The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [101]
Intelligent brown eyes, set in a serious-looking, heart-shaped face in its early sixties, stared back at her. His cheeks had paled, but it could be the light. Odelle scooted her butt to get more comfortable and reached down with her hand.
“What are we going to do?” Vinson asked.
“You should calm down and run your company. I will do my job.”
“But the press—”
“I’m working that angle.” The previous morning, Nikola had hinted at calling a press conference and disclosing the breakout. There had already been a whisper in the evening’s edition of The Post, tucked away in Hamilton’s editorial. Nikola said he’d call later. That was more than twelve hours ago, and he hadn’t called. She increased the pressure of her fingers and shuddered.
“And if they talk?”
She smiled at her interrogator. “Who?”
“The fugitives.”
“Talk? To whom?”
“The press. They could—the government. Not to mention … There’s a design behind this madness.” The face on the screen was a picture of growing discomfort.
Odelle narrowed her eyes and breathed in her heavenly musk. “They can’t. No paper will entertain gossip or anonymous calls without clearing it with me first. It’s a question of time. Relax.”
“But the organization … They bombed the power station. … If it comes out—”
“Then we’ll pull the plug.”
He suddenly leaned forward, like a snake about to strike. “We can’t do that.”
“Mmmm?” Her belly glowed. “Why not?” But, of course, she knew the answer.
“We will have to pay. … Not only that, there could be … reprisals. Those people—”
She shuffled in her seat and slowed down. “You mean the mob? There, sweetheart, I fear you’re on your own. I never dealt with them. I don’t exist. Your sugar cubes, your tanks …”
Vinson raised himself, his veins swollen, cheeks flushed; he was angry. His camera zoomed in and out a couple of times, until it locked on his face once more. “The fuck I’m on my own.” His words hissed, like fat dripping from a roast onto the fire. “You took your cut. We’re partners, equals.”
Odelle narrowed her eyes before twisting the knife. “I don’t agree. Not intellectually.”
Back in the early ‘50s, the Krasnaya Mafiya had discovered the wonders of hibernation. Some people were troublesome enough to merit a quick bullet or worse. But permanent measures often meant a waste of talent that could be useful in the future. Russian sugar cubes weren’t safe, but U.S. facilities fit the bill admirably. Thus, Vinson had hammered out a cold-storage contract with the dons and cut Odelle in on the deal.
“It’s not only money. … These people—”
“Yes, money. I’ve been reading your report. You are asking for increases of almost eight percent. A little heavy, non?”
“Maintenance costs are soaring, and wages, and consumables.”
“You mean inmates?” She silently bet he would miss the funny side of it.
“Chemicals, drugs, equipment.”
He did. “I’ve been checking your papers. Inflation doesn’t justify what you’re asking.”
“Will you endorse the increment?”
Odelle sensed movement. She glanced over her shoulder. The bed’s netting moved with more intensity. She would leave a note for the housekeeper to have the air-conditioning flow checked. The pin camera whirred faintly. On the screen Vinson’s irises gleamed. Still she waited.
“Half a percent?”
She did a quick calculation. After the increase, Hypnos’s daily housing fees would peak at two hundred dollars per inmate. With a sugar cube population of a little over one million, half of one percent meant a million dollars a day. She could push Vinson for twice as much, but greed could backfire one day. “My friend, would I leave you in the cold?” She would without batting an eyelid, regardless of the money, but mobsters had long memories and she didn’t want to enlarge her bodyguard retinue. “Yesterday I ordered slight rearrangements. You know? Nothing drastic. A few inmates shifted from the centers to the sides and conversely. It’s numbers that count, isn’t it?”
On the screen, Vinson metamorphosed. Muscles relaxed and conformed to the arrangement that made people trust him—an air of competence and self-confidence.