Jackpot

Chapter 23

Johnny Norton walked out of the cell with his arms handcuffed behind his back. Bronco came out behind him, wearing Klinghoffer’s baggy uniform. As he closed the cell door, he glanced at Karl lying face-down on the bunk bed, bleeding to death. He hadn’t wanted to murder him, but sometimes there was no avoiding it.

They walked down the hall toward the electronic door. Beyond that door was the booking room, and beyond that the entrance to the jail. Maybe a hundred yards from here to freedom. Bronco kept his face hidden behind Johnny’s back and whispered, “You’re doing great. Walk with a scowl on your face, and keep talking.”

Johnny obliged him, and spit out a steady stream of chatter. He spoke to the new arrivals, while keeping a running commentary on the crummy food. If someone was watching them on a surveillance camera, they would be drawn to Johnny’s mouth, and not focus on Bronco. Hustlers called it the turn, and had been using it for years to distract casino security.

They came to the electronic door. It was massive, like something you’d see inside a bank. Bronco got behind Johnny and said, “Open sesame.” to the speaker in the wall, trying to imitate Klinghoffer’s delivery. As if by magic, the door slid open.

“Oh, baby,” Johnny said under his breath.

They marched out of the cellblock. In the hallway sat a big, bored black guard with a twelve-gauge shotgun lying across his lap. It was rare to see a firearm inside a jail, and Bronco felt like he’d hit the lottery.

“Top of the morning,” Johnny said.

“Same to you,” the guard said.

Drawing the baton from his belt, Bronco whacked the guard in the head, and dropped him to the floor. Placing the shotgun on the stool, he dragged the guard into the cellblock. Coming back, he closed the electronic door, then picked up the shotgun, and placed it vertically against Johnny’s back.

“You’re one smooth talker.”

“My speciality,” Johnny said.

“I’m going to buy you a steak and a Lowenbrau when we get out.”

They walked down the hallway to the next door, which led to the booking room. Then, they waited. Bronco had told Johnny that he didn’t know how this door operated. Not that it mattered: There were so many prisoners flowing through, he’d assumed the door opened fairly regularly.

“You sure this is gonna work?” Johnny whispered.

“Positive.”

Sweat was pouring down Johnny’s face and drenching the collar of his shirt. Bronco kept whispering sweet nothings in his ear, knowing Johnny was scared. Thirty seconds later, a white cop leading a black prisoner came through the door. The cop was pushing his prisoner like he had a grudge. Bronco gave him room, then grabbed the door before it closed. In the next room he could hear lots of men talking and phones ringing. Stupid sounds, yet beautiful to someone facing a life without them.

“Start walking,” he said.

Johnny stepped into the booking room. Bronco followed him, his eyes doing a quick sweep. A half-dozen cops in uniform, another five or six dressed in street clothes, a couple of secretaries, and a bunch of punks getting booked. The punks sat at desks with their wrists handcuffed to their chairs, giving information to the cops who’d arrested them. Just one big happy family, Bronco thought.

Johnny stiffened, and Bronco followed the path of his eyes. Johnny was staring at a skinny cop with sandy brown hair sitting at one of the desks. Bronco guessed this was the cop who’d arrested Johnny. All the cop had to do was lift his head, and he was going to see Johnny and Bronco and know something wasn’t right. Bronco thought back to the inscription on the desk in the interview room. NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE

No one but me, he thought.

Bronco removed the handcuff key resting in his pants pocket. He shoved the key into the handcuff on Johnny’s right wrist, and heard the lock click open. Johnny whispered “What you doing?” and Bronco said, “Shhh,” then took the baton hanging from his belt, and shoved it into Johnny’s hands. Johnny’s fingers clumsily grabbed the handle.

“This my ticket to freedom?” he whispered.

“You bet,” Bronco said.

Lifting his foot, Bronco placed the heel of his shoe into the small of Johnny’s back, and shoved him into the center of the booking room. Johnny fell forward like a man slipping on ice, then righted himself, the baton clutched in his hands.

“Escaped prisoner!” Bronco yelled at the top of his lungs.

Johnny Norton had killed a girl named Sandy the day before he’d been arrested. He’d met her in a roadside bar and seen she wasn’t all right in the head. That and she was all liquored up had told her she’d be easy pickings. He’d taken her out to his car and screwed her in the backseat. When they were done and Sandy asked for the fifty dollars he’d promised her, Johnny strangled her. There had been no reason to kill her, only a repulsed look in her eyes he wanted to extinguish. All his life, Johnny had been seeing that look in other’s people’s faces. Like he wasn’t clean or something.

The cops were going to find out he’d killed Sandy. He’d left his prints on her clothes and done a crummy job of dumping her body in a deserted lot. The other times he’d killed girls, he’d dumped them in bodies of water, only those were hard to find in the desert. He’d left too many clues, and it was just a matter of time before the police connected him to the crime.

These were the thoughts going through Johnny’s mind as he swung the billy club at the cop closest to him. He was a goner, so he was going to go out in style. It didn’t bother him that Bronco had betrayed him, just that he hadn’t seen it coming. Given the chance, Johnny would have done the same.

The cop shielded his head with his arms, and the club bounced off his forearms. People in the room were yelling, the noise so loud that Johnny couldn’t hear himself think. The cop who’d arrested him, a Pollock named Turkowski, rose from his desk with his gun drawn, and shot Johnny in the stomach.

Johnny flew backwards into a wall, then sank to the floor. He stared down at himself. The hole in his stomach was as big as his fist, his blood gushing out. The baton slipped out of his hand and pools of black appeared before his eyes. He saw Bronco slip out the door with the shotgun cradled to his chest.

As he died, Johnny closed his eyes, and wished it was him going out that door.

“You’re not yelling at me,” Gerry said.

Valentine saw the Washoe County Detention center a block ahead. “Is that a statement or a question?”

“You’re not mad?”

Valentine shook his head. He’d had his pocket picked several times when he was a cop. There was nothing you could do except be more careful the next time.

“Hopefully, the guard that led Bronco back to his cell kept him handcuffed,” Valentine said.

“You think Bronco would use my pen to attack him?”

He nodded. The gambling world was replete with stories of Bronco wrestling with security guards and jumping through plate glass windows rather than allow himself to be captured by the police. He pulled into the visitor parking lot. It backed up on the employee lot, and he saw a cop wearing a baggy uniform running up and down the aisle of cars, pointing his key chain at the vehicle.

“What's that guy doing?”

“Looks like he's using the unlock mechanism in his key chain to find his car,” Valentine replied.

“How does that work?”

“You forget where your car is parked, you point the key chain, and press the unlock button until your car lights up. I do it all the time.”

“Holy shit — he's got a shotgun.”

The cop in the baggy uniform was running directly toward them. It was Bronco, and he raised the shotgun hanging by his side, and aimed at their windshield.

“Sweet Jesus,” Valentine said.