Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 77, No. 4. Whole No. 451, March 25, 1981

Top Con by Clark Howard

“Hanley, younger but still not young, had flat, dangerous eyes and no conscience. Dwyer, older, seasoned by years behind prison walls, had the look of a fox in its own forest.” Dwyer was the top con in the precisely structured social strata of the prison — the man to go to for such indispensables as a forged pass...

Max Hanley made his way slowly across the big prison yard, walking around groups of blue-clad men who were congregating to play dominoes or lift weights or dope out next Sunday’s football parlays or just rap about their latest never-ending gripes. He moved gradually over to the bleachers, lighting a cigarette as he went. The man he wanted to see was sitting alone on a low bleacher bench and reading a newspaper. He was an older con, in his late fifties, a lifer; he wore bifocals under a gray receding hairline.

“Frank Dwyer?” Hanley said, sitting down beside him.

“That’s me,” the old con replied, glancing at his visitor, then resuming his reading.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Dwyer said before Hanley could tell him. “You’re Max Hanley. Former public enemy number one. Doing sixty-five years for bank robberies all over the midwest. You cell over in south block. Work in the dry-cleaning plant. What’s on your mind?”

Hanley smiled. “You sure you don’t already know that too?”

Dwyer looked at him, squinting. “I could probably guess. Been here about a year now, haven’t you?”

“A year too long,” Hanley said tightly.

“So you’re thinking of hanging ’em on a limb,’ is that it?”

“ ‘Hanging ’em on a limb?’ What’s that mean?”

“Means hanging your shackles on the limb of a tree and running away,” Dwyer explained. “Old chain-gang expression.”

Hanley studied the older man. “You were on a chain gang?”

“For over a year. Until I hung ’em on a limb and escaped. I did time on the Rock, too. Alcatraz. You didn’t think you were the only public enemy in here, did you?”

“I never thought about it one way or the other,” Max Hanley said with an edge. “But you’re right — I am looking to bust out of here. I asked around about some things I’ll be needing. Everybody said to see Frank Dwyer. They said Frank Dwyer was a lifer who knew this joint better than anybody. They said Frank Dwyer was the top con in here when it came to getting anything done. Were they right?”

“I’ve got a connection here and there,” Dwyer admitted. “But I don’t work for nothing.”

“Nobody asked you to. I’ve got friends and money on the outside. It just so happens that the things I need are on the inside.” Hanley leaned forward, elbows on knees, and dropped his cigarette butt on the ground. Dwyer eyed him distastefully.

“You’re not supposed to do that with your cigarette butt,” he said. “You’re supposed to tamp it out, peel the paper back, and roll it into a little ball, and spread the loose tobacco on the ground. Keeps the litter down. That’s the rule.”

Hanley grunted softly. “If I was interested in rules I wouldn’t be in here, old man. And I wouldn’t be sitting here planning a break.” “That’s the trouble with you young people,” Dwyer complained. “You got no respect for anything. This may be a prison, but it’s where you live. That’s good enough reason to keep it clean.”

“Climb down off your soapbox,” Hanley said flatly. “I didn’t come over here for no lecture. Are you open to making some money or aren’t you?”

“I’m open,” Dwyer said with a sigh. “A man’s got to get along somehow.” He folded his newspaper, carefully and neatly, and put it in the pocket of his denim jacket, which was also carefully and neatly folded on the bench next to him. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

Hanley shook his head. “You don’t have to know the plan. All you have to know is what I need from you. Then we’ll talk price.”

Dwyer shrugged. “Suit yourself. Shoot.”

“I want three yard passes from the dispensary to the kitchen. I want them signed by a doctor, so they won’t be questioned. Can you handle that?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Next I want three white bake-shop uniforms. Just the pants and shirts — I don’t need the hats. One size medium and two larges.”

“Three bake-shop uniforms, okay,” Dwyer said, nodding.

“Last, I want a package moved from the shoe shop over to the waste bins behind the sheet-metal shop. It’ll have to be moved on the exact day I say, no earlier and no later.”

“How big a package?”

“Shoe-box size.”

Dwyer nodded again. “No problem. Okay. That it?”

Hanley studied the old con for a long moment. Then he said, “I’m going to have a pretty involved plan going here. I’d like to have some idea who your contacts are, how you’re going to arrange all this—”

Dwyer was already shaking his head. “Sorry. That’s my business. I’ll give you a guarantee that everything you want will be done. But that’s all. No details. My guarantee will have to be enough.”

“Personal guarantee?” Max Hanley asked.

“Personal guarantee. Absolutely.”

That satisfied Hanley. He and Dwyer both understood that Dwyer had just put his life on the line to guarantee his performance.

“Let’s get to the price now,” the old convict said. “We’re talking some pretty heavy money here.”

Hanley feigned a surprised look. “For what? For stealing a few passes and some bake-shop uniforms?”

Dwyer shook his head and smiled. He knew when someone was trying to handle him. “No,” he said easily, “for moving that package from the shoe shop to the sheet-metal waste bins. I mean, I have to assume that package ain’t somebody’s lunch. You want to tell me what’s in it?”

Hanley shook his head. “No.”

“Then I’ll tell you. Guns.”

A moment of silence fell between them. They sat there side by side, both leaning forward with forearms on knees, looking at but not really seeing the mass of blue-clad men milling about in the yard. Hanley, younger but still not young, had flat, dangerous eyes and no conscience. Dwyer, older, seasoned by years behind prison walls, had the look of a fox in its own forest. In the silence that pervaded the moment, each decided that he did not like the other. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t necessary for them to be friends in order for them to strike a deal.

“Look it,” Dwyer finally said, “let’s stop playing games with each other. Here’s my position. Forget the signed passes and the bake-shop uniforms — those are nothing and we both know it. I just happen to be able to get them and you don’t. If you were bringing a break down on the joint, I’d get them for you and we’d be talking favors instead of cash money. But you’re not going to be around to pay back favors, so we’ve got to deal in terms of cash money.

“Now what you’re really buying is moving guns around inside the walls. You know as well as I do that’s about as heavy as it can get. We’re not talking dope or stolen canteen supplies or such. We’re talking guns. Get caught and it’s a formal felony charge that’ll bring another ten-year sentence — and it’ll be consecutive, not concurrent, tagged onto the end of the present sentence. Plus which you know how it’ll be served — in the hole. I’ve done hole time in D Block on Alcatraz, and in the SHU — the Security Housing Unit — at Folsom. Neither one was no picnic, and I was a lot younger then too. So you’re gonna have to decide if you’re willing to pay the freight or not. I’ll get your artillery moved for you, but I want a grand for doing it.”

“A grand!”

“You heard right. One grand. Cash. In hundred-dollar bills. New money, so it’s easy to roll.”

“A grand! That’s robbery!”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Take it or leave it.”

Silence again. Dwyer pulled a pouch and paper out of his shirt pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. Hanley watched the wrinkled, yellowed fingers work with a deftness that belied their age. Not a shred of tobacco was dropped, not a millimeter of paper was left unfilled. Except for its twisted end, the cigarette looked tailor-made. Probably been rolling them for fifty years, Max Hanley thought. There wouldn’t be any bargaining with this old thief.

“Okay,” Hanley said at last. “It’s a deal. Ten hundred-dollar bills. New money.” He fixed Dwyer in a cold stare. “But you’d better come through, old man.”

Dwyer grunted. “I been coming through since before you was born, boy.”

The next day Dwyer began setting up the operation.

As a lifer with years of good time behind him, Dwyer was employed in one of the least restrictive jobs in the prison — inmate clerk to the deputy warden in charge of administration. The DWA, as he was called, was second in charge of all aspects of running the prison with the exception of security, which was under the DWC — the Deputy Warden-Custody. Convicts like Dwyer, who worked for either deputy warden, were called “white caps” because, literally, they wore a white cap instead of a blue one. The white cap was a pass which allowed the wearer to go anywhere within the walls except the armory or armed-guard stations.

Dwyer himself was in charge of supplies. His primary job was to collect the monthly supply requisitions from all departments of the prison, check them against stock on hand in the storage warehouse, compile a list of items that were out of stock and needed to be ordered, type the list, and give it to the DWA for approval. Once approved, the list was forwarded to the procurement office where the supplies were ordered and shipped directly to the prison. As the items arrived, Dwyer would check them off his list and the warehouse clerk would either stock them or distribute them.

For Dwyer it was a perfect setup. He could come and go as he pleased, pass the time of day with friends and not be hassled for it, get into the dining hall ahead of the crowd, take a nap during the day when he was tired, steal extra codeine tablets from the dispensary when his arthritis got too painful in the winter, and in general make life as easy for himself as he could. He even had an arrangement with one of the hospital orderlies to supply him with a pint of medicinal brandy every thirty days so that he could mellow out on rainy nights when he started thinking about the lost years.

When he was beginning to set up the operation for Max Hanley’s crashout, the first thing Dwyer did was pull the most recent requisition from the dispensary and take it over to Edwards, the civilian male nurse who worked for the prison doctor.

“Excuse me, Mr. Edwards,” he said deferentially, “but on this here order you’ve got down a thousand cotton swabs. But the warehouse says you just got five thousand on an order last month. Warehouse wants to know if it’s a mistake.”

Edwards frowned. “Five thousand? Last month? Doesn’t sound right to me.” He swiveled around and took a folder from a filing cabinet. “Here’s last month’s order. No cotton swabs on it at all.” He handed the folder to Dwyer.

Dwyer shook his head. “That warehouse. Can’t get anything straight. I sure wish everybody would run their departments like you do, Mr. Edwards. Sure make my job a lot easier. I’m gonna make a note on this order that they’d better get those cotton swabs over here in a hurry. Have you got a red pencil I can use?”

Edwards opened a drawer. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” He handed the folder back to Edwards. “You’ll want to put this back in your file.”

Edwards swiveled around again to return the folder to the filing cabinet. When he did, Dwyer reached into the still-open desk drawer and noiselessly tore the top sheet from a pad of blank passes pre-signed by the prison doctor. By the time Edwards was facing him again, Dwyer had the stolen pass in his pocket and was scribbling his note with Edwards’ red pencil.

When he left the dispensary, Dwyer crossed the upper yard to the education building where convicts went to school to earn elementary and high school diplomas. When he got inside, he looked at the hall clock and saw that it was ten past the hour. In another five minutes, classes would change. He sat on the stairs to wait. The roving guard on duty in the ed building noticed him and walked down to him. “ ’Lo, Frank,” the guard said.

“ ’Morning, Mr. Tracy,” said Dwyer.

“Resting up for lunch?”

“No, just waitin’ for classes to change, Mr. Tracy. I have to see somebody about the school’s order for blackboard chalk. I got an order here for twenty boxes, but the warehouse says the school just got fifty boxes last month. So I have to ask Charley Davis about it. But I thought I’d wait five minutes. That way I don’t interrupt the class.”

“Good idea,” said Tracy. “How’s your arthritis lately?”

“ ’Bout the same, Mr. Tracy. Doc says it probably won’t ever improve. Says it’s a result of all those years in the dampness that I done on Alcatraz. How about you — arches still bothering you?”

“Yeah,” Tracy said resignedly. “It’s these damn steel floors — no give to them. I put in for tower duty so I won’t have to do so much walking, but I haven’t heard anything yet. You and me just weren’t cut out for prison, Dwyer.”

“You got that right, Mr. Tracy,” the old convict said with a grin.

The bell rang and convicts began to stream out of the rooms. Tracy walked on down the corridor and Dwyer entered the civics classroom of a convict teacher named Charley Davis. “Hello, you two-bit old bank robber,” said Davis, looking up from his desk.

“Top of the morning, you third-rate forger,” Dwyer replied. “How’s everything in the world of lower education?”

“Terrible,” Davis said, pulling a sour face. “The only ones that come to school any more are the militants, and they just come to argue about the system and get out of work. I’m glad I only have three more years to do — I don’t think I could stand it longer than that.” He glanced at the door to make sure they were alone. “What’s on your mind?”

Dwyer slipped him the stolen pass, along with a pad of blanks he had taken from stationery supplies that morning. “I need the signature copied on three of these.”

“Usual scale?”

Dwyer nodded. “Five cartons per. Total of fifteen cartons.”

“Deal,” Charley Davis said.

Dwyer left the education building and walked over to the shoe shop. Gus Monetti, a former bigtime labor racketeer, now long forgotten in prison, was working the number one stitching machine just inside the door. Dwyer caught his attention and motioned for him to come outside. Monetti finished stitching the leather upper on the machine and turned off the power. He waved a pack of cigarettes at the civilian shop foreman, got a nod in return, and stepped outside.

“Hello, paisan,” he said to Dwyer.

“Hello, Augustus. How’s the cobbler business?”

“We’re keeping busy,” Monetti said, lighting a cigarette. “Just finishing an order of kid’s sizes for the state orphanage. Doing ’em real good, using the best leather we got in stock, flat-stitching everything, lining the insides. Hell, those orphans are gonna have better shoes than rich kids wear.” Monetti grinned. “Next week we start an order of boots for the national guard. We’ll do a good job on them, too. Loose stitches. Exposed nails. Unfinished linings down in the toes.”

“Way to go,” Dwyer said, sharing his smile. Then he got serious. “Say, Gus, you got anything coming in through your shop? Any kind of pipeline at all?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I think you might have. Pretty soon. A small package that’ll have to be moved over to the machine-shop area. You be interested in doing it?”

“For what?” Monetti asked.

Dwyer shrugged. “What do you want?”

“What I’d really like to get is a cell change. But I don’t want to seem pushy. I don’t know if moving a package for you is important enough for a favor like that.”

“It’s important enough. What’s the problem with your cell?”

“I’m on three tier in south block. They been moving a lot of young cons in there lately. They cut up and horseplay around, do a lot of yelling between cells — it’s too hectic for me any more. After the noise of this shoe shop all day, I need some peace and quiet at night, know what I mean?”

“Got you. How about if I find you a place in north block, where I live? They’re mostly old codgers over there, like you and me.”

“That’d be terrif, paisan.”

“I’ll try to get you down on the flats so you won’t have all them stairs to climb.” Dwyer patted the ex-racketeer on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know about the package.”

Dwyer went back to his desk in the cubbyhole across the hall from the DWA’s office. He hung his white cap on a hook on the wall and did a couple of hours’ work on the supply lists he had received so far that month. After he was sure he had been seen hard at work by the DWA and the DWA’s civilian assistant, he put his cap back on, picked up a clipboard with some forms on it, and walked over to the opposite side of the administration building where the deputy warden-custody had his office.

The DWC had an inmate clerk named Will Redmon. He was a whip-thin black man from the south side of Chicago. Twenty years earlier he had been a collector for a numbers operation in the Troop Street projects. There was a rumor that the operation was being cased for a takeover by some outsiders who had been snooping around. Redmon and another collector were assigned to do a number on one of them as an example. They caught one in a project building basement and beat him senseless. He died from a brain hemorrhage.

Then they found out he was not a rival at all; he was a member of an anti-organized-crime squad working undercover. Redmon’s partner was shot and killed in the ensuing manhunt. Redmon’s own people turned him in. He was tried, and because at that time there was no death penalty, he was sentenced to life.

“ ’Morning, Mr. Redmon,” said Dwyer, entering a cubbyhole much like his own.

“ ’Morning, Mr. Dwyer,” said Redmon. “Take a chair.”

“Thank you.”

Dwyer and Redmon were not friends, but they were not enemies either. The precisely structured social strata of the prison prevented the former, and their own intelligence kept them from the latter. Redmon did not affiliate himself with the Black Muslims, the Black Guerrilla Family, the Crips, or any of the other organized black groups within the walls, and Dwyer had always avoided association with the Aryan Brotherhood, the Bikers, the Revolutionary Union, and other white cliques; but even though they remained individually neutral, both knew they still had to respect the lines drawn by those groups, and by the Mexican Mafia, the Nuestra Familia, Satan’s Few, the Midnight Specials, and the rest of the prison gangs. So Dwyer and Redmon conducted business when it was beneficial for both of them to do so, but they kept it quasi-formal at all times.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Dwyer?” asked Redmon.

“I’m interested in a cell change for a friend of mine,” Dwyer said.

A slight smile crossed Redmon’s lips. “Playing cupid, Mr. Dwyer?”

“No, nothing like that,” Dwyer replied with a chuckle. He explained why Gus Monetti wanted out of south block.

“Well, that’s understandable,” Redmon said. “Most of those young cons coming in now don’t know how to conduct themselves at all. Let’s see what Monetti’s sheet looks like.” He opened a file drawer and glanced briefly at the top page of Gus Monetti’s custody record. “Yeah, he’s okay. No disciplines, no restrictions. Where would you like to put him?”

Dwyer and Redmon worked out the location. Monetti would be transferred to his new cell on Sunday. Dwyer would slip Redmon a fifty-dollar bill on Monday.

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Redmon,” said Dwyer.

“Not at all, Mr. Dwyer, not at all. Call again.”

After dropping off the clipboard at his cubbyhole, Dwyer walked across the big yard to the dining room. He was too early for the main line but that did not bother him, not as long as he was wearing his white cap. Taking a tray, he went behind the steam table and served himself. He took an extra ladle of creamed chipped beef and extra butter beans, but he skipped the canned pears and carrot jello. Picking up a biscuit and coffee from the end of the counter, he crossed the near-empty hall to a corner table where Leo Ripley, the inmate laundry foreman, was eating alone.

Ripley was a wife-murderer who would have been out years earlier if he had not also killed a fellow prisoner in an argument over a book in the prison library.

Now he would probably never get out. He had a pass to eat early because he tended to become aggressive in crowd situations.

“Mind if I sit with you, Leo?” Dwyer asked. “It’s business.”

Ripley squinted at him for a moment. He liked eating alone, he had become accustomed to it; everybody knew that and usually gave him a wide berth; but if it was business, an exception could be made. Ripley nodded and Dwyer sat down.

“I need three sets of bakery whites,” Dwyer said. “Pants and shirts, no caps. One set medium, two sets large.”

“What for?” Ripley asked.

“I can’t tell you, Leo. I’m only the middle man.”

Ripley locked eyes with him. “A break. It’s got to be a break. Nobody’s gonna wear clothes they ain’t supposed to wear unless they’re pulling a break. I want in.”

Dwyer shook his head. “It’s not my show, Leo. I’ve got no say about anything. Like I told you, I’m an employee, working for a fee.”

“Then take a message to whoever you’re working for. Either I get included or no whites.”

“I don’t carry those kind of messages, Leo. All I do is what I get paid to do. I’ll get the whites somewhere else.” Dwyer picked up his tray to leave.

“Wait a minute,” Ripley said. “Let me think about it for a minute.” He shoveled a few spoonsful of carrot jello into his mouth while Dwyer waited. Finally he shrugged. “A break that starts in the bakery don’t have no chance anyway. Can you get me some good booze? Not pruno or any of that bootleg hootch they make in the kitchen. I mean good stuff.”

“I can get bonded brandy.”

“I want a quart for each set of whites.”

Dwyer thought about it. That was his entire supply for the next six months. A long time to go dry. Of course, he could always go back to pruno himself; it was better than nothing. Lord knows he had drunk enough of it over the years, at Alcatraz, Folsom, Joliet, Angola—

“It’s a deal if you’ll take a pint for each set — a pint a month. That’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll take it.”

Dwyer nodded. “Keep the whites handy. I’ll let you know when and where to deliver.” He picked up his tray again. “I know you like to eat alone, Leo,” he said, and walked away.

That night in his cell, Dwyer reflected on Leo Ripley’s instant prognosis of the break: A break that starts in the bakery don’t have no chance anyway. Yet he knew that Max Hanley was no fool. Hanley had engineered some very big bank robberies; he had to know the value of careful planning, and he must have weighed the odds against every conceivable thing that could go wrong. Maybe, Dwyer thought, he and the other two on the break, whoever they were, intended to take hostages — the warden and some visitors inspecting the bakery, perhaps.

But that didn’t make sense. Hanley had been in long enough to know that the prison had a firm rule on hostages — they were considered dead the moment they were taken. No consideration could be given to their safety. In the escape attempt of 1956 five correctional officers had been sacrificed; in 1971, four. So Hanley would know better than to try to bull his way out with hostages.

Besides, that wasn’t his style. He used surprise moves and lightning performance in his bank operations; no reason why he should not work the same way in a break.

The next day during noon yard time, Dwyer passed the word to Hanley that everything was set. He was caught off guard when Hanley told him to put the operation in motion the very next morning.

“Tomorrow?” Dwyer asked, surprised.

“Any reason why not?” Hanley asked back, instantly suspicious.

“None at all,” Dwyer assured him. “I just didn’t think you’d be ready this soon. But no sweat. How do you want it handled?”

“Have the three passes delivered to my cell before lockdown tonight. Have the three sets of whites stashed in the refrigerator locker on the kitchen loading dock by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And have my package transferred from the shoe shop to the sheet-metal waste bin by the same time.”

“Where’s the package?”

“In an unopened barrel of shoe paste. A sealed plastic bag about four inches under the surface. The barrel has a green dot stenciled on the shipping label.”

Dwyer nodded. “Got my money?”

Hanley took a paperback novel from his hip pocket and handed it to Dwyer. The old convict thumbed through it. Ten new one-hundred-dollar bills were inserted at various places between the pages. “Okay,” he told Hanley. “Everything’ll be ready.” He started to leave.

“Aren’t you gonna wish me good luck?” Hanley asked tonelessly.

Dwyer paused and looked steadily at him. “Make your own luck. That’s what I’ve always done.” And he walked away.

Before the break went down the next morning, Dwyer had figured it out. It came to him as he was putting his part of the operation into motion. He got the forged passes from Charley Davis and slipped them to the tier tender where Hanley celled. The tier tender would pass them to Hanley as he picked up outgoing mail that the cons put on their cell bars. As Dwyer was on his way to see Gus Monetti, he figured out the first stage of the break. Hanley and his two partners would all check out for sick call the next morning. That way, by meeting at the dispensary, the three of them could get together from the various locations where they worked. Then they would use the forged passes to get them from the dispensary to the kitchen.

At the shoe shop Dwyer made arrangements with Gus Monetti to retrieve the plastic package from the shoe-paste barrel and transfer it to the sheet-metal shop waste bin. That gave Dwyer the second stage. As Hanley and his partners went from the dispensary to the kitchen, they would pause briefly behind the sheet-metal shop and pick up their guns. Now, Dwyer thought, they’re armed and heading for the kitchen.

He kept figuring as he left Gus Monetti and went over to the laundry to see Leo Ripley. Giving Leo instructions about the white bakers’ uniforms, Dwyer guessed at the third stage. Hanley and his partners would arrive at the kitchen, go back to the refrigerator locker on the loading dock, and change into the whites. But what then?

His errands finished, Dwyer went over and sat on the bleachers to think. Three armed cons wearing bakers’ whites, in the refrigerator locker just after nine o’clock in the morning. Where do they go from there? They could mingle with the kitchen workers, but what would that get them? They might make their way to the officers’ dining room and take a few hostages — but Dwyer had already decided that Hanley was too smart for that. Maybe they intended to go out on the dock and commandeer a truck, try to crash out through the front gate—

No, wait a minute! Dwyer’s weathered old face lighted up. They were going to commandeer a truck, all right, but not to ram the front gate. They were going to take over the dairy truck that delivered milk from the honor farm. Sure! It was a natural! Stick up the shotgun guard and change places with the three trusties who wore white dairy workers uniforms. Perfect!

The tower guard at the gate would see the same thing he saw every day — the dairy truck going back out, carrying one guard and three white-clad trusties. Hanley and his partners could ride through the gate without firing a shot, while the real trusties shivered back in the refrigerator locker with that day’s delivery of milk. Yeah. That had to be it.

Dwyer nodded his head in admiration.

Beautiful.

Max Hanley’s break ended five minutes after the dairy truck got out the front gate.

A roadblock of state police prevented access to the main highway, while a cordon of radio cars fell in behind the truck to keep it from turning back. Machine guns were trained on them from both sides of the road. Hanley and his partners never had a chance. By noon they were in the hole, charged with escape, kidnaping the trusty guard, and unlawful possession of firearms by felons.

The prison was locked down tight. Everyone who could have even remotely been connected with the break was scheduled for an interrogation session with the deputy warden-custody. Dwyer was called in on the third day. Leo Ripley, Charley Davis, and Gus Monetti were already seated on the bench outside the DWC’s office when Dwyer got there. Ripley was clenching his jaw and Monetti was sweating. Only Charley Davis was cool. “We got anything to worry about?” he asked Dwyer under his breath.

“I don’t think so,” Dwyer answered, speaking to all three of them. “They’re checking every forger in the joint, Charley, so you’re just routine. Gus, there’s a rumor around that traces of shoe paste were found on the guns, so everybody in your shop will be suspect. But there’s no reason for them to single you out, not with your good record. Leo, they’re gonna figure those whites came from the laundry, but it could have been anybody that works there. As long as nobody saw you put the whites in that refrigerator, you should be okay.”

Just then the office door opened and a guard said, “All right, Dwyer, you’re next.”

Cap in hand, Dwyer entered the DWC’s office and stood in front of the desk. The DWC waited until the guard left before speaking. Then he smiled and said, “Another good job, Dwyer.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dwyer handed him the ten new one-hundred-dollar bills. “Will you put this in my account in town?”

“Glad to,” said the DWC, taking the money. “Well, a thousand dollars. You’re going to have quite a nice little nest egg in that account when you get out.”

“When do you think that’ll be, sir?”

“Shouldn’t be too much longer. Not the way you’ve been helping the administration these past seven or eight years. I’ll see what I can do at the next parole hearing.” The DWC stood up. “Well, we don’t want to keep you in here too long — your friends might become suspicious. Is there anything I can do for you, Dwyer?”

“Yes, sir, there is. One of the men waiting outside is Ripley, number 117230. I think I’d like for him to take the fall for furnishing the whites. You can put the word out that somebody saw him stashing the bakers’ uniforms in the refrigerator. I’d appreciate it if he could be transferred to the prison downstate.”

“All right, Dwyer. Be glad to accommodate you.”

Leaving the office, Dwyer put on a tense expression. He threw a tight wink to Davis, Monetti, and Ripley in the hall. It was a wink that told them he had stood up to the DWC and refused to answer any questions. That he had lived up to his reputation as a top con, a lifer.

After Dwyer passed them, he smiled to himself. He was glad he would not have to give up his brandy to Leo Ripley for the next three months.