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He drove the truck up to the second gate and, once again, a guard came out.
“ID?”
D’Agosta handed him the false driver’s license and permit. The man looked them over. “New man?”
“Yeah.”
“You familiar with the layout?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.”
“Go straight through, then bear to the right. When you see the loading dock, back up to the first bay.”
“Got it.”
“You can exit the vehicle to supervise the unloading. You may not handle any of the merchandise or assist prison perso
“Sure.”
The guard spoke briefly into a radio and the final chain-link gate rolled up.
As D’Agosta eased the van through and made the right turn, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a pint of Rebel Yell bourbon. He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, swishing it carefully around in his mouth before swallowing. He could feel the fiery bolus burn down his gullet into his stomach. He shook a few drops on his coat for good measure and slipped the bottle back into his jacket pocket.
In a moment, he had backed up to the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were already waiting, and as soon as he unlocked the back, they began off-loading the boxes and sides of frozen meat.
D’Agosta watched, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, then turned to a worker. “Say, you got a restroom around here?”
“Sorry. Not allowed.”
“But I’ve gotta go.”
“It’s against the rules.” The worker hefted two boxes of meats to his shoulders and disappeared into the back.
D’Agosta buttonholed the next man. “Look, I’ve really gotta go.”
“You heard him. It’s against the rules.”
“Man, please don’t tell me that.”
The man put down his box and stared at D’Agosta with a long, tired look. “When you get out of here, you can piss in the woods. Okay?” He lifted the box.
“It ain’t pissing I got to do.”
“That’s not my problem.” He hoisted up the box and carried it off.
As the first man approached again, D’Agosta stepped in front of him, blocking his access and breathing heavily into the man’s face. “This is no joke. I need to pinch one off, and I mean now.”
The man wrinkled up his nose and stepped back. He glanced at his fellow worker. “He’s been drinking.”
“What’s that?” D’Agosta said belligerently. “What did you say?”
The man returned the look coolly. “I said, you’ve been drinking.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can smell it.” He turned to his co-worker. “Get the super.”
“What the hell for? You go
The other worker disappeared and a moment later he came back with a tall, grim-looking man incongruously dressed in a black blazer, with a belly that hung over his belt like a sack of grain.
“What seems to be the problem?” the supervisor asked.
“I think he’s been drinking, sir,” said the first worker.
The man hooked up his belt and stepped toward D’Agosta. “That right?”
“No, it isn’t right!” D’Agosta said, getting in his face and breathing hard with indignation.
The man backed off, unshipped his radio.
“Look, I’m leaving,” D’Agosta said, trying to make himself sound suddenly accommodating. “I’ve got a long drive to get back to the warehouse. This place is in the middle of frigging nowhere and it’s six o’clock at night.”
“You’re not going anywhere, pal.” The supervisor spoke briefly into the radio, then turned to one of the workers. “Take him into staff dining and have him wait there.”
“Come this way, sir.”
“This is bullshit. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Come this way, sir.”
Grudgingly, D’Agosta followed the guard through the loading dock and into a large pantry, empty, dark, and smelling strongly of Clorox. They passed through a door in the far wall into a smaller room where, it seemed, the kitchen staff took their own meals when they were not on shift.
“Have a seat.”
D’Agosta sat down at one of the stainless-steel tables. The man took a seat at the next table, folded his arms, looked away. A few minutes passed and the supervisor returned, an armed guard at his side.
“Stand up,” the super said.
D’Agosta complied.
The super turned toward the guard. “Search him.”
“You can’t do that! I know my rights, and-”
“And this is a federal prison. It’s all spelled out on the signs in front, if you bothered to read them. We have the right to search anyone at will.”
“Don’t you frigging touch me.”
“Sir, at the moment, you’ve got a medium-sized problem. If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to have a big problem.”
“Yeah? What kind of a problem?”
“How does resisting a federal law enforcement officer sound? Now, last time: raise your arms.”
After a moment’s hesitation, D’Agosta did as he was ordered. A pat-down quickly brought to light the pint bottle of Rebel Yell.
The guard pulled out the bottle, shaking his head sadly. He turned to the supervisor. “What now?” he asked.
“Call the local police department. Have them pick him up. A drunk driver is their problem, not ours.”
“But I just took one sip!”
The supervisor turned back. “Sit down and shut up.”
D’Agosta sat down again a little unsteadily, muttering to himself.
“And the truck?” the guard asked.
“Call his company. Have them send someone to pick it up.”
“It’s after six, there won’t be any management there, and-”
“Call them in the morning, then. The truck isn’t going anywhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
The supervisor glanced at the guard. “Stay here with him until the police arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
The supervisor left. The guard sat down at the farthest table, eyeing D’Agosta balefully.
“I gotta go to the head,” said D’Agosta.
The guard sighed heavily but said nothing.
“Well?”
The guard rose, scowling. “I’ll take you.”
“You go
The scowl deepened. “It’s just down the hall, second door on the right. Hurry it up.”
D’Agosta rose with a flabby sigh and walked slowly to the lunchroom door, opened it, and staggered through, holding on to the doorknob for support. As soon as the door closed, he turned left and ran silently down a long, empty corridor past a series of fortified lunch-rooms, barred doors all standing open. He ducked into the last one and yanked off the white driver’s uniform, revealing a light tan shirt, which, with the dark brown pants he was wearing, gave him an unca
Beyond the station, he slipped a specially modified pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and began walking down the corridor, holding it in his hand, videotaping. He walked easily, nonchalantly, like a guard on his rounds, moving the pen this way and that, giving special attention to the placement of the security cameras and other high-tech sensing devices.
At last he ducked into a men’s room, headed to the second-to-last stall, and closed the door. Digging into the crotch of his pants, he pulled out a small, sealed plastic bag and a small roll of duct tape. He stood on the toilet, lifted a ceiling tile, and used the duct tape to affix the bag to the upper side of the tile. Then he lowered the tile back in place. Score one to Eli Gli
Exiting the bathroom, D’Agosta continued down the hall. Moments later, he heard an alarm go off-not a loud one, just a high-pitched beeping. He walked to the end of the empty corridor, where he was confronted by a set of double doors with a magnetic security lock. Here, he removed his wallet, took out a certain credit card, and swiped it through the door.