Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [2]
“No.” The young prisoner shook his head, and the two older men tried to explain about the guy in the books with the red-and-white-striped shirt or hat—neither seemed to remember quite which—who you had to follow from page to page and find in each picture.
The trio determined that the courthouse was now on lockdown while all available law enforcement personnel searched for the escapee. Which would explain why the three of them had been placed in a room together rather than in separate rooms with a guard at each door. All deputies would be needed to join in the search, and someone apparently felt that the three prisoners could safely share temporary quarters. None of the three had exhibited violent tendencies while incarcerated, and shackled as they were, none were likely to attempt to follow Waldo’s lead and make a break for it.
“What’re you in for?” Giordano asked, nodding toward the latest to join them.
“I was stopped for going through a stop sign—”
“Now there’s a manly crime,” Giordano scoffed, and made some crack about the need for the leg irons.
“—and it turns out there was an outstanding warrant for a guy with the same name. You?” the man asked.
“I’m in here pending appeal of a conviction,” Giordano told them.
The youngest of the three finally spoke up. “For what?”
“A domestic dispute,” Giordano said dryly.
The kid took the opportunity to whine about how he was supposed to have a trial today and how Waldo might be screwing things up for him. He was beginning to get on Giordano’s nerves.
“What are the charges?” the man with the crew cut asked the boy.
“Well, see, they’re saying that I stalked this girl. But I didn’t stalk nobody,” he protested. To Giordano’s ears, it was nothing but more whine, whine, whine. “She was my girl, you know? They got the whole thing wrong.”
“She must have complained about something for them to charge you with stalking,” the third man noted. “What did she tell the police?”
“She was confused. The cops made her lie.” The kid was protesting and rambling on about how the whole thing was a misunderstanding and growing more and more agitated all the time.
“What’s your name, son?”
Giordano could have gagged. Was this guy for real? Who gave a shit what the kid’s name was? Both of his “roommates” were starting to annoy him big-time, and he found himself grateful that by some stroke of luck, he’d never come in contact with either one of them before.
“Archer Lowell,” the kid was saying.
What the hell kind of name was Archer? Giordano mentally sneered. In his neighborhood, the guys were Vic and Frankie and Tony—maybe an occasional Vito or Ralphie—but Archer?
Please.
“I’m Curtis Channing,” the third man introduced himself.
“Well, Archie—” Giordano began.
“Don’t call me Archie,” the kid snapped. “Do not ever call me Archie.”
“Whoa, buddy. Chill.” Giordano tried to keep from grinning, understanding the need to keep the kid from bringing a potentially wary guard to the door. The shouts outside the door had continued, and it was clear that the search was ongoing. Some deputies’ nerves might be getting frayed about now, and Vince saw no reason to invite trouble. Better to placate the kid—as much as he hated to—if for no other reason than to keep him quiet. “No offense. No need to get all upset.”
“I hate the name Archie,” the kid grumbled.
Giordano wanted to laugh. Smartest thing you’ve said since you came in here. . . .
Instead, he said, “Okay, then. You’re Archer, and I’m Vince Giordano. I was named for my uncle, Vincenzo, but I’m Vince, since Vincenzo and me don’t speak no more. Bastard testified against me in court. So much for blood being thicker than water.”
Bastard, indeed. Uncle Vinnie had taken the stand and sat right there, fifteen feet away from him, and wept as he told the judge and jury that he’d seen with his own eyes how his nephew Vincent had smacked his wife around, had smacked his kids around, and that he, Vincenzo, had