When Bronco came to, he was being half-carried by Klinghoffer back to his cell. The guard had stuck his head under Bronco’s armpit, and was guiding him down the hallway past several other guards going the other way. One guard leered at Bronco, and said, “You do that to him, Karl?”

“Naw,” Klinghoffer said.

Klinghoffer came to the electronically-operated door that led to the cellblock. A black guard sat on the stool with a shotgun in his lap. Normally, weapons were forbidden inside the cellblock.

“What’s with the gun?” Klinghoffer asked.

“Couple of inmates were giving us trouble.”

The guard flipped a switch and the door swung open.

Bronco had regained his senses and glanced upward. Above the stool was a video monitor the guard had to look at when someone wanted to come out of the cellblock. The screen’s picture was grainy.

Bronco felt the strength slowly return to his legs and his head begin to clear. Tomorrow, he was going to feel like he’d been thrown off a cliff, but that was tomorrow. He pretended to still be half-conscious, and let Klinghoffer drag him.

Reaching the cell, Klinghoffer stopped to dig a key ring out of his pants pocket. The cells were still operated manually, and he struggled to find the correct key. Bronco stole a glance into the cell. Johnny Norton lay on the top bunk with a smug look on his face. Bronco winked at him.

“Can you stand on your own?” Klinghoffer asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then do it.”

Bronco stood on shaky legs. Klinghoffer found the key and unlocked the cell. As he did, Bronco removed the pen he’d lifted from Gerry Valentine’s shirt from his underwear. He’d also gotten Gerry’s wallet, which was thick with cash. “In you go,” Klinghoffer said.

“I’ve got another slot machine jackpot for you,” Bronco said under his breath. He saw Klinghoffer stiffen.

“Yeah — where?”

Bronco went into the cell and turned around. “Same routine as before — three, two, and one. Jackpot will be less than ten grand, so you won’t have to report it.”

Klinghoffer stood in the open cell door. “Where?”

Bronco told him, only he didn’t tell him, the word coming out of his mouth a jumble of syllables. Then, he pretended like he was going to faint.

“I didn’t hear you,” the guard said.

There was an open crapper in the cell. Bronco sat on it, and shook his head like he was trying to clear the cobwebs. Klinghoffer stepped into the cell, his huge feet scuffing the floor. A little closer,Bronco thought.

“Say the name of the casino again,” Klinghoffer said.

“Swordfish,” Bronco said.

Johnny Norton leapt off the bunk and grabbed Klinghoffer from behind in a bear hug. For a little guy, Johnny was strong, and for a moment Klinghoffer couldn’t use his arms. A look of desperation crossed his face, like he suddenly realized that everything Bronco had done and said in the past twenty-four hours had been setting him up for this moment. He wasn’t as dumb as he acted, Bronco thought.

Bronco jumped to his feet, plunging the pen into Klinghoffer’s throat, piercing his windpipe and sending a stream of blood spurting out of his neck and onto the floor.

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” Valentine asked his son. They were driving away from the Washoe County Detention Center in their rental, Gerry holding an ice pack over his bruised hand while staring out the windshield. His son had been disobeying him for as long as Valentine could remember. It was about to stop, or Gerry was going to start working for someone else. “I told you not to touch the guy, didn’t I? His lawyer was sitting right there. Garrow is going to claim police brutality, and you and I will have to explain ourselves in front of a judge.”

“He had your balls in a vice grip,” Gerry said.

“So what? I told you not to touch him, and you disobeyed me.”

His son shot him a look. “If a guy was holding my balls like that, I sure hope you’d hit him.”

Valentine stared at the road. His son didn’t get it. Gerry had let the situation dictate him, instead of him dictating the situation.

“Would you?” his son demanded.

“Beat up a guy squeezing your balls?”

“Yeah,” he said indignantly, his eyes burning a hole in his father’s face. “Or would you just stand there and whistle the Star Spangled Banner?”

They came to a traffic stop. Valentine braked the car while laughing silently to himself. He loved his boy more than anyone in the world, but that didn’t change who Gerry was, or the fact that his son wasn’t going to change his stripes. The quicker Valentine accepted that, the better off he was going to be. He said, “Yeah, probably.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’d probably beat up a guy doing that to you.”

“So what makes what I did to Bronco any different?”

“I’m thirty years older than you.”

“So?”

He tapped the accelerator. “I’m not using my balls as much as you.”

They came to a shopping center with a pharmacy, and Gerry asked his father to pull in so he could buy some painkillers for his hand. There was an empty spot by the front door, and he pulled in and Gerry hopped out. Before he shut his door, he stuck his head into the car. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Pop, but Bronco had it coming, and I gave it to him.” Then his son went inside.

A minute later, Gerry came out of the pharmacy and jumped into the car, his face a deep crimson.

“What’s wrong?” his father said.

“That son-of-a bitch stole my wallet and my pen!” Gerry exclaimed.

“The guy inside the store?”

“Bronco! He picked my pocket.”

Valentine stared at his son. The first thing a cop did when he got into an altercation was to check his pockets, and make sure they hadn’t been picked. He ran over the curb leaving the pharmacy’s parking lot.

Chapter 23

Johnny Norton walked out of the cell with his arms handcuffed behind his back. Bronco came out behind him, wearing Klinghoffer’s baggy uniform. As he closed the cell door, he glanced at Karl lying face-down on the bunk bed, bleeding to death. He hadn’t wanted to murder him, but sometimes there was no avoiding it.

They walked down the hall toward the electronic door. Beyond that door was the booking room, and beyond that the entrance to the jail. Maybe a hundred yards from here to freedom. Bronco kept his face hidden behind Johnny’s back and whispered, “You’re doing great. Walk with a scowl on your face, and keep talking.”

Johnny obliged him, and spit out a steady stream of chatter. He spoke to the new arrivals, while keeping a running commentary on the crummy food. If someone was watching them on a surveillance camera, they would be drawn to Johnny’s mouth, and not focus on Bronco. Hustlers called it the turn, and had been using it for years to distract casino security.

They came to the electronic door. It was massive, like something you’d see inside a bank. Bronco got behind Johnny and said, “Open sesame.” to the speaker in the wall, trying to imitate Klinghoffer’s delivery. As if by magic, the door slid open.

“Oh, baby,” Johnny said under his breath.

They marched out of the cellblock. In the hallway sat a big, bored black guard with a twelve-gauge shotgun lying across his lap. It was rare to see a firearm inside a jail, and Bronco felt like he’d hit the lottery.

“Top of the morning,” Johnny said.

“Same to you,” the guard said.

Drawing the baton from his belt, Bronco whacked the guard in the head, and dropped him to the floor. Placing the shotgun on the stool, he dragged the guard into the cellblock. Coming back, he closed the electronic door, then picked up the shotgun, and placed it vertically against Johnny’s back.