* * *
Lance Malco’s euphoria upon leaving Parchman was tempered by his reentry into civilian life on the Coast. His family was gone. Carmen lived in Memphis to be closer to Hugh. The other children had scattered a decade ago and had almost no contact with either their father or Hugh. After the divorce, the family home had been sold, at Lance’s direction. His faithful lieutenants were either working elsewhere or had left the Coast altogether. His rock, Fats Bowman, was dead. The new sheriff, along with the new city officials, had already let it be known that Mr. Malco’s return was not welcome and that he would be watched closely.
He still owned his clubs—Red Velvet, Foxy’s, Desperado, O’Malley’s, and the Truck Stop—but they were run-down and in need of renovation. They had lost their popularity to newer, splashier joints along the Strip. Two of his bars had closed. In a world where cash was king, he knew almost for a certainty that he had been robbed blind by managers, bartenders, and bouncers. He’d found it impossible to run things from prison. If Hugh and Nevin had not screwed up, they could have controlled the empire and kept the others in line. With them gone, though, no one had the guts or smarts to step up, take orders from the Boss, and protect his interests.
The euphoria lasted only days before Lance realized he was falling into a state of depression. He was sixty-two years old, in decent health, notwithstanding eight years in prison, which ramped up the aging process. His favorite son was on death row. His marriage was long gone. Though he still had plenty of assets, his empire was in serious decline. His friends had deserted him. The few people whose opinion he coveted were certain he was behind the death of Jesse Rudy.
The Malco name, once feared and respected by many, was mud.
He owned a row of condos on St. Louis Bay in Hancock County. He moved into one, rented some furniture, bought a small fishing boat, and began spending his days on the water, catching nothing and not really trying. He was a lonely man with no family, no friends, no future. He decided to hang around and spend whatever was necessary to save Hugh, and if that proved unsuccessful he would sell everything, count his money, and move to the mountains.
The Strip seemed like a thousand miles away.
Chapter 57
The long-awaited opening came in late September when Sammy Shaw noticed that prisoners working in the print shop had loaded some empty cardboard boxes into the dumpster, which was almost overflowing. When Sammy saw the dilapidated sanitation truck arrive at the side gate to collect the dumpster, he signaled Nevin Noll, who was ready. They had walked through this first phase of their escape a hundred times. Each carried a brown paper sack filled with supplies as they jumped into the dumpster and burrowed deep under the cardboard boxes. The dumpster was used by the kitchen and the laundry, and they were instantly covered with rotten food and other filth. Step One was successful—they had not been noticed.
Cables rattled as the driver latched the dumpster, then a motor whined as it tilted up and began jerking forward onto the bed. It clanged and rattled into place, then became still. Nevin and Sammy were four feet down in the muck with no light anywhere, but they were relieved when the dumpster began moving. The truck stopped, the driver yelled, someone yelled back, a gate banged, and they were moving again.
The landfill was nothing but a gigantic quagmire of garbage and mud, dug miles from the units, as far away as possible. Each unit had a fence with guards and razor wire, but the entire prison farm did not. When the truck cleared another fence, the escapees knew they were free and clear, for the moment. Step Two was successful.
The unloading would be the trickiest part. The rear door was unlatched and the dumpster began tilting sharply. Nevin and Sammy began their slide, one that would either lead to temporary freedom or get them shot on the spot. They had cut and jerry-rigged the cardboard boxes and were completely hidden inside them. Mixed in a wave of garbage bags, loose bottles and cans and jars, they gained speed, slid hard out of the dumpster, fell about ten feet into the landfill and into the vast acreage of rotting food, dead animals, and noxious vapors.
They stayed frozen in place. They heard the dumpster fall back onto the truck. The truck left and they waited. In the distance, they could hear a bulldozer tracking over the latest loads of garbage and filth, packing it all down to make room for more.