Wallflower by William Bayer Page B

replaced by a grayish fringe. His taut, lean body had gone to fat, and his breath stank of tobacco—not surprising since lung cancer, caused by excessive smoking of cigarettes, was the most frequent killer of lifers. But as Janek studied Glickman, he recognized the expression around his mouth. Even fifteen years of incarceration had not extinguished the sneer that said, " Whoever you may think you are, to me you're a total piece of shit."
    "What brings you around? Social call? It's been what? Fifteen years?"
    Again Janek didn't bother to answer. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the letter, and placed it flat on the table.
    Glickman glanced at it. "So?"
    "You wrote it."
    "So what?"
    "Why?"
    Glickman shrugged. "Why not?" He smirked.
    Janek slowly moved his head in close, deliberately invading Glickman's space.
    "I know you're slime. But what could you possibly have against Tim Foy's daughter?"
    "I got nothing against her. I didn't even remember he had a daughter till I read about her in the papers."
    "So why?"
    "You, the big shot detective from New York, got the balls to come up here and ask me that? I thought you were supposed to be smart, Janek." Glickman's voice was loaded with scorn. "I saw this shitty miniseries where this actor—what's his name, he's a lot better-looking than you—where he struts around making like he's so fucking brilliant. Lieutenant Frank Janek the character was called. What a pile of shit."
    Janek stared at him. " Once a psychopath always a psychopath." He stood. "I don't need your abuse." He moved toward the door to call the guard.
    "‘Cause of you, I gotta spend the rest of my life in a rathole while you get to run around in New York playing Great Detective. You ask why I wrote you about the girl. I wrote so you'd come up here and I could look into your eyes and see your pain. That's all I wanted. Now I'm satisfied. I've seen it. It looks pretty good to me. I like seeing you in pain, Janek. Like I said, it's a real pleasure."
    "Guard!" Janek shouted, then waited facing the door. No matter what Glickman said to him, he vowed not to react. But Glickman was on a roll. He had only a few more seconds and nothing to lose.
    " You call me slime. You're the slime, Janek. You and your buddy—what's his name?—Foy. And his little cunt of a daughter, too. That's what she was, wasn't she? A little cunt, a slut, running around, twitching her horny little ass in the park. Know something? I'm glad she's dead!"
    The guard had arrived, was working his key in the lock, but Janek didn't care. Even as he yielded to his anger, he knew he was making a mistake. But fuck it! he thought. He turned, raised his foot against the ledge of the table, and shoved as hard as he could, propelling the table straight toward Glickman, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor.
    "See that!" Glickman shouted to the guard. "See what he did! Struck a prisoner! You saw it! He struck a fucking prisoner! That's grounds for a lawsuit! A big lawsuit! You're really fucked now, asshole! Probably cost you your fucking pension!"
    Glickman was laughing, a sneering, bullying laughter, the kind you'd expect from a slimeball who'd order a bomb planted in another man's car. But Janek was already out the door. As he walked down the corridor, he could hear Glickman's laughter resound against the walls. By the time he reached the security gate he knew that he himself was now walking on a knife's edge of sanity.
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    T hat night, when he got back to New York, the craziness was really cooking in him. But being conscious of it and wanting to give it up were two different things. I may be strung out, he thought, but I've still got control.
    Though emotionally exhausted, thoroughly jet-lagged, fatigued from his journey to Greenkill, he was nonetheless ready to do what Boyce was not: corner Greg Gale and squeeze him till he bled.
    He called the number Aaron had provided and got a taped answer off a machine. He didn't like the