner. It won’t take Byrne half an hour to get there.”
“Depends on how long it takes him to get his head together. Did you get a trace on Moroconi?”
“No. But he was calling from a pay phone. He’d be gone before we could get there. Doesn’t matter. We know where he’ll be in half an hour.”
“True.” He walked to the back of the truck. “Better keep monitoring. Just in case.”
“Your wish is my command.” The technician changed the tape on the reel-to-reel recorder and reactivated the machine.
The other man buttoned his overcoat and stepped into the bracing night air. “By the way, if I haven’t mentioned it lately, you do damn fine work.”
The technician smiled. “That’s why you pay me the big money, Mr. Kramer.”
22
1:20 A.M.
T RAVIS EXITED STEMMONS FREEWAY and headed for the West End Historic District, just north of Commerce and west of Lamar. He pulled into the empty parking lot on the opposite side of the railroad tracks. It was the closest open parking; he hoofed it from there.
The streets were quiet; all the restaurants and boutiques were closed. The West End had been refurbished several years before and converted into a trendy upscale shopping and dining haunt. A less panoramic version of San Antonio’s Riverwalk. The yuppies were all in bed tonight, though, as any sensible person would be at this time
Similar Books
