The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

36

LEE DIDN’T EXPECT, when he reported for work at the metal plant, to be paired with Falon. He’d only thought to position himself nearby, where he could get at Falon—not where Falon had the split-second upper hand.

The factory was a big, well-lit room with plenty of space between the equipment, but still, it was a dangerous workplace. There was a layout table, and near it a metal shear, a metal break, spot welders, pipe benders, and saws. Falon was working the metal break, pulling a lever that dropped the blade, lethal as a guillotine, onto a sheet of steel. At the far end of the room were paint vats and spraying equipment, and a bake room for drying painted items. The men were making machine parts for the military. As Lee cut across the room toward the glassed-in office at the back, the plant foreman, a broad-hipped man dressed in khaki, came out chewing on an unlit pipe. When he stopped to light up, Lee introduced himself and handed him the note from his counselor. Mr. Randolph glanced at the note, his square cheeks sucking in to get the pipe going. He stuck the paper in his pocket and motioned Lee to follow him, skirting past the layout table to the metal break, where Falon stood watching them.

“Falon will give you instructions,” Randolph said, handing Lee a pair of leather gloves. “You’ll operate this unit, Falon will work the machine next to you, see that you’re doing the job right.” He nodded to Lee, turned to leave, then glanced back. “Pay attention, Fontana. That machine’s not a toy.” He left them, moving on down the room.

As Lee stepped up to the machine Falon smiled, coiled tight as a rattlesnake. “Any retard could run it, old man. Stand in front of the machine. Take a square sheet of metal off that stack. Place the chalk line that runs down the metal directly under the blade, lined up with the line on the table.” Falon stared at Lee. “You understand so far? You just step back, old man, reach over your head, and give the lever a hard pull. Don’t ever forget to step back,” Falon said. “You think you can reach up over your head and pull the lever?”

Lee pulled on the gloves, picked up a square of sheet metal and slid it onto the break table. He lined it up, stepped back, pulled the lever hard, watched the blade strike down powerfully, bending the metal to a neat, ninety-degree angle.

“Try it again.”

Lee looked at Falon and reached for another sheet. But when he swung it onto the table it slipped, sliding beyond the raised break. Alarm touched him as he reached to retrieve it, darting his hand beyond the break line. He swung away fast when Falon grabbed the lever. The blade fell, catching the tip of Lee’s glove as he jerked his hand out.

Swinging around, he grabbed Falon’s collar, threw him against the break, and rammed Falon’s arm under the blade, grabbing for the lever. Falon fought him, his face drained white, staring at Lee’s hand on the lever. Beyond Falon at the other side of the room, Randolph had his back to them. Lee let Falon lie frozen against the blade until Randolph started to turn, only then did he release Falon. “I see how this thing works, Falon. And I see how you work. I don’t think,” he said softly, “that I’ll have trouble with either one.”

The next two days, working with Falon, Lee was mighty careful. He learned some of the other machines under Falon’s supervision, learned them all with a wary respect for the man. He didn’t like having Falon in a superior position, he hadn’t planned on that. As short a time as Falon had been there, he must have sold the foreman a bill of goods—though he did know the equipment. It was the second evening after work that Lee got Falon alone between the buildings and goaded him, told him the feds were still working the case, that they’d picked up new information in Rome, had lined up new witnesses. Told Falon he could soon be arraigned for murder. Falon laughed at him, but Lee could see doubt in his eyes. The third evening, Lee went into the dormitory to locate Falon’s cubicle.

The room was a typical military layout, freestanding partitions around the individual bunks, low enough so a guard could look over, high enough to give a man some sense of privacy. Falon was in his cubicle, Lee could see his narrow head and shoulders where he sat on his bunk, his back to Lee, talking with two other inmates. Two sleazy types slouched in the small space, half sitting against the low wall. Lee didn’t pause long, but moved on past, smiling now that he knew where he might corner Falon.

But then before Lee could make a move, Morgan got Falon alone. He told Falon that Natalie Hooper was dating several men, said she’d talked pretty freely about the robbery. Told Falon that, with the feds still working the case, if he opened up to the law now, revealed where the money was hidden, they’d go easier on him, maybe he could go for a plea bargain and minimum time.

Of course Falon laughed at him; and with every passing hour the arrival of the court documents drew nearer, the time when Iverson would see their connection to Falon and move them where they couldn’t get to him at all. Lee was growing edgy when, the fourth day on the job, Morgan joined him in the lunch line tense with excitement.

“He admitted it,” Morgan said softly.

“Keep your voice down,” Lee snapped. “Wait until we find a table.” He thought Morgan would explode before they got settled. Morgan set down his tray next to Lee’s and scooted his chair close, as bright faced as a kid. “I got him alone in the shower room, told him a lot of lies, got him so angry he lost it.” Morgan smiled.

“I’ve seen him do that before, his temper flares, he didn’t even hit at me, didn’t try to fight, he just went kind of—glazed. Hissed right in my face, ‘Damn right I robbed that bank, damn right I shot that guard. What was I supposed to do, old geezer couldn’t even get his gun out of the holster.’ He admitted it, Lee. Admitted the murder, stealing the money, admitted everything.”

“But then,” Morgan said, “then he laughed at me. He said, ‘What are you going to do about it? You’re the one got convicted.’”

“He didn’t tell you where the money’s hidden,” Lee said quietly.

“No, he said he’d never admit anything in court. But it’s . . .”

“It’s what?” Lee said tiredly.

“It has to be proof. He told me. He—”

“But you have no proof. It doesn’t matter what he tells either of us if we can’t come up with the money or the gun. That’s the proof. Nothing’s any good until we have solid evidence.”

“I did the best I could,” Morgan said glumly. “I told him if the law could retrieve the money, if he told them where it is, he’d get a lighter sentence.”

“You know that’s a lot of bull and so does he. The charge for murder, they’re not going to plea-bargain that. What did he say then?”

“He said, ‘You’re the one doing time. I’ll be out in a few days.’” Morgan laid down his fork. “I won’t let that happen, Lee. I have to make him talk. I tried naming places around Rome where he might have hidden the money, thought maybe he’d give himself away but he didn’t. He’s too good a liar,” Morgan said glumly.

LEE’S HALF-DAYS IN the metal shop grew agonizingly long; he was always tense and on guard. Trying to do his job while protecting himself from Falon, he was more bushed after each succeeding shift. He remembered wryly Dr. Floyd’s advice to pace himself, to pick jobs that didn’t stress him. And then suddenly Falon was taken off the job, he wasn’t there when Lee checked in for work.

The foreman said he was being transferred, that Falon would be out of there in a couple of days, and Lee knew the court transcripts had come through. They were moving Falon out fast, before there was trouble. He wondered if they would move Morgan, too.

He finished his shift and then quit his job, forcing his cough, telling the foreman his emphysema was worse, that his chest hurt and he needed to see the doc. When he went on into the medical office he did have a ragged cough and did feel pale and cold, it wasn’t hard to feign exhaustion. The examining doctor told him to quit his shift. Lee said he already had. The doc gave him a form with a note on it and sent him to his counselor.

He’d seen John Taylor only once since he and Morgan were checked in. Taylor was a short, tight-knit man, well tanned, who’d seemed fair enough with Lee. He nodded, signed and filed the form, and didn’t suggest that Lee look for another job. It was that afternoon that Lee returned to the metal plant one last time.

The shift changed at four, men were leaving the industry shops. He hoped the metal shop wasn’t locked. Earlier, while at work, he had hidden a piece of thin cable under a stack of metal. When he left, there had been too many men around, he couldn’t retrieve it. Now he found a guard standing inside the door and gave him a sheepish smile. “I think I left the safety latch off on my machine—I’d like to go back and check it.”

The guard looked wary. “Make it quick. The paint crew’s cleaning up, I’m about to lock the door.”

Lee hurried the length of the plant, past the break. Glancing in the guard’s direction, he reached under the stack of metal sheets, scooped up the coiled cable, and slid it under his shirt. He pretended to check his machine, reaching as if to flip a safety latch, then moved on out of the building, nodding to the guard. He was strung tight, hot to get at Falon before he was gone. He told himself to slow down, to work out the moves, don’t go off half-cocked. He’d already failed once, earlier in the day when he found Falon alone in the yard and came onto him. Falon had lunged viciously at Lee; he thought Falon had him until three inmates appeared from among the buildings, talking and laughing, and Falon had to back off.

They had little time to make Falon talk before the paperwork arrived from Atlanta. Lee didn’t sleep well that night, and the next day he overheard from a guard that Falon’s transfer to L.A. county jail was being processed in connection with the land-scam trial. Blake was so wild to get at Falon that Lee knew he should have kept his mouth shut, knew this could blow up in their faces—and the next afternoon, it did blow. Blew sky high, shutting down the entire prison, leaving Lee shocked, panicked, unable to do anything to help Morgan.

He was cutting across the yard when a small scuffing behind him made him pause, the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two guards came racing between the buildings, and behind them two white-coated medics moving fast carrying a stretcher with a body strapped to it. Lee saw blood, got a glimpse of Morgan’s face, a gash across his forehead spurting blood. Lee ran, caught up with them just outside the medical ward. Morgan’s head was drenched with blood, his face gray and still. Lee bent over him searching for a spark of life. The guards shoved him away hard, double-timed in through the ward door, and slammed it in his face. Lee heard the lock slide home.