Paper Ghosts

Part 5

"What made you reply to the ad? It's been years since you last saw Andy."

Cross was nodding. "I don't really know. I guess it was a peculiar thing to do, but Andy was a bit different from the other cons and I liked the guy. He was bright enough, but real soft. He wouldn't have lasted six months if his family hadn't stepped in and helped him out. Being gay − the virus would have got him if nothing else had."

"What help could his family be?"

Cross expertly constructed a roll-up and, holding it between heavily nicotine-stained fingers, lit it, and took a long pull. He dropped the match into the mouth of the waste disposal unit.

"His first couple of months inside was a nightmare. He was sharing a cell with a sadistic motherfucker, name of Curtis, doing a twenty for armed robbery. He butt-fucked Andy three times the first night and made him his bitch. Four or five weeks after that, Curtis starting trading Andy to anyone who had a pack of cigarettes. It didn't matter if Andy went along with it or not, he still took some heavy beatings. I was on another floor and couldn't have done much for him anyhow, but I wouldn't have wanted to see a dog treated the way he was. There was a time when a forger was given some respect in prison. The cons used to admire somebody that got by with their brains. Not these days."

"What happened to change it?"

Cross was confused for a second. "The cons?"

"No, Andy's treatment in Raiford."

"I don't rightly know how it was managed, but Andy was moved in with me and suddenly the word was out. He wasn't to be touched. Anyone messing with him would get seriously fucked with. Even the bulls didn't hassle him as much as they did the other inmates. Curtis didn't pay any mind and tried to have Andy smoke his joint in the showers. They cut Curtis's dick off and flushed it down the john."

"Who were they?"

Cross took another heavy pull on his roll-up. He exhaled the smoke down his nostrils and tossed the butt into the sink. He turned the faucet on and watched it disappear. "It doesn't pay to ask too many questions. All I know is that after Curtis was gelded, Andy was left well alone. Somebody was paying over big money to buy protection like that. I always figured his family for it. They had that sort of dough."

"Didn't you ask Andy?"

"Pretty near every day. He'd just smiled like he does and tapped the end of his nose with his finger."

"What happened to Curtis?"

"He took a razor to his wrists in the hospital. Couldn't face a future with no dick, I guess. Or maybe someone held the razor for him."

I pulled forty dollars from my pocket and offered it to Cross. He waved it away.

"Keep your money. But when you catch up with Andy, let him know where I'm living. Once the word went out on him, nobody messed with me either. I guess I owe him."

I was halfway to the door before remembering something else. "Did you ever work construction in Boca Raton?"

Cross looked puzzled. "I break into buildings; I don't build them."

On the way home I stopped off again at the Herald and paid cash to reserve the box number for another week. It was doubtful if the killer had any more surprises to deliver, but it he had, then I would prefer for them to be sent there.

By the time I made it back to the apartment I was through soul-searching and had decided to tell Floyd about the three photographs. It would be the second time that day I had broken my word. First, my agreement with Angelo, and now the promise I had given to Robin was about to go the same way and that troubled me the most. Floyd knew nothing of my meeting with Angelo and wasn't going to hear of it from me, but he had a right to know about the photographs.