Paper Ghosts

Part 2

Shapiro cleared his throat and directed those cold eyes towards me. His intense scrutiny made me uncomfortable and set my teeth on edge.

"I've reviewed your notes," he said, dropping his gaze. "Single. Raised in Hallandale. Top quartile in high school. Your boxing scholarship to college was withdrawn after you were busted by the campus cops for dealing marijuana to fellow art students. Kicked off the Olympic boxing squad for the same reason. Joined the Metro Dade Fire Department and made lieutenant. Served with distinction until your arrest for arson. Your fiancée 'Dear Johns' you while you're in the penitentiary, to marry another guy."

"You've done your homework."

Shapiro looked up. "You seem to have made a habit of failing to fulfill others' expectations of you."

"You could say that."

"I just did," he said, his voice sounding as though it could have cut through steel. "Your time in Lake Butler was relatively trouble-free and you have completed three years of a six-year sentence. State time − that's unusual for a first offence?"

"The judge thought firefighters should put out fires, not start them."

"I hear there's more to it."

I said nothing.

"I've had a visit from a Secret Service agent."

Morrell again, I thought bitterly. There's a man who doesn't know when to throw in the towel.

"Agent Morrell claims there was a cache of counterfeit currency in the house you burnt. He says he can't prove it, but that he doesn't have to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"In his book, you belong inside and he's determined to see you complete your sentence at Butler. He's seeking my cooperation."

"How do you feel about that?" I asked. Morrell had written to the parole board opposing my release, but his views had been ignored. Obviously the agent hadn't been content to leave it at that. Morrell must have rubbed Shapiro up the wrong way, if he was letting me in on the agent's intentions. The parole board had warned me that life on the outside would be no picnic.

"I'll be up front with you," Shapiro said. "If you fuck with me, I'll have you on the Lake Butler bus so fast it will make you ears bleed. On the other hand, if you keep out of trouble I have no heartfelt desire to return you to the penitentiary." Shapiro's voice took on a sharp edge. "I most certainly shall not conspire with the Secret Service, or anyone else for that matter, to facilitate it. And I resent their attempt to implicate me in their machinations."

The extent to which Morrell had misread Shapiro became clear when I caught a brief flash of white hot anger behind the parole officer's eyes. If Morrell had it in for me, how much of a difference would it mean to have Shapiro on my side? I didn't plan to put him to the test.

"What gate money do you have?" he asked.

"Three hundred and twelve dollars." All there was to show for three years' toil in the prison's kitchens at fifty cents an hour, but that was more than most inmates managed to accumulate. I didn't smoke or use drugs.

"That should last you to your first wage packet. Six dollars an hour, paid weekly, less tax and deductions."

It would take a while to make Forbes' Fortune 500 at that rate.

Shapiro handed me a sealed envelope with the filling station's address written on the front. I knew the place. It was where the Florida Turnpike met the 1-95 and the Palmetto Expressway.

"Hand that to the manager when you arrive. He's expecting to see you sometime this morning."

"What's his name?"