Authors: Timothy C. Phillips
Lady Midnight
LADY MIDNIGHT
The Roland Longville Mystery Series #5
Written by Timothy C. Phillips
Kindle: 978-1-58124-085-6
ePub: 978-1-58124-296-6
©2012 by Timothy C. Phillips
Published 2012 by The Fiction Works
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
To
Mike and Janelle,
Dear friends always.
Prologue
A man walked down a prison corridor, flanked by two corrections officers, or as the prisoners called them, “screws.”
“Take it easy out there, Big Daddy,”
an inmate shouted from along the corridor in Cell Block Three.
The man who strode along between the guards nodded, but did not look back. The screws escorted their prisoner down the flat gray corridor until they came to two heavy metal doors. They had to wait a few seconds at each door while one of the guards radioed the controller, who sat in a big metal cubicle in the center of the prison, surrounded on all sides by bullet-proof glass. This unseen gatekeeper then visually checked them on the appropriate security camera screen, before opening each door remotely.
After five long years inside, Big Daddy found each little wait maddening, because he knew he was getting out of here today, and those little stops were eating into his freedom, what was left of his life, and he wanted to get on with it. He had things to do.
After what seemed an eternity, Big Daddy listened to the heavy metallic sound of the last door shutting behind him, and he smiled.
He stopped with his little entourage at the property desk, where a uniformed clerk disappeared into a labyrinth of shelves that lay behind his desk. After another long wait, the man brought out a box containing Big Daddy’s belongings, which had been taken from him when he signed in five years before. Big Daddy signed for them, then went over to a small side room and got dressed while one of the screws watched.
He’d been inside so long it didn’t bother him. Privacy was impossible to maintain in a place where you were crowded in with hundreds of others, and your every move scrutinized.
Almost nothing bothered Big Daddy much anymore. You learned to talk to people while taking a shit in prison. You learned to pretend your bunkmate wasn’t beating off to a skin magazine a couple of feet from you. Prison was a place where you grew thick skin, if you wanted to stay sane. Big Daddy’s skin had been pretty thick when they first showed him to his cell and closed the door behind him; it was a hell of a lot thicker now. But though his skin had grown thicker, the body was markedly thinner. The clothes he slipped into now fit loosely, and they were probably out of style, too, Big Daddy mused. He’d lost a lot of weight in the joint. Between prison food and so much time spent working out from sheer boredom, he was a much leaner, fitter version of his former self. The old sobriquet “Big Daddy” would take on a new, ironic meaning on the street, for sure.
He didn’t know for sure about the style part just yet. He was out of touch; that was something else that doing time does to you. He didn’t really much give a damn. At one time, he really cared about his clothes, but in here, that was impossible—unless, of course, an orange jumpsuit was your idea of style. Once he got out, he’d get himself some new threads.
The weight loss was another thing. If he was a little leaner for his five years inside, that was okay with him. Soon, he’d be putting a few pounds back on. Maybe not all of them, though, he thought. He kind of liked being a little less plump, and a lot more physically fit. But make no mistake, he told himself, as he had on many nights since he had gotten the news of his impending early release: Big Daddy is very much back! He had some scores to settle, but those could wait for now. First things first—get the hell out of Draper Correctional Facility.
It was all coming together now, the dream that he had scarcely dared think about was coming true. He was actually getting out.
He’d been lying on his bunk, flipping through a book from the prison library that he’d read about fifty times already,
Lost Horizon
by some guy named James Hilton. He had no idea who Hilton was, but there was something about the book that he liked. He’d never cared about books, but he had a lot of time to kill, and you couldn’t get drunk inside, so he’d picked this one out at random and read it. It was good.
The guy in the book, Conway, finds a mystical place called Shangri-La, where everybody lives forever and everything’s great. Then he loses it trying to help some other guy get back to civilization, and he spends the rest of his life trying to get back there. At the end of the book, the author makes you think that maybe he did find it again.
Big Daddy wasn’t so sure. He thought that maybe there was no such place as Shangri-La, that maybe it was just a symbol for something that everyone was looking for. Every human being was probably looking for something different. For Big Daddy it was a huge house with plenty of broads and good liquor, with several cool cars sitting outside, and millions of tax-free dollars hidden away somewhere.
Anyway, there he was, laying in his bunk, re-reading Hilton’s book, trying to figure out if maybe this Shangri-La represents something else, or maybe if Conway was really just Hilton himself and Shangri-La was some happy time and place that the author himself had known and lost and knew he could never get back, when he looked up. A couple of corrections officers were standing there, and one of them was holding a piece of paper.
Big Daddy knew that a screw with a piece of paper in his hand could only mean something really good, or something really bad, and he wasn’t expecting either. The judge had sent him down for ten to twenty-five; he had stood accused of Homicide, but his prick lawyer had got it pleaded down to Manslaughter One. Lot of good it had done him. Still, he hadn’t heard from his lawyer since they slammed the door, and as far as he knew that was the end of it. But now there was the screw with the paper, and they were looking for him, all right.
“Ricardo Lorenzo,” the corrections officer said his name aloud. “Get up and look alive.” The screw took his radio from his belt. “Open unit eleven.”
Big Daddy had grunted, and grudgingly closed the book. “What?” he had asked, his voice half-irritated, half wondering. This was definitely out of the ordinary. Rosco, his long-time cell mate, rolled over and cautiously watched the proceedings. Something out of the ordinary was always worth watching inside. Besides, he knew other inmates would ask him about everything later. Best to note all the details.
The cell door unlocked with a sudden, solid clunk, and yawned open.
“Get ready to be happy.” The screw had held up the paper in his hand, so that Big Daddy could see it. “Early release orders came down for you today. Don’t ask me whose bright idea that was, but you’re getting out of here, as of tomorrow morning. You’re to come with us now for your parole processing.”
Big Daddy had simply stood there, dumbfounded. That’s the way the Bureau of Corrections did everything. One day you’re free, the next day you’re in prison. Then some asshole makes a decision somewhere, and you don’t even get a chance to say goodbye to your jail buddies. Before you even know what hit you, you’re back out on the street again. They treated you like shit no matter what, like you weren’t even a human being, and didn’t have a right to know what decisions they were making about your life. But, Big Daddy grudgingly noted, if it meant he was free, he was all for that, too.
Big Daddy’s stunned expression didn’t last long. He’d broken into a slow grin and turned back to Rosco. He dropped the copy of
Lost Horizon
onto the bunk beside him.
“Here, Rosco, I think you better lay off the skin mags for a while and read this one.”
Rosco looked a little stunned himself, but he picked up the book and looked at Big Daddy with an unspoken question on his face.
“That book is the truth, my man,” Big Daddy said. “Read it. You’ll see.”
And with that, Big Daddy had waltzed out of that little cell, that dingy gray little box he had lived in for the last five years of his life, leaving Rosco staring intently after him, still holding that book in his hand.
* * *
Big Daddy waited patiently. Final processing, they call it. Fine, process me right the hell on out of this lousy place.
The corrections officer took his time as he looked over his file for confirmation. Finally he grunted and went over to the nearby sally port door. He pulled out a key card and swiped it. The door, that final metal door between Big Daddy and his freedom, slid open.
“Okay, that’s it. You’re a free man,” the guard said. “Try to stay out of trouble, Lorenzo, unless you want to see us all again.”
And just like that, Big Daddy was free. Before he knew it, he was walking outside, breathing clean, early spring air. He took a deep breath and walked across the road. He felt like laughing, like crying. Like turning cartwheels. He wanted to run, to jump, to go dancing, to get drunk, except this was a far better feeling than any of that could ever give him. He was standing outside, man. Hallelujah! He’d never take that for granted, again.
It’s great to be alive. And better to be free. Thanks to all the hard-ass dipshits that run for District Attorney, and the church sheep that vote for them, because they are the ones overcrowding the prisons with potheads and drunks, so that they run out of room in the joint for us real crooks. Us killers and dealers. What a laugh. Thanks to them for my early release. Thanks to all of you stupid bastards.
Big Daddy stood on the curb for several minutes, breathing deeply. The air was crisp and clean, like he never remembered it being. Air that didn’t smell like a fart sure was a welcome change after five long years inside.
Big Daddy heard the sound of a car honking. He looked around, and grinned. A car was waiting. He crossed the street, and the driver’s side door opened. Out stepped a thick-set man, with a fake-looking tan and a permanent layer of sweat.
“Vince. You ugly son of a bitch.”
“You look good, Big Daddy.”
“Too bad for you, Vince, but I didn’t turn fairy in the joint.” The two big men embraced and slapped each other harshly on the back.
