Private Vegas (Private 9)

“I was calling you about something else,” I said. I put Petino on speakerphone, sat on the edge of my bed, and pulled on my shoes.

“As I said,” Petino went on, “you’re on my call list. I need a minute and I’ve only got a second.”

The man is an attack dog, all the way. I know Justine likes him and might even be dating him. I don’t understand how she can stand him.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Talk to me.”

“It’s about Hal Archer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your client, right?”

“Yep. He’s mine.”

“Well, FYI, even though he may have been a Love for Life target, it doesn’t matter. Even if Archer was set up, manipulated, whatever, there’s no case for self-defense. Archer outweighed his little wife by a hundred pounds and she was unarmed.”

I went to my closet, picked out a tie, looped it around my neck.

Petino said, “I’ve got enough evidence to indict him a hundred times over. So I’m going forward.”

“I never doubted you were going to prosecute, Bobby,” I said. “Meanwhile, I need a favor. And I need it right away.”

“I’m listening, Jack. What do you need?”

Chapter 115

TWIN TOWERS CORRECTIONAL Facility is a deceptively modern-looking prison system on ten acres. The main entrance at 450 Bauchet opens into a clean, well-lit, and tiled lobby called the Inmate Reception Center, as if the IRC were a hospitality suite at a convention center rather than central booking for the two thousand inmates who are bused in daily and warehoused in this cesspool until their arraignments and trials.

Bobby Petino had left my name at the front desk. I picked up an escort, Officer Eugene Calhoun, who kept his own counsel, escorted me to an elevator, and took me up to the sixth floor, where I glimpsed the tier of overstuffed pods jam-packed with desperate, unwashed humanity. The sickening sight of this hellhole brought back memories of a wretched time I wanted to forget.

Calhoun and I passed through a series of steel-barred gates, arriving at last at a cubicle divided by a wall of glass that is generally used by prisoners and their attorneys.

The room was furnished with a shelf in front of the glass, a telephone, an aluminum chair, and a caged light overhead. I took my seat, drummed my fingers until I heard footfalls in the hallway.

Calhoun unlocked the door, showed Hal Archer into his side of the bisected room, and locked the door. He came back to me and said, “You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Stick around, Officer,” I said. “We won’t be that long.”

Archer had been incarcerated in this medieval snake pit for a week and had lost a few pounds. His skin sagged, and his knuckles were abraded. He was doing pretty well, considering.

He sat down heavily, gave me a scathing look; he picked up the receiver on his side of the Plexiglas wall and I picked up mine.

“It’s about fucking time you got here, Morgan. I’d be on a yacht right now if your father were still alive.”

Hal Archer was a heinous prick as well as a conscienceless murderer.

“My father’s dead and I think you’ve been on your last yacht. This is a courtesy call, Hal. I came to say that there’s nothing I can do for you. Good luck in the joint.”

I hung up the phone, took the elevator downstairs to the IRC. I made a couple of calls from the lobby to check that Petino had made good on his promise, and then I walked out the doors of the prison and around to the back of the jail.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Rick came through the doors of the prison wearing jeans and an ugly green shirt. A guard opened the gate for him and he came through, his face lighting up when he saw me. He extended his hand. We shook, embraced, broke apart still smiling. He smelled bad but he looked good.

“Hungry?” I asked him.

“How come I’m out?”