John Locke - Lethal Experiment

Alison looked as though her mind was unable to process the thought. “Two guys are going to remove two bodies and clean this room of all evidence?”

“They’re really unusual guys,” I said. “I could write a book about them. Maybe I will, after I retire.”

Quinn laughed.

“What?” she said.

“I was just thinking about something that happened one time.” He chuckled again.

“Do I want to hear this story?” she said. I looked at Quinn. “This the one about the new guy and the maggot trail?”

“Jesus, guys,” Alison said.

Quinn laughed again, harder. “That one’s a classic,” he said. “No, I was talking about the 400 pound naked fat guy they couldn’t push out the window.”

“The one they had on his knees, belly stuck in the window frame, butt hanging out facing the door? That guy?”

“Yeah. And every time they pushed his ass—what’d they say? Sounded like the attack on Baghdad?”

I grinned. “Shock and awe.”

“Right. So they get a can of Crisco, then the new guy calls from the lobby, and they decide to play a prank on him?”

“The initiation ceremony prank.”

Alison held up both hands. “Please. This might be funnier in another setting, like—oh, I don’t know—the boy’s bathroom in junior high school?”

Quinn threw his head back and roared. It was good to see him happy; though I worried that hotel guests might report the unusual sounds.

After the laughter subsided, Quinn and I exchanged a silent conversation wherein I looked at him and raised my eyebrows and he shrugged in response. Which meant, “Do you think she’ll ask about Hector?” and his shrug meant that he wasn’t sure. Or didn’t care.

Alison opened her eyes. “What am I supposed to tell Hector? He’ll be calling me any minute now.”

“I think not,” I said.

She gave Quinn a look of disbelief. “You killed him, too?”

Quinn shrugged.

“I need a drink,” she said.

I went to her room and brought her a miniature bottle of vodka.

She took it, saying, “I may have touched some of the stuff in the fridge.”

“The cleaners will take care of it.”

“They’ll still have a record of us being here. You may have checked in with a phony credit card, but I didn’t. They’ll fi nd me and question me.”

“You’re staying somewhere else.”

“Oh really? And where might that be?”

“Don’t know yet. The cleaning crew will bring your key. Your credit card history will show you checked into that hotel today instead of this one.”

She looked at the door, as if mentally calculating her odds of escape. “Who are you people?” she said.

Quinn said, “It’s complicated.”

Alison finished her drink and placed it on the table. I said, “Augustus, tell me what you can about the Bernies.”

Still looking at Augustus Quinn, Alison mouthed the word “Bernies?”

Quinn said, “You know the show? Weekend at Bernie’s?”

She nodded.

“When we’re stuck babysitting dead guys, we call them Bernies.”

“Of course you do,” she said.

While Augustus picked up one of the Bernie’s forearms and studied it, Alison asked, “Why would Mr. Quinn know anything about these men?”

“They’re ex-cons.”

“So?”

“Prison tats.”

Chapter 32

Here’s what I know about prison tattoos: they’re almost always blue or black, since those are the easiest colors to make. The prison tattoo artist fashions a needle from whatever type of scrap metal is on hand: a paper clip, nail file, staple, nail, a bit of coat hanger, a piece of steel guitar string. Ink is usually fountain pen or ball point ink, but it can also be melted plastic. The artist usually puts the sharpened metal in a plastic holder like a ball point pen cylinder and attaches it to a small motor that causes the needle to move up and down. Once started, a hundred things can go wrong, ranging from misspelled words to hepatitis or AIDS.

On the bed in front of us, both Bernies had the letters T and S on their forearms.

“What’s the T and S stand for?” I said.

“Texas Syndicate.”

“You know anything about them?”

“One of the oldest prison gangs in Texas.”

“Hard core?”

“Very.”

Beyond the classic teardrops below the eyes, I wasn’t skilled at reading tats. Quinn, on the other hand, was fluent. I said, “What else they have to say?”

Quinn ripped their shirts off and studied the markings like an Indian scout reading a trail.

“See the fine lines and shading on the drawings of the women? Tells me these guys were inked by an expert. In the prison world, no one gets more respect than a skilled tattoo artist.

“Big deal,” I said. “What’s this other stuff ?”

“Prison tats are the first line of communication between inmates. A guy’s tattoos tell you the gang he’s affiliated with, his status in prison, the number of people he’s killed, the city or country he’s from, his marital status, number of children he’s fathered, the tragedies he’s suffered, his religious and political views.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” I said. “What are all these numbers?”

“The first part says they’re local,” he said. “Guy on the left claims he’s killed three people, guy on the right claims two. I believe them.”

“Why’s that?”

“You don’t want to lie with your skin,” he said. “Too many people want to kill you for it.”

“What’s the thirteen mean?”

“They use marijuana.”

“And you know that because?”

“The number thirteen stands for the letter “M,” thirteenth letter of the alphabet.” He pointed to the guy on the left. See the eight on this one? Stands for the letter “H.” Means he uses, or has used, heroin. Sometimes you’ll see a guy with an eighty-eight, which means “Heil Hitler.”

“Why do they want people to know they use drugs?” Alison said.

“It tells drug dealers that they’re buyers,” Quinn said.

“What are those numbers on their shoulders?” Alison asked, getting into it.

“Their prison I.D.’s.”

“That’s how we find out who they are?” she said.

Quinn smiled. “Exactly.”

I called Darwin, rattled off the prison ID numbers for him. After hanging up I said, “Darwin’s going to run the numbers and find out if there’s any connection between the Bernies and bombers.”

“And if there is?” Alison said.

“There won’t be. You approached Hector with this robbery scam, but Afaya approached you about getting his driver into your bus. My boss thought Afaya might be dealing with you here in Dallas, and in the other cities you work.

“Afaya did ask me about the other cities where I work. But he hasn’t said anything about putting his other relatives to work as drivers.”

“Not yet, but you can bet he will.”

“So what are you going to do, kill Afaya?”

“Darwin gets to make that call. But he’ll probably want you to go on about your work, business as usual, and he’ll put some people into your companies to keep an eye on things.”

“Am I supposed to help Afaya’s people get hired?”

“Again, Darwin’s call. But my guess is he’ll want you to get close to Afaya, develop a relationship, let him talk you into putting someone at most of your Park ‘N Fly’s.”

“What if I want to walk away?”

Quinn and I exchanged a glance.

“There’s no walking away at this point,” Quinn said.

Alison folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not going to sleep with a terrorist,” she said, indignantly.

“You will if you have to,” I said. “And you’ll give him the full treatment.”