The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(7)

“When do we get paid?”

Paul’s lips moved as he ran the numbers in his head. “Next…Thursday. But pay’s monthly, and there’s a one-month delay for new arrivals—”

“A month? Paul, I can not be in here for a month.”

He laughed, but there wasn’t a speck of humor in it.

“You can’t do a month? Friend, I’ve been here for eight years. Trust me. You can do a month.”

How longbefore people start looking for me, I wondered. By now, Jennifer would know about her dead pot dealer. Once the cops started scouring Vegas looking for Nicky, everybody would know something was up. And then there was Caitlin. I’d been on my way to see her last night before I walked into the Chicago Outfit’s trap; she’d be hunting for me already.

I slowed my breathing, willing my muscles to unclench, fighting panic. I had people on the outside. My people, my family. And once they discovered I was lost somewhere in the penal system, they’d raise hell to find me.

I almost wanted to smile. Daniel Faust, victim of the worst computer glitch in history.

Except that didn’t explain my twelve hours of missing memory.

“Look,” Paul said, “just get right with Brisco, keep your head down, and take it one day at a time. The days go faster than you think once you get used to being here.”

“And don’t drop the soap, right?”

Paul snorted. “It’s not like on TV. I’m not saying nobody ever gets raped in here, but that’s usually a revenge thing, not a sex thing. If somebody wants to get off and their right hand isn’t doing the trick, there are plenty of ways to get that taken care of with a willing partner. Willing and enthusiastic, if you’ve got trade goods.”

“Trade goods?”

“Commissary’s got all the comforts of home, or at least a halfway decent 7-Eleven. Expensive, though, and unless you’ve got family on the outside and they’re willing to put money on your account, you’ve gotta shop with the wages from your work detail.”

“How much does that pay?” I asked him.

“Thirty cents an hour.”

I arched one eyebrow.

“I know,” Paul said, “right? But I’ll tell you something: after you spend five hours mopping floors so you can afford a Hershey bar, that is the finest damn Hershey bar you will ever taste. Most of these guys, they don’t have anybody on the outside, so they don’t have much to shop with. You can get a lot of bang for your buck if you’re willing to trade what you’ve got and help them out a little. Lots of us have side hustles. Like Sully, three cells down, he brews prison wine. The stuff smells like dog puke, but it’ll get you higher than—”

He fell silent. Brisco’s shadow loomed in the doorway, flanked by two dead-eyed bruisers. Nobody had a smile for me.

Brisco held an envelope in his calloused hands.

“Paul,” he said softly, “let us have the room for a minute, would you please? Need a word with your bunkmate.”

“Sure, okay,” Paul said, nodding uncertainly as he made himself scarce.

Brisco and his boys came into the cell. Blocking the only way out.

“My boy found your paperwork,” Brisco said. “Checked you out.”

I stood up. Squared my shoulders.

“Yeah? Interesting reading?”

He glanced down at the envelope, then back at me. There was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite read. Something anxious, like his world just went into a spin and he was still sorting out why.

He held out the envelope.

“Jesus, man, why did you think you had to hide that from us?” He looked to the thug on his left. “This guy, do you believe this? He’s a for-real, no-bullshit contract killer. He’s a f*cking hit man for Nicky Agnelli.”

I let out a sigh of relief. They’d found my real paperwork. Great. One step closer to getting this mess sorted, and one step closer to my bail hearing. Which I would gladly post a bond for—five minutes before fleeing the country.

“Well,” I said, improvising, “I didn’t want to come off like I was bragging or anything. And they really did lose my paperwork.”

“It’s all there,” Brisco said. “And hey, something else.”

He nodded to the guy on his right, who dropped a plastic shopping bag at the foot of my bunk. I peeked inside and found a cornucopia of goodies. Instant soup packets, powdered hot chocolate, a couple of candy bars, and mini bags of potato chips.

“It’s how we welcome all the new guys,” Brisco explained, “since it’ll be a month before you’ll be able to get anything at the commissary on your own. That should tide you over. Keep in mind, you’ll be expected to contribute to the next one. Everybody pays it forward.”

“I appreciate that,” I said and offered him my hand. He had a grip like a bear trap.

“Come on down once you get settled in,” he said, “and I’ll introduce you around.”

They left me alone with the goodies and the envelope. I sat back down and leafed through it, skipping the rules and regulations and heading straight for my rap sheet. It was nestled at the back, folded and printed on lime-green paper.

Then I started to read, and the entire world fell out from under me.

I read it a second time, then a third, as if the words might change. As if I was somehow misunderstanding them, and one more reading would make everything clear. As if it would make what I was reading any less insane. My eyes started skipping over the page, picking up words here and there.