Steeled for Murder (29 page)

I shook my head. She ignored that, too.

I watched her climb the stairs to the library. I turned back toward my apartment.

As I rounded a corner, the wind tore at the bag in my hand. I wrapped the plastic closely around the books. With an effort, I managed to stuff them into the voluminous pocket of my jacket. I flipped up my hood, slipped my hands into the warm gloves, and ducked into the wind.

As I passed the doorway of an abandoned store front, I felt a hand clasp my shoulder. I spun around in alarm, my fists raised.

Belkins.

“Go ahead.” He took the unlit cigar out of his mouth and held it at his side. “Do me a favor. Hit me.” He grinned.

I dropped my hands.

“Turn around and face away from me,” he ordered.

I did so.

“Keep looking at that wall. Take everything out of your pockets and drop it.”

I removed the plastic bag from the library and tossed it a little in front of me and to the side. My wallet, keychain, and gloves followed.

He yanked my hood down. “Now interlace your fingers behind your head and spread your feet apart.”

I followed his orders.

“Anything else on you I should know about?” he asked.

“No, sir.” I could feel his rancid breath on my neck as he leaned over me. His pudgy hands patted my pockets and felt between my legs. A car door slammed behind us. A siren screamed its approach.

A calm, smooth voice sounded behind us. “That’s dangerous, Belkins.” The scent of mint and aftershave reached me. Montgomery.

“What? I just apprehended a known felon. Of course he’s dangerous.” Belkins coughed.

“Grabbing him from behind. You should have ordered him to stop. Waited for backup. And asking him to empty his own pockets. If he’d had a gun, he could have shot you before you could do anything about it.”

Belkins’ laugh turned into another hack. “I was kind of hoping he’d give me a hard time. I would have had to use force. That would have felt good. And I could have pulled him in for resisting.”

“You should have waited for backup,” Montgomery said.

“I knew you wouldn’t be long.”

A patrol car skidded to a stop at the curb, the siren fading. I heard the driver climbed out. A dog barked excitedly. “What have we got here?” he asked. I didn’t move; I could practically feel him looking me over from head to toe.

“Convicted felon in possession of CDS, I imagine,” Belkins said.

Was he planning to plant something on me? Could he get away with that in front of Montgomery and the occupant of the patrol car? I wouldn’t have thought Montgomery would go along with it, but what did I know?

“What’s he got?” Montgomery sounded surprised.

I was surprised.

“An informant told me that he’s made a pickup. Let’s see what’s in that bag that he’s being so careful with.” Belkins coughed again.

From where I stood, hands behind my head and feet spread, I could see the uniformed officer reach for the plastic bag.

“We both saw him throw that down,” Belkins said. “Right, Montgomery?”

“That we did. Let me see what’s in it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Montgomery’s slender dark hand take the bag. I hoped that meant Belkins wouldn’t have a chance to slip something into it.

“Are the wallet and stuff his, too?” Montgomery said. “You might want to pick them up.”

The officer did so.

I heard the plastic bag crinkle in Montgomery’s hands. “Library books,” he said.

“What?” Belkins dissolved in a coughing fit.

“Library books,” Montgomery repeated.

“What the hell’s he going to do with library books?” Belkins demanded.

“I imagine he’s planning to read them,” Montgomery said.

“What would he be doing reading library books?”

“Improving his mind?” Montgomery suggested. “Passing the time he’s supposed to be in on home detention? Legally?”

Belkins snorted. “He’s up to something.”

“He may very well be,” Montgomery agreed. “But we haven’t caught him at it yet.”

“He’s supposed to have crystal meth.”

“Your informant must be wrong. Or he’s already dropped it off.” Montgomery folded the bag around books. “He’s got nothing now. The dog would have alerted.”

“You still need me?” the patrol officer asked.

“I think not,” Montgomery said. “Damon, you can put your hands down now.”

“So you’re just going to let him go?” Belkins said.

“Possession of library books is hardly grounds for violating his parole,” Montgomery said.

I put my hands at my sides, careful to keep them in full view. I heard the door of the patrol car slam shut and the car pull away.

Montgomery handed me back the plastic bag, my wallet, the key, and the gloves.

“Thank you, sir.” I took them and stowed them in my pockets. I wondered if they’d been listening to Aaron.

Belkins threw down his cigar in disgust. “Remember. We’re watching you. Sooner or later, we’ll see you violate. And when you do something serious enough, we’ll be there to bring you in.”

Montgomery shook his head. “You can go home now, Damon. I’d suggest you do so.”

I headed for home and stayed there. I didn’t get much sleep, but I read through two of the books. I couldn’t have told anyone what I’d read, though.

At seven in the morning, I left for work. A lot more people worked on day shift than on the midnight to eight. I knew that, but I still wasn’t prepared for the throng crowding between the vending machines and the time clock.

I stood in line to punch in and leaned against the wall, waiting for Arnold, the day shift foreman, to get around to telling me what to do.

As Arnold barked off assignments in his high-pitched voice, making hurried notes on his clipboard, the workers drifted off, adjusting hardhats and pulling on gloves. When the whistle blew, I was the only one still without an assignment.

The overnight shift straggled by, clocking out. A few people nodded a greeting, but mostly, they ignored me.

Kelly whizzed by on her forklift, pulled it down the hallway, and parked it. She came back and punched out. I didn’t turn to look at her, but I did watch her out of the corner of my eye. She didn’t even glance in my direction.

Aaron didn’t look much better, but at least he’d shown up for work. He started to say something to me, but he would have had to raise his voice to be heard over the machinery and Arnold was standing right there, looking at me and frowning. Aaron shrugged and walked off.

I straightened up and walked over to Arnold.

He looked from his clipboard to me and back again. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Jesse Damon,” I said. “I was told to report to this shift for training on the forklift.”

Arnold’s frown deepened. “We’re not giving forklift training today. Who the hell told you to do that?”

John emerged from the door to the offices. “Mr. Radman.”

“Why did he tell someone to show up for training when we got none scheduled?” Arnold said. “And why is Radman deciding who gets trained?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” John said. “But Jesse’s right; that’s what Radman told him.”

“So I’m supposed to call the instructor off work to train one person?”

“I guess.” John scratched his beard under his chin. “I suppose you could have him train a few if you had some others you were thinking about.”

“I do, but I got to check with the union to get the okay on them.” Arnold shook his bald head. “How about this guy? The union okayed him for training?”

“Probationary employee,” John said. “Don’t need union okay.”

“You want me to train a probationary employee?” Arnold said. “Suppose he don’t make the grade? Total waste of money.”

“I don’t want you to do nothing.” John didn’t look any happier than Arnold. “It’s Radman’s idea. Go take it up with him.”

“I will,” Arnold said, slapping his clipboard against his thigh. “Meanwhile, what the hell am I supposed to do with this guy? Pay him? Under what job number?” He gestured toward me.

“Put him to work while you straighten this out,” John suggested. “If you hurry, he’ll only miss a tenth of an hour’s work.”

Arnold looked me up and down. “What can he do?”

I would have thought I’d have gotten used to people talking about me like I couldn’t understand or speak for myself, but I still hated it. I didn’t see that it would help to put in my two cents’ worth.

“I had him working plater. Pretty good at it, too. Before that, root baskets.”

“If he’s a good plater operator, why did you let them pull him for forklift? Good plater operators aren’t that easy to find.”

“Tell me about it.” John shook his head. “I don’t want to lose him from the plater, either.”

“I got enough plater operators right now,” Arnold looked around. “Taylor,” he hollered at a man walking by. He wore a leather apron and sported a heavy tool belt. A set-up man. “Take this guy over to the forty-inch root baskets and get him started on them.”

Arnold turned to glare at me. “I hope you can make rate on them. Don’t like people working my shift who can’t keep up.”

Root baskets were abbreviated, cone-shaped contraptions used by plant nurseries to hold the root ball of large trees for transport. They were made of crude unfinished wire and left to rust in place in the ground when the tree was planted.

“Do my best.” I didn’t anticipate a problem; I’d been able to make rate and then some on root baskets before I got put on the plater.

I trailed behind Taylor until he stopped at a free-standing spot welder in a dark corner of the shop floor. Next to it stood a rack with rings in three sizes. Another rack held steel loops three feet long that would be welded onto the rings.

“You ever run these things?” Taylor asked doubtfully.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Show me.” Taylor handed me a pair of heavy heat-resistant gloves, stepped back, and slipped his gnarled hands under the bib of his shop apron.

I slipped on the gloves. I positioned myself to the right of the welding machine, adjusting the racks to within easy reach.

With my left hand, I took a ring from each holder on the rack, being careful to keep them in order. My right hand griped a loop. I strung the rings into the horizontal slots of the welding rig, smallest to largest, slapped the loop into the vertical double slots on the rig, pulled my hands back, and stepped on the pedal of the welder. It slammed down, and in a burst of sparks, fused the wires where they crossed. As the welding head raised, I lifted the welded assembly slightly and jerked it to the next position on the rig. With my other hand, I reached for another wire loop.

Four loops around, and I had a completed root basket.

I swung the root basket onto the pallet next to the ring rack and scooped up another set of rings.

Taylor watched silently as I ran a few more, his eyes narrow. Finally, he nodded. “You got it, all right. Stacks of fifty, two stacks to a pallet. I’ll let the lift driver know you’re back here; he’ll need to bring you more parts and pick up the pallet when it’s full. And I’ll see if I can’t get those overhead lights turned on.”

I nodded, continuing to work. The practiced motions came back easily. I’d make the required seventy-six an hour and half again as many.

Looking around at the unused machinery around me, I thanked whatever luck that had made John assign me to the plating room the night Mitch had been killed. If I’d been working this job in this deserted corner, no one would have been able to vouch for my movements. And a little checking on the number of pieces I could produce would verify that I could have left the job for a while and returned without falling behind. Long enough to have killed Mitch.

Through the grimy windows against the wall, I could see pale shafts of sunlight creep higher in the sky, piercing the threatening clouds. I tried to drain my mind and concentrate on the job, but this wasn’t one I had to think about or even pay much attention to.

All I wanted was to keep out of prison and keep this job. Well, maybe not all, but those were the most important things. And I couldn’t do anything else if I got locked up again. The prospect of endless days of trudging across the compound to the chow hall, of standing for head count, of seeing only the dreary prison compound out my window—assuming I was fortunate enough to have a cell with a window—made my gut churn.

Belkins just wanted to make sure I went back to prison without a chance to ever see the outside again. Montgomery didn’t care about that, but he did want a conviction that would stand up even if I somehow managed an appeal.

The only one who cared what happened to me was me. A few days ago, I would have said Kelly cared, too. But probably now she’d be just as glad to have me gone, too.

Chapter 17

When the whistle blew for lunch, I restocked the rack with rings and went to eat at the tables jammed between the vending machines and the time clock. Lunch was noon to twelve eighteen for everyone except those working on the lines that never shut down. Like plating and packing.