talking to somebody when the sodomy call came in."
"I don't see how the lack of data implicates a policeman," Moore said. "Sounds more like Norman Bell pulling strings. He has money, or she does."
"They did pull strings." Ybor allowed himself a smile. "Mrs. Bell did, anyhow. The cops were glad to take her money, but the erasure was complete a good eight hours before she paid."
"She didn't just pay," Willy Joe said. "Even a professor ain't that stupid."
"No … I just looked for a big credit transfer. The guy she paid was the police dispatcher's father. She bought a new garage door. But no installation fee. Like she put it in herself."
"That is interesting," Moore said. "The sodomy charge would ruin him, and she'd go down for buying off the policeman. So your next step would be to confront them?"
"Yeah, if I had a next step. I'd just found the garage-door thing when the cop stepped in and shot me. Son of a bitch."
"So if you was to walk out this door," Willy Joe said, "you'd get your shit together and then go hit up the Bells."
"Well, I guess not," Ybor said carefully. "Guess you'd want to do that."
"Smart kid," Willy Joe said to Moore. He tapped the cylinder with his finger and it rolled almost to the edge of the table. "Here ya go. Have a ball."
Ybor uncapped it hungrily and turned his back to the men. He almost caught his penis in the zipper, in his haste.
A sharp sting and the first real peace he'd had in a month. He felt the calm power glow through his muscles and organs.
He took a deep breath, and something rattled in his chest. He turned and sat down. A surge of nausea and twisting pain in his stomach. "What…"
Willy Joe
"Y'know, I think you made a mistake there. You're not supposed to shoot that in your dick."
"No, he isn't," Moore said.
Willy Joe stood up with a bright smile. "That's supposed to go in your pussy. "
Ybor was doubled up in pain. "Shit. Immune … system."
"Yeah, little mix-up. Sorry. Some girl musta got yours. No fun for her, either."
Moore stared at Ybor's convulsions. "They said it would be sudden and painless."
"One outta two." He picked up his cap off the floor.
He set the cap on his head and straightened it, looking at the mirror on the wall. He saluted whoever was behind the mirror, probably Bobón and the warden. "You wanta take it from here?"
Moore didn't answer at first. He was watching Ybor, who had fallen off the chair, rigid, and was slowly moving his limbs around, his jaw locked open in a silent scream.
"I said you wanna take care of it?"
"Sure," Moore said, not looking up. "Papers already made out. Bad drug reaction."
"I'll say." Willy Joe wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Think I'm gonna die some other way." He pushed the screen door open, stepped out, and took a deep breath. The golden pasture smelled wonderful, a mile or more from the early-morning highway fumes. He stepped over the white line painted on the sidewalk, the symbolic wall, and pulled out the antenna on his phone.
"Where you guys at?" he said. "Five minutes, then. Runnin' behind and we ain't even started." There was no anger in his voice, though. He selected a joint from his wallet and lit up, smiling, and walked into the trees to his left, away from the rising sun.
There was still a little mist close to the ground. The woods were dark, but he didn't need the flashlight he'd used coming in. He followed a path of pine needles, an exercise trail for the staff and a few trusted inmates.
In front of him, the darkness rustled, and he was down on one knee, pistol out. Shit! In the woods without a bodyguard. He hustled sideways, to crouch behind a fat twisted oak.
Silence. Just a squirrel or a bird. If someone was after him, he wouldn't make no noise, just wait. You never hear the one that gets you. But he strained to see down the dark path, looking for motion.
Too many people knew he was here, alone. Maybe that was not too bright. But you got to trust somebody. Or do you? His knee was getting wet.
"I don't see how the lack of data implicates a policeman," Moore said. "Sounds more like Norman Bell pulling strings. He has money, or she does."
"They did pull strings." Ybor allowed himself a smile. "Mrs. Bell did, anyhow. The cops were glad to take her money, but the erasure was complete a good eight hours before she paid."
"She didn't just pay," Willy Joe said. "Even a professor ain't that stupid."
"No … I just looked for a big credit transfer. The guy she paid was the police dispatcher's father. She bought a new garage door. But no installation fee. Like she put it in herself."
"That is interesting," Moore said. "The sodomy charge would ruin him, and she'd go down for buying off the policeman. So your next step would be to confront them?"
"Yeah, if I had a next step. I'd just found the garage-door thing when the cop stepped in and shot me. Son of a bitch."
"So if you was to walk out this door," Willy Joe said, "you'd get your shit together and then go hit up the Bells."
"Well, I guess not," Ybor said carefully. "Guess you'd want to do that."
"Smart kid," Willy Joe said to Moore. He tapped the cylinder with his finger and it rolled almost to the edge of the table. "Here ya go. Have a ball."
Ybor uncapped it hungrily and turned his back to the men. He almost caught his penis in the zipper, in his haste.
A sharp sting and the first real peace he'd had in a month. He felt the calm power glow through his muscles and organs.
He took a deep breath, and something rattled in his chest. He turned and sat down. A surge of nausea and twisting pain in his stomach. "What…"
Willy Joe
"Y'know, I think you made a mistake there. You're not supposed to shoot that in your dick."
"No, he isn't," Moore said.
Willy Joe stood up with a bright smile. "That's supposed to go in your pussy. "
Ybor was doubled up in pain. "Shit. Immune … system."
"Yeah, little mix-up. Sorry. Some girl musta got yours. No fun for her, either."
Moore stared at Ybor's convulsions. "They said it would be sudden and painless."
"One outta two." He picked up his cap off the floor.
He set the cap on his head and straightened it, looking at the mirror on the wall. He saluted whoever was behind the mirror, probably Bobón and the warden. "You wanta take it from here?"
Moore didn't answer at first. He was watching Ybor, who had fallen off the chair, rigid, and was slowly moving his limbs around, his jaw locked open in a silent scream.
"I said you wanna take care of it?"
"Sure," Moore said, not looking up. "Papers already made out. Bad drug reaction."
"I'll say." Willy Joe wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Think I'm gonna die some other way." He pushed the screen door open, stepped out, and took a deep breath. The golden pasture smelled wonderful, a mile or more from the early-morning highway fumes. He stepped over the white line painted on the sidewalk, the symbolic wall, and pulled out the antenna on his phone.
"Where you guys at?" he said. "Five minutes, then. Runnin' behind and we ain't even started." There was no anger in his voice, though. He selected a joint from his wallet and lit up, smiling, and walked into the trees to his left, away from the rising sun.
There was still a little mist close to the ground. The woods were dark, but he didn't need the flashlight he'd used coming in. He followed a path of pine needles, an exercise trail for the staff and a few trusted inmates.
In front of him, the darkness rustled, and he was down on one knee, pistol out. Shit! In the woods without a bodyguard. He hustled sideways, to crouch behind a fat twisted oak.
Silence. Just a squirrel or a bird. If someone was after him, he wouldn't make no noise, just wait. You never hear the one that gets you. But he strained to see down the dark path, looking for motion.
Too many people knew he was here, alone. Maybe that was not too bright. But you got to trust somebody. Or do you? His knee was getting wet.
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