A Dangerous Affair Page 5

  "Montgomery broke the rules," Varden replied. "He made his choice."

  The other ex-cons made eye contact with Lloyd.

  "This ain't the Hilton," someone hollered.

  "Damn straight."

  "I've slept in better dumpsters."

  "You got a sister?"

  Varden blew the whistle to derail the random banter. "Enough. Show a little respect and you might earn a little in return. You're not in prison any more so stop acting like it."

  Lloyd followed Varden on the nickel tour of the former real estate title company converted into a state-run halfway house.

  "Take a look around, Mr. Sullivan. This is your home for the next sixty days. A transition point from the life you knew on the inside to the real world. While you're here, you will respect my rules. If you do not have a job lined up, I suggest you find one. Idle minds are the devil's playground."

  Varden continued toward the laundry room. "You do your own clothes here. The machines are coin-operated. If you don't know how to use them, ask someone. If you can't find something, ask someone. Don't come to me unless you've asked someone else first. I'm not here to hold your hand. I'm not your mother. I'm not your father. I'm not your friend. You want advice, see a lawyer. You want to make a confession, see a priest. Don't come to me with your problems. I've got enough of my own already."

  Varden killed the lights in the laundry room and dropped an empty detergent bottle in the trash. "If you want food, you buy it. If you want a home-cooked meal, you cook it. You make a mess, you clean it. Curfew starts at 2200 hours and ends at 0800. That's ten o'clock p.m. to eight o'clock a.m. for you civilians who can't tell time. During those ten hours, you will be present and accounted for. Understood? You break curfew once, I write you up. You break it twice, and you're gone. If you think I'm bullshitting, call Montgomery and ask him yourself."

  Lloyd rolled the House Rules booklet in his hands. The house reeked of sweat and dirty socks. In less than twenty-four hours he'd gone from sharing a cell with one prisoner to sharing a house with seven. Still, his life had changed for the better. No more bars in his face every morning. No more strip-search events from guards on a quest for illegal contraband. Compared to his prison bunker, the house felt like a castle. The view from every window was priceless. Even the stale, testosterone-laden air smelled like spring flowers compared to the stench of incarceration.

  Varden snapped his fingers. "You still with me, Mr. Sullivan? You look baffled."

  Lloyd shook his head. "Just soaking it in."

  "Well soak on this. Women are forbidden inside the house at any time. That goes for friends and family too. No pornographic material of any kind. That includes picture magazines, computer files, blow-up dolls, or anything else you can jerk off with or stick your dick inside. If you get the urge to beat your meat, do it on your own time away from here. I have a zero tolerance policy for any drugs or alcohol on the premises. No exceptions. That applies to the possession of firearms as well—or weapons of any kind as defined on page six. Random room inspections occur at my discretion, at any time without notice. And don't think I won't find what you're hiding. I know every inch of this place like I know my own johnson. Still with me?"

  "Yes."

  "You're allowed two showers a day. I suggest you take them. This house is air-conditioned, but I don't keep it cold." Varden pointed to the telephones in the lobby entrance. "You can make local calls. Long distance is on your dime. Trash goes out on Monday and Thursday. I don't care who takes it, so long as it gets done. Same goes for the lawn and outside maintenance. There's a chore chart on the front door. Make sure your name gets on it—in several places. There's plenty of work to go around."

  Lloyd followed Varden to his room—complete with a desk, a chair, and a bunk bed against the wall. On the top bunk, the sheets were folded tight and square beneath the mattress. The bottom bed remained a shuffled mess from the morning altercation. A photo of Montgomery's wife and son remained on the dresser by the bed.

  "This is your space now," Varden explained. "I'll introduce you to your bunk-mate later. Any questions?"

  "Not yet."

  Varden snatched an electronic ankle bracelet from the top of the bed post. "Pull your left pantleg up."

  Lloyd tugged on his jeans. "What's that?"

  Varden strapped the GPS tracking device to Lloyd's ankle. A green LED came on to signal the operational status. "An invention to make my life easier." He passed a hand-held scanner over the tracking device. "In accordance with the conditions of your early release, you will be required to wear this device at all times day and night. No exceptions. If you leave the city limits, it'll tell me, and I will revoke your parole. If you try to remove this device or tamper with it in any manner, I will know about it and—"

  "I get it," said Lloyd. He rubbed his ankle where the strap fit snug above his boot.

  Varden shot a scathing glance at Lloyd. He'd seen the same look of contempt before. Contempt for the new surroundings. Contempt for the rules and regulations. Contempt for authority itself. "I'll be watching you, Mr. Sullivan. Sooner or later you will fuck up, just like the man you're replacing. And when you do, I'll throw your ass on the short bus back to prison. Most men who come through this house don't last ten days. Recidivism runs high. If you don't know what it means, look it up. None of you belong here. All of you belong behind bars. This is my house, Mr. Sullivan. You might be out of prison, but the state of Florida still owns you. And for the next eight weeks, so do I."

  Chapter 9

  At half past midnight, Sheriff Blanchart sat alone in his police cruiser with the X-band radar pointed at the apex of a sweeping turn a few hundred feet from his favorite hiding spot. Concealed behind a palm tree grove, he clocked vehicles traveling well above the posted limit, including those that slowed in advance of his position. A few drivers made feeble attempts at a quick lane change to hide behind another car. Flagrant violators accelerated in defiance, thumbing their nose at the law.

  He sipped coffee from a thermos he kept in his bag of goodies replete with water, snacks, and a private collection of confiscated weapons. Content in his dark mobile office, he'd done his homework and waited patiently for days, enjoying the solitude until the vehicle he wanted finally crossed his path.

  When a black Hummer H2 with custom rims scored ninety miles-an-hour on the radar, Blanchart dumped the coffee from his thermos lid and hit the lights. He mashed the accelerator, prompting the rear Dunlops to spin momentarily on loose sand before they bit terra firma and launched the two-ton Ford in pursuit.

  Up ahead, the Hummer accelerated. But Blanchart's mile-munching cruiser steadily closed the gap between himself and the SUV.

  Blanchart followed his target for several miles until the chase concluded on a seldom traveled patch of county road—where the runaway driver suddenly felt more inclined to face a ticket than let a bad situation get worse.

  Blanchart got out of his car in his sheriff's hat and black leather driving gloves. He secured the hickory baton on his duty belt and unbuckled his holster strap. He approached the Hummer from the driver's blind spot near the rear quarter panel and tapped the window with a D-cell flashlight.

  The glass powered down.

  Blanchart shone the light at Vince Parr, a former addict and low-end dealer he'd busted several years ago for the sale and distribution of methamphetamine. A former dirt bike racer turned tweeker, Vince Parr spent more effort getting high from his own product than he did trying to sell it.

  Blanchart directed the light inside the Hummer's cabin.

  "Is there a problem, Sheriff?" Parr asked. His pupils contracted from the halogen bulb's intensity.

  "Turn the motor off."

  Parr killed the engine. Blanchard eyed him as he licked his tongue along his gum line and snorted. "My debt was settled, Sheriff. Your words, not mine." He stretched across the seat to reach for the glove compartment. "The car's legal. I got the papers right here."

  Blanchart drew his service w
eapon. "Get out of the vehicle."

  "Just a sec—"

  Blanchart fired inside the cabin, shattering the passenger window.

  "What the fuck!" Parr shouted.

  Blanchart wrenched open the door, yanked Parr out by the hair and shoved him against the hood. He frisked him from head to toe. "Do you have anything sharp in your pockets?"

  "No."

  "Are you concealing any weapons?"

  "Hell, no! What do you want from me?"

  Blanchart holstered his service pistol. He pulled his baton and cracked it against Parr's sciatic nerve.

  Parr crumpled on the pavement by the Hummer's beefy tire, clutching his upper thigh.

  "That's for speeding," Blanchart schooled him. He belted Parr's other leg about the knee and shin with bone-crunching precision. "That's for trying to get away."

  Parr moaned in agony, rolling side to side on the ground, his lower extremities throbbing from the pain.

  "I need information," said Blanchart. "Tell me what I need to know, and you'll survive with broken bones. Lie to me, and your quality of life goes downhill fast from there."

  "What do you want?"

  "My deputy found a meth lab on Lipscomb Street."

  "So?"

  "It wasn't mine. Someone's trying to step on my product. I need to know who."

  Parr scooted himself backward against the Hummer's bumper. "Some biker dude rode through here a few days ago. I heard a rumor he was in the business. That's all I know. I swear on my mother's grave."

  "I need a name."

  Parr put a hand out in a defensive posture. "I swear that's all I got."

  "I need a name," said Blanchart. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger side to inspect the glove compartment.

  Out of view from the sheriff, Parr reached underneath the bumper to retrieve the compact .25 semi-auto concealed in a Velcro clasp. "I've been out of the game. I'm not plugged in anymore."

  Blanchart opened the glove box to find a loaded .45 tucked behind a stash of condiments and fast food napkins. He tucked the gun in his belt and aimed the flashlight on Parr's wallet stuffed between the seats. He snagged five hundred in cash and a stolen Visa card.

  Outside the Hummer, he panned the light at the back of the vehicle. "I found your prints on a gun in that meth lab," he said out loud. "Someone was there that day and got away. I think that someone was you."

  Parr crawled away from the bumper. His view from the front of the Hummer remained obscured by the open passenger door. "I was out of town."

  "When?" said Blanchart. "Think about it, carefully."

  "All week. I was out of state all week."

  "I need a name."

  "Morallen. Manny Morallen. He worked the job on Lipscomb Street."

  Blanchart opened the Hummer's tail gate and inspected the empty cargo space. "Morallen doesn't know his head from his ass. Try again."

  "That's all I got. I swear."

  Blanchart advanced along the driver's side. "I need a name."

  Parr slid his finger on the trigger. "I got your name right here." He fired twice with a jerky trigger finger and missed his target completely. A third shot glanced off the rear quarter panel and embedded itself in the pavement.

  Blanchart dove for cover behind the driver's door and turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the engine and slammed the transmission in drive.

  The three-ton truck steamrolled over Parr with a sickening crunch.

  Blanchart drove in reverse and got out.

  Parr embraced his mangled arm bent backwards at the shoulder joint. A broken collar bone protruded through the skin. A tread mark impression stained the front of his pants and shirt. His face looked pale.

  "I need a name," said Blanchart. He scooped the .25 semi-auto from the ground beside Parr's body.

  Parr gurgled blood. His eyelids twitched. "Lll... Lee... Leeland..."

  "Leeland who?"

  Parr lolled his head and hissed, "Mrkssss."

  Blanchart fired two shots at the Hummer. Then he tossed Parr's gun for the crime scene weenies to find.

  Chapter 10

  Liberated from the confines of the halfway house tyranny, Lloyd rode the Triumph with the wind in his hair and the morning sun on his face; the drone from the vertical twin motor a constant companion propelling the vintage bike and its rider at the posted speed limit.

  He relished the thrill of two-wheel travel, his mind telepathically linked to the bike's handlebars, which responded to the slightest downward pressure on either side. He pressed left, and the bike leaned left. He pressed right, and the bike responded accordingly, its four-hundred-pound weight moving with the grace and agility of an all-star running back.

  Miles of hot pavement rolled under the Triumph's wheels and tingled Lloyd's senses with sweet persuasion. Above him, tattered wisps of foamy white clouds hovered on a boundless canvas of azure sky more breathtaking than anything he had ever seen. Or anything he'd ever imagined in prison.

  Never ride faster than your angel can fly, his dad would preach in his brain-bowl helmet with a broken chin strap. And in a way, Lloyd felt like maybe his dad was riding with him—or at least keeping tabs on his prized possession from somewhere beyond the grave.

  Despite the turbulent airflow swirling about his chest and head, Lloyd enjoyed the sensory overload from his immediate surroundings.

  He applied the brakes when he reached a pock-marked stop sign tilted sideways by the edge of the road—a victim of shotgun joyrides and gale force winds from a tropical storm the year before.

  Throughout the residential area, ubiquitous blue tarps sheltered damaged roof tops with missing shingles and exposed plywood panels. Corrugated shutters covered windows of vacant homes built on tiny parcels carved side by side on prickly, sun-baked lawns while their snowbird owners enjoyed the cooler weather up north until the first autumn chill drove them back to their seasonal retreats.

  He turned right and continued in low gear until he found the familiar entrance to the trailer park community he once grew up in.

  He rode to Josh's unit and killed the engine. A pair of sandhill cranes squawked above him as they flew over the property.

  He dropped the kickstand and leaned the bike toward a blue Geo Metro with missing hubcaps and a broken antenna. He swung his right leg over the seat and unzipped his leather jacket. A light breeze greeted the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his muscular physique.

  A woman's silhouette appeared behind the trailer's screen-door, her long hair draped on the front of her shoulders. Thin bands of smoke ascended from the cigarette between her fingers.

  "Can I help you?" Sheila Jarvis asked behind the screen. She drew a long breath from the Marlboro Light and parted a lock of hair from her emerald eyes.

  "I'm looking for Josh Sullivan. Does he still live here?"

  "Who are you?"

  "His brother."

  "Josh doesn't have a brother."

  "That's what he told you?" Lloyd pointed to the Geo. "That's his car."

  "How do you know?"

  "He was drunk when he broke the antenna in half. He tried to hit me with it when I took his keys."

  Sheila blew smoke through the screen. "How come he lied about you?"

  "I've been gone a long time."

  "So has my cherry. Doesn't mean I forgot my first time." Lloyd watched her eyes as she looked him up and down. "You don't look like him. He's not here."

  "Do you know when he'll be back?"

  "He comes and goes."

  A baby cried inside the trailer. A long, high-pitched wail that screamed I'm hungry.

  Sheila opened the screen-door far enough to flick her cigarette butt. "I have to go."

  Lloyd turned to leave. "If you see Josh, tell him I was here."

  Sheila disappeared inside the trailer and returned with an infant in her arms. She pointed to the faded red '69 Mustang pulling in beside the community mailbox. "Tell him yourself."

  Lloyd watched his lanky six-foot, six-i
nch brother unfold himself from the two-door coupe with mag wheels and rusted rocker panels.

  "What are you doing here?" Josh asked, a full head taller than his older adopted sibling.

  Lloyd reached his arm around Josh's back and hugged him.

  Josh reciprocated with an awkward embrace. He looked down at Lloyd through dark sunglasses. "When did you get out?"

  "Two days ago. I made parole."

  "That's great." Josh squeezed the bridge of his nose and invited Lloyd inside the trailer.

  Clutter was everywhere. A box fan blew air at the thrift store furniture beside a stroller and an infant car seat. A blanket with baby toys covered the floor beneath a plasma television. On the opposite wall, a broken window air conditioner protruded near a black cello case on wheels.

  "Do you play?" asked Lloyd.

  "It's Sheila's."

  Josh shook a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered a smoke to his brother.

  "I'll pass," said Lloyd.

  "Since when?" Josh rubbed his teeth with his tongue. He followed Sheila and the baby toward the back of the trailer. She carried a bottle of formula and a burp cloth.

  Lloyd watched as Sheila cradled her baby in her arm and tested the formula on her inside wrist. He could see her whispering at Josh—knew she was asking about him.

  Josh closed the door on Sheila and returned to the front of the trailer. "The baby's not mine," he told Lloyd. "I hooked up with Sheila after she got pregnant with her ex. I didn't realize at the time..." He lit a cigarette. "Can't smoke near the baby."

  "That's smart," said Lloyd.

  Josh twisted two cans of Bud from the six-pack holder in the fridge and tossed one at Lloyd who caught the errant pass high and right. "Did you play ball in prison?"

  "Not really."

  "What was it like?"

  "Like no place you want to be." Lloyd savored the flavor of cheap beer. Even the crappy stuff tasted better than the prison hooch he choked down on occasion. "You're still driving that same piece of shit?"

  "I've had it since high school," Josh recalled. "I still remember hiding in the back when Mom drove us." He shared a laugh with his brother.