Road Rules Online

Zilberberg escorted Stan out the side entrance.  “Better this way.  You’re all over CNN and Fox right now.  You’re this week’s runaway bride.”

“Hey, anything’s better than a night in that place,” said Stan.  “So who hired you?”

A black Escalade rolled up in front of them as they stepped outside.

Zilberberg opened the door for Stan, then followed him inside.  Stan leaned back in his seat and relaxed.  Whoever rescued him was loaded.

“Tell your client thanks,” said Stan as he crawled into the back of the truck.  “I can really get into this.”

“Tell me yourself, Mr. Yarazelski.”

Stan opened his eyes and saw a dark-haired man of about thirty sitting across from him.  The man dressed in a white seersucker jacket and an orange open-collar shirt.  In his hand rested an onyx Rosary.

“Er… Thanks?” said Stan.

“You’re welcome,” said the man.  “Stan.”  He leaned back and tapped on the window.  The Escalade moved out into traffic.  “How do you do, Stanley?  I’m Julian Franco.”

Oh, shit.

***

Luis watched two sides of the building.  From his vantage point, he could see both the back and side entrances.  The ‘Slade coming up the side caught his attention.

Luis watched as a white-haired man came out of the side entrance, followed by a shabby looking guy in a blue work shirt.  He knew the white-haired man.

“Zilberberg,” said Luis to himself.  Which meant the other guy was…  “Yarazelski.”  And then he realized who owned the truck.  “Franco.”

He started up the Chrysler and waited for the SUV to pull out into traffic.  Seconds later, Luis jumped into a slot several car lengths back and followed the Escalade toward the Tallmadge Bridge.

As they pulled into the parking lot at the Chatham County Jail, Miguel gave Mason his instructions.

“You tell the police about what we did with you,” he said, “we will kill you.  Not Luis and I personally, but others like us will find you.”

“I can hide,” said Mason.  “Witness protection.”

“You can’t hide from the Church.”

Mason’s eyes bugged out.

Miguel continued.  “When we go in, you tell the police I am your lawyer, and you also want to bail out Mr. Yarazelski.”

“What then?” asked Mason, feeling the cigarette burns anew as soon as he said it.

“You don’t want to know,” said Luis.

“By then,” said Miguel, “you’ll be in the hands of the authorities.  You will tell them the story we gave you exactly as we gave it to you.”

“Okay, I got it,” said Mason.

“And do you understand what will happen to you if you deviate from our instructions?”

“I got a feel for that last night, thanks.”

Luis pulled up close to the building but kept the engine running.  Miguel got out and opened Mason’s door for him.  Miguel straightened his tie and shrugged his jacket on tighter.  They went inside to the desk sergeant.

“We’re here to bail out Stan Yarazelski,” said Mason.  “This is my lawyer, Mr….”

“Fernandez,” said Miguel, his accent now more southern than Mexican.  “Paul Fernandez.”  He handed the sergeant a card.

“God, this guy’s popular,” said the sergeant.  “You’re the second lawyer to stop in to bail out that guy from Cleveland.”

“Second?” asked Mason.

“Yeah.  They’re processing him out right now.”

Miguel started to move.

“Hold it, Mr. Fernandez.”

Miguel stopped as the desk sergeant tapped away at his computer.  He looked up at Mason.  Recognition flashed in his eyes.

“Would you mind waiting here for a moment?” said the sergeant.

At the far end of the room, three Chatham County deputies appeared, the flaps on their holsters open, hands near their batons.

“I told you,” said Stan, “I’m not telling you nothing until I see a lawyer.  And since it’s not even nine on a Sunday morning, I doubt we’ll be seeing one soon.”

Kennedy looked at her watch.  “It’s 10:30.”

“I can wait.”

They sat around the table watching him.  They were sweating him out.  Stan could feel it.  Since he was in a strange city on a weekend, they could conceivably take until tomorrow to find him a public defender.

Courts kept PD’s on call 24/7, Stan knew.  At least they did in Cleveland.  He had no idea how Georgia handled it.

He liked the blonde lady, Kennedy.  She seemed nice enough.  The Hispanic guy, Estevez, was a prick.  Stan had seen him before on television, usually when something big happened in Cleveland.  The black guy, Jordan, he didn’t know, but he didn’t like the way he stared at him.

“What’s your problem?” said Stan.

“My problem,” said Jordan, “is you.  You were delivering stolen property for Andre the Giant, property I was blamed for losing.”

“Life’s a bitch,” said Stan.  “I know.  I spent the night in here.”

“That car was stolen out from my client.”

“Who’s your client?”

“Alfred Havelcek.  Heard of him?”

“The deadbeat Andre’s always bitching about?”

“He doesn’t see it that way.  And the courts will probably side with him.”

Stan laughed.  “I’ve already handed Andre to the cops here.”

“We know,” said Estevez.

“Yeah.  I guess you would,” said Stan, “or you wouldn’t have flown all this way to see little ol’ me.  But if I was really delivering a stolen car, hell, I’ll tell you guys everything you want to know.”

“What I want to know,” said Jordan, “is where my niece is?”

“Your niece?” said Stan.  Uh-oh.  Was this Cinnamon’s uncle?

“You would know her as Sharon.”

“Sharon?  Black or white?”

Jordan looked at Stan like he was stupid.

“Well, how should I know?  Mixed marriages, adoption.  She could be Asian for all I know.”

“Sharon Harrow,” said Jordan.

Stan shook his head.  “Sorry.  Don’t know that name.”

“What about Myron Blake?” said Estevez.  “We hear you went to high school with him.  Seen him recently?”

“Don’t answer that.”

Stan looked up to see a man in a sharkskin suit enter the interrogation room.  He had a shock of white hair, an expensive watch, and a shimmering blue silk tie, all of which screamed five-figure fees.  The man handed Estevez his card.

“Reuben Zilberberg,” he said.  “Mr. Yarazelski, I’ve been asked to offer my services at no charge to you.”

“This says you’re licensed in Florida,” said Estevez.

That was bullshit, Stan thought, and Estevez knew it.  It didn’t matter where the attorney came from as long as he could prove he was a member of the bar in the US.  At least Stan hoped so.

“I am licensed in Georgia as well,” said Zilberberg.  “Now, unless Mr. Yarazelski prefers another attorney, this interview is over.”

“Who hired you?” asked Stan.

“A friend, who’s also posted your bail.  Are you ready to go, Mr. Yarazelski?”

Stan grinned at Estevez.  “Sorry, Lieutenant.  Guess I’ll see you back in Cleveland.”

“After the extradition hearing,” said Zilberberg.  “And I intend to fight extradition.”

Stan looked at Kennedy, who shrugged at him.

“Go on,” said Estevez.  “Maybe we can bag your secret admirer in the process.”

The deputy posted in the room released Stan’s handcuffs.  Stan followed Zilberberg out the door.

Chapter 23

Mike and Sharon loaded the Chest into the Camry’s trunk and tossed what little they had in the backseat.  Sharon went to return the room key.  At the window, she opened up her blouse a couple of buttons and pretended to be chewing gum.  The clerk came, looked her over, and took the key.

“How was everything?” he said, not even looking as he scribbled out a handwritten receipt.

“Sugar,” she said, the southern accent laid on thick now, “I had my best night of work here last night.  You tell yo’ boss if he want, I bring my friends and give him a cut of every trick we turn.”

The clerk’s eyes came up, but stopped at her cleavage.  “I’ll have to think about that.”

“You do that.”  She spun on her heel and walked away, swaying her hips and twirling her “hooker” purse around.

In the car, Mike said, “Give you any trouble?”

Sharon laughed.  “He thinks I’m going to help him run a brothel out of here.”

“You could probably make a mint.”   Mike started the car.  “How about the diner next door?”  He nudged the car out onto the highway, then stopped.  “Or maybe not.”

“What is going on over there?” said Sharon.

The all-night diner, which had done a brisk business when they pulled in around midnight, now had enough cop cars around it to handle a minor act of terrorism.  Some of the cruisers said Georgia State Police, others Chatham County Sheriff.  Two bore the logo of the Savannah Police, though the diner sat well outside the city limits.

“Shift change,” said Sharon.  “They do that in our neck of the woods, too.  Ever been to Denny’s in Berea?”

“Once or twice.”

“The place is packed every four hours with cops from three towns and the Highway Patrol.”

A Savannah cruiser rolled past from the direction of the city.

“Maybe we should turn in the car,” Mike said.  “Can you rent one yourself?”

“Probably, but we still don’t know if my name’s been leaked or if Stan’s started spilling his guts.”

“Airport?”

“Airport.  If they catch us, we’ll admit we have the Chest and go from there.”

Mike turned left onto the highway and headed into Savannah.  “I hope Stan can keep his mouth shut.”