T. Parker - Laguna Heat

“I wrote nine books about it.”

“I want to know what happened to Azul Mercante.”

“He died. How about some more money?”

Shephard put another twenty on the bed and Shake pounced. It was time now: if Matusic had what he needed, this is where it would be. “How? And don’t tell me he got shanked, Matusic. I’m not here to buy shit.”

Shake blushed, tried to straighten himself into composure, looked at Shephard with a worried grin. He’s afraid, Shephard thought. Here’s my way in. But don’t turn your back on him, not for a second. Matusic lowered his voice, speaking confidentially: “The real story is he burned to death,” he said. “That stuff about the shank was never true. This is what really happened...”

Shephard stared at him as Shake told the story, about the mattresses piled up in the black man’s cell and the way they caught fire with the paint thinner from the supply room, and the cell door slamming shut at the last minute with Azul inside and no one could get him out, so he burned up right there, I remember it, East Block number fifty-one Z.

“I heard he might have died from the guards, too,” Shephard said quietly. “Shot him, Shake, is one way I heard it.” He put down another twenty and Matusic collected it with a grin.

“That’s possible, too,” he said. “The way it happened was this.”

Shephard stared at him again as he told the story about Mercante shot by a tower guard when he tried to make it from the rec room across the exercise yard with some more towels to burn...

He studied Matusic’s carnivorous smile, which grew bigger and more eager to please. The big man folded his newfound wealth, then unfolded the bills and straightened them against his leg. He laughed, unsurely.

When Shephard stood up, he watched Shake bring up his legs and wrap his hands around them, leaning his face onto his knees, still laughing quietly. Shephard looked outside to the guard, who was kibitzing with a prisoner near the stairway. The music was still loud. “You know what happened to Azul, don’t you?” No change from Matusic, just little eyes laughing from atop his wide knees. The twenties were still in his hand. Go for broke, he thought. He brought the last of his money out, a twenty and a bunch of ones, but it looked good. He waved it.

Matusic’s big head shook sideways. “I told you,” he said quietly.

“You told me,” Shephard whined back. Fast as he could move now: the money back into his pocket with one hand, ripping away the pillow with the other, then a grab at Matusic’s throat, jamming his head into the corner of the mattress while he hopped on top and braced his knees on the big man’s belly. Shake moaned, swatted up with his empty paw, and — Jesus Christ, Shephard thought — worked his money hand between the bed and the wall where he wouldn’t lose his paycheck. Knees on the flabby arms now, and both hands secure around his neck. The longshot: “Mercante didn’t die in that riot, Shake, we all know that. Your problem now is to tell me what happened before you choke to death. How you going to manage that, buddy?”

Matusic pushed out a strangled whine; his legs pounded the bed behind Shephard, and his good hand waved harmlessly from the outside of Shephard’s knee. “I can’t... I can’t...”

“Can’t breathe? That’s a problem, Shake.” He loosened his hands a little. “We were talking about Azul, remember? How it went down in ’eighty. You still there?” Cinching his hold again, hoping the guard wouldn’t wander back.

“I can’t tell you, I swore.”

“Unswear, Shake. I’m either going to strangle you or take my money back, or both.”

Incredibly, Shephard thought, Shake used what strength he had left to jam his money down farther toward the floor. Behind him, the sounds of a radio shrieked, and there was laughing too, excited and cruel. Showtime, Shephard thought. He let up a little. “Matusic, if you’ve got any brains in your head, listen up. You’re going fast, another few minutes of this and you’re history. Mercante. What happened? Tell now, you can keep your money and twenty more. That’s a lot of money, Shake.” The poor man really was gasping, he thought. He loosened his grip a little more. “You’re not quite sure on that, are you? Shake? You there? Come clean, goddamnit, I’m getting tired of choking you.”

One last try. He readjusted himself over Matusic’s arms, then closed his grip with a slow, patient strength. He could hear the laughter from behind him, quiet enough not to draw the guards. Shake was gurgling something. “... I... rrr... rokay... rokay.” Shephard let up. “I’ll tell you... no more...” Shake’s chest was working deeply.

“You’re on, Shake. Spill it and grow rich.”

Then the big man’s arm fell to the mattress, and his expression relaxed. Shephard got off and pulled him up, propping him against the cell wall. Face to face, Shake’s lips trembling into a smile. Still, he kept the money, clutching it away from Shephard like a child.

“Mercante... just died. Like I told you.”

“Shake, you disappoint me.” Shephard wrenched the man’s money hand from behind the bed and tore away the bills. He put them in his pocket and retreated to the far end of the cell. Then, a sound more agonized than any he’d managed to beat out of him, a high-pitched sorrowful keen that came from deep inside.

“Nooo... oooh nooo! I earned that. It’s miiine... ”

“Death and taxes, Shake. I’m charging you this sixty plus the twenty more I was going to give you. For feeding me a bunch of shit and making me break a sweat. Deal’s off.”

Shake scooted up against the wall again, eyeing Shephard with a heartbroken pout. His chin trembled. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“You broke the deal.”

“Shut up, Matusic. Have a nice life.” He leaned toward the cell door, looking for the guard.

“Wait! I can maybe tell you something.”

“I just about strangled you. Now you want to talk.”

“It’s a matter of honor.”

“Tell me about it. I’m all ears.”

“The money?”

“Stays where it is until I hear what I need.”

Shake buried his fleshy face in his hands. Shephard heard him sigh. “Okay, but when I tell, you pay. Right?”

“That was the deal ten minutes ago. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“This is it. Come here. Come a little closer and I’ll tell.”

Shephard sat on the end of the bed. Shake scrunched up closer to the wall, hugging his legs to his chest. It was almost a whisper: “Azul didn’t die in ’eighty. He just played a little cut and run.”

“Cut and run?”

“Get somebody else’s tags. Get their clothes and cell. Be them, if they’re up before you. You know... out before you.”

“Won’t work unless they’re twins, Shake. Am I going to have to keep your money?”

Shake leaned forward, licking his lips, boring into Shephard with his tiny eyes. “They practically were twins, except for a beard. Azul grew a beard, and when I saw him do that I knew what he was gonna try. Knew it. They were real alike. Enough to make it work. And Azul worked in Records, so I’ll bet that helped. He could change shit. Azul even cut off his middle toe — right behind the first joint — because that’s how—”

“What was his name?”

“Manny Soto... because Manny had a joint missing. Azul pulled it off during the riot. Caught Manny alone, then shanked him, dragged him off to his own cell. Changed everything with him and left him there. I was the only one who ever knew. I... swore I’d never tell.”

“And he helped your money collection to make sure.”

“Five hundred dollars. It’s still under the bed, with my books.” Shephard stood up, his mind racing but his body heavy, as if in a dream. “I never thought he’d get away with it. After the riot was done, bunch of us got transferred out so they could rebuild what we wrecked. I think Azul went to Lompoc. I never saw him again. He just got lost. I thought they’d find out, send him back. After a year I quit even thinking about it. Azul gave me money lots of times.”