Page 10 of A Handsome Devil

Erin knifed her hand through the air. “All,” she proclaimed. “No doubt, all. That fucking bag reeked up Gunning’s car so bad. I hung out the window gagging.”

I bent to swipe up the bag in the crook of my arm. “I’ll do these right away.”

Erin stood. “I’ll do it, boss.”

I shook my head. “Just because you’re the woman doesn’t mean you automatically have to do the laundry.” Although she did do it quite a bit at the Establishment Club.

The washer and dryer were just steps away, in the room leading to that floor’s bathroom. Honestly? I probably just wanted to snoop in Alessio’s bag.

I heard Erin saying, “No one deserves the inhumane conditions Alessio endured in the Prison Farm.”

Gunning opined, “Problem is, when the transitional housing department finds out you were an addict, they’ll strike you from their lists.”

“All ex-cons are basically unemployable. We can’t even vote.”

Gunning chuckled. “But you’re not upset about not being able to serve on a jury.”

Erin spat. “Hell no! Don’t waste my time with that shit. Listening to divorce lawsuits or petty thefts? No thanks.”

“Well luckily, as a musician, his record shouldn’t stand too much in his way.”

Erin had been exaggerating about the stench of Alessio’s bag. Or maybe I was so damn used to it at the Establishment Club. A couple pairs of pants were fairly stiff, but I tossed it all in the washing machine with the required tablespoon of liquid soap. One of the shirts was crunching, and I withdrew a letter—envelope, stamp, and all.

Addressed to Alessio—spelled Alesio Madina—at the halfway house he’d just come from, it originated at Wasco State Prison down near Bakersfield. A guy named Groover. Whether that was his first name or last I had no clue, but of course I read it. We didn’t honor privacy much at the Club, as part of our job was to assist them in the clean, healthy path, insofar as they were actually willing to do it.

Bunkie, it said, in blocky handwriting,

I am here in the Gen Pop. I acted like I was going psyk for awhile after that guard danced on the black top. It didn’t add anything to my Buck Rogers time. But now that I’ve got a body, I’ve got a big loyal car. [A body was a kill. A car was a prison clique.] My road dog Alesio! You must be free as a huricane by now. Tell me when you can come? Sometimes I feel a back door parole [dying] is my only way out of here. But I know you are good for yr promise.

Your road dog, Groover

Your promise? Promise for what . . .

Without hemming and hawing, I showed the letter to Gunning and Erin. She leaned over Gunning’s shoulder to read. They both reached the end at the same time.

“’Your promise’?” I demanded. “What does he mean by—”

Almost as one, my assistants retorted.

“Breaking him out.”

“Busting him out.”

Oh. Duh. Why didn’t I think of that? “Are you serious? You think Alessio would risk something that stupid? And now it’s a guard he killed, not just a fellow inmate.”

Their faces were adamant, jaws jutting.

“For taking the fall for him, yeah.”

“For taking the fall for him.”

I felt like a scream in the middle of a dinner party. My associates looked so matter-of-fact, interpreting the letter that way. They gazed at me, expectations high. What did they want me to say? I felt like throwing stuff all over the room.

Instead, I took a gulp of wine and sputtered. “Well, he can’t bust him out. How can he do that? Does anyone do that anymore?”

Gunning stood from the table, pointing at the letter. “Look at the date on that envelope. It’s over a month ago. Alessio probably already answered him. The plot is probably already in progress.”

I sputtered some more, and Erin said, “Groover really did him a good solid. Can you blame him for wanting to return the favor?”