Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

“Glad to be of assistance.”

“And besides,” Tony said, “I think Pelton is crooked and I think I might get as much enjoyment out of seeing him come down as you will.”

We said nothing for a second or two while Cliff cleaned the grill by scraping away at it with an inverted spatula.

“We used to be friends, you know, Pelton and me,” I said.

“So were Martin and Lewis.”

“And Lennon and McCartney.”

“All you need is love, right?”

“We’re a team then?”

“Yeah we’re a team,” he said, biting into another triangle of toast. “Paisans, like O.J. and Johnnie Cochran. Only don’t get in the habit of calling me at four in the morning to bail you out.”

I had another sip of coffee and took in the soothing voice of Old Blue Eyes. I didn’t know what it was about Sinatra that made me want to light up a cigarette and pour myself a tall whiskey.

Night and day, day and night…you are the one…

I tapped out the swing beat on the counter with a butter knife.

“Always the skins, man,” Tony said.

“They call me the keeper,” I sang.

The afternoon sunlight poured in through the wide diner windows behind me, and I could feel the radiant heat on my back. Outside the diner, the Broadway of the 1990s was now empty. But I tried to imagine a long time ago when it must have been filled with cars, trucks and women when they still painted their faces, instead of piercing their tongues and men when they still wore fedoras and oversized overcoats with shoulder pads, and smoked filterless Camels as they walked the sidewalks.

Angelino wiped up the egg yolk on his plate with the last of his toast.

“Let’s move to a booth,” he said, lifting his stocky body up from the stool, “get down to business, Keeper.”

We set our coffees back down and took seats across from each other in the empty booth behind us. Before anything else was said, Tony took out a small tape recorder not much larger than his palm. He pressed the PLAY and RECORD buttons on the little machine simultaneously.

“I’m gonna ask you a couple of basic questions,” he said, “just to get the blood moving, get a feel for what could be going on.”

I nodded. From here on in, Tony was running the show.

“Have there been any wrongdoings at Green Haven that you’ve been privy to in the three years since you were appointed superintendent?”

The question was more like an understatement. Angelino knew the answer almost as well as I did. My war against corruption on the inside had made headlines for more than two years. Up until the time Fran died, that is. After Fran lost her life, I seemed to lose my enthusiasm for fighting what was a losing battle anyway. Who was I to be fighting the drugs, booze, gambling, sex, the gifts for guards, the favors, and extortion? Or to be more accurate, who was I to be fighting it all alone?

Tony’s point, I knew, was this: did I make any enemies while acting as warden? The answer? Of course. Just ask Eduard Vasquez or Giles Garvin or any number of mob connections I had put a lid on -the likes of Edward Farrelli, Franky Evangelista, and Joseph “The Thumb” Ricardo.

“The problem,” I said, “is this: Along the way I set up a couple of guards with wiretaps.”

“Illegal move, number one,” Tony said, making a mark in a small, flip-top notebook he pulled out of his shirt pocket.

“It was the only way to snag guards and convicts who were working together to bring in contraband. I knew Vasquez had been running the show. He and, to an extent, Giles Garvin. And they knew that I knew. It’s just that I could never catch them in the act. Even with the taps.”

“They were probably on to the taps.”

“It wasn’t until yesterday when I talked with Garvin that I realized how much stuff was being passed through,” I said.

“Garvin opened up to you?”

“Guess he figured it was safe now that Vasquez was out. But I think there’s more to it than that.”

“How?”

“Garvin said something about Vasquez being on his shit list.”

Tony nodded, wrote something down in the notebook.

“What would you say if I said I thought Pelton could be taking off the top?”

“Possible,” I said. “Could explain why he kept me purposely understaffed. Could explain why none of the dope pushers were ever indicted.”

“Could explain a lot of things,” Tony proposed.

“It’s a long shot,” I said. “I mean, come on, the guy’s the commissioner for God’s sakes.”

“Sure, it’s gonna be tough to prove. But not impossible.”

I took a breath, tightened my lips.

“Could be just the thing to save my big fat butt.”

“Any of those tapped men come forward, Keeper, you’re done. Prisoner or no prisoner. Proof of Pelton’s involvement or no proof. You obstructed justice, even before you were busted for obstructing justice. What you got now looks bad, but what you’ll have if those stupidos come forward is a six-figure fine and five years’ lockup minimum. Can you imagine what they’d do to a former warden inside an iron house?”

I was silent for a minute while the tape recorder continued running and Tony sipped his coffee.

“Listen, Tony,” I said. “What if somehow I get to Vasquez, get him to admit he escaped, that Logan and Mastriano helped him, and that I had nothing to do with it?”

“Now you’re defying all logic.”

“Just consider it,” I insisted. “You know, for shits and giggles.”

Tony sat back in the booth, both hands still wrapped around the coffee mug.

“Well, seeing we’re only talking shits and giggles, I’d say you could prove you weren’t implicated. At the very least, you’d sway a jury that way.”

“More like, I’d blow the whole thing out of the water.”

“At the same time, paisan, you’d open up a whole new can of worms.”

“But it would make Pelton awfully nervous, that is, if he really did have any part in the drug trade.”

“And just how do you plan on getting an escaped convict to come forward?”

“Hey, if Vasquez won’t come to me…”

Tony sat up straight.

“You’re not thinking of doing something really stupid?” he said. “As your counsel, I should remind you that if you leave Stormville you jeopardize the terms of your bail. You’re under what amounts to house arrest. You’re taking a chance just by being here.”

I sipped my coffee.

“Vasquez’s girlfriend lives in a town in southern California called Olancha, right?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled envelope, pointing to the postmark with my index finger. “Well then, what do you make of this, Tony?”

Tony picked up the envelope and held it out at arm’s length. He squinted, adjusting his arm like a telescope, until he could read the postmark.

“Athens,” he said, hitting the STOP button on the tape machine and now holding the envelope only inches away from his face. “No wonder the FBI turned up nothing.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Vasquez could be right under our noses and no one knows about it except you and me.”

“Okay, say he is in Athens? Just what do you think you’re gonna get from Vasquez if you can find him? Just what do you think he’s gonna say? Take me, I’m yours?”

“It’s the only chance I’ve got, Tony. My only shot at redemption. Maybe I can convince him that Pelton is more of an enemy than I am.”

Tony leaned into the table.

“He sees you,” he said, “he’s gonna kill you, Keeper. Take it from me. You go down to Athens, you’re a dead man. Vasquez won’t consider you a friend, believe me.”

Cliff came over and topped off our coffees. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asked me if I wanted something to eat. I told him I didn’t. It didn’t seem to make a difference to him either way. He went back behind the counter to take care of a customer who had just walked in. The customer, who wore a long wool overcoat in the middle of a hot spring day, took a stool at the counter. A long wool overcoat and it must have been eighty-five degrees outside, and sunny.