Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans. Sidney Sheldon
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‘Romano framed you, Miss Whitney. Sooner or later, he would have put in a claim for the theft of the painting. You just happened to come along at the right moment to make it easy for him.’
Tracy could feel her heartbeat accelerate. This man knew she was innocent. He probably had enough evidence against Joe Romano to clear her. He would speak to the warden or the governor, and get her out of this nightmare. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe. ‘Then you’ll help me?’
Daniel Cooper was puzzled. ‘Help you?’
‘Yes. Get a pardon or –’
‘No.’
The word was like a slap. ‘No? But why? If you know I’m innocent –’
How could people be so stupid? ‘My assignment is finished.’
When he returned to his hotel room, the first thing Cooper did was to undress and step into the shower. He scrubbed himself from head to foot, letting the steaming-hot spray wash over his body for almost half an hour. When he had dried himself and dressed, he sat down and wrote his report.
TO:
J. J. Reynolds File No. Y-72-830-412
FROM:
Daniel Cooper
SUBJECT: Deux Femmes dans le Café Rouge, Renoir – Oil on Canvas
It is my conclusion that Tracy Whitney is in no way involved in the theft of above painting. I believe that Joe Romano took out the insurance policy with the intention of faking a burglary, collecting the insurance, and reselling the painting to a private party, and that by this time the painting is probably out of the country. Since the painting is well known, I would expect it to turn up in Switzerland, which has a good-faith purchase and protection law. If a purchaser says he bought a work of art in good faith, the Swiss government permits him to keep it, even though it is stolen.
Recommendation: Since there is no concrete proof of Romano’s guilt, our client will have to pay him off on the policy. Further, it would be useless to look to Tracy Whitney for either the recovery of the painting or damages, since she has neither knowledge of the painting nor any assets that I have been able to uncover. In addition, she will be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for the next fifteen years.
Daniel Cooper stopped a moment to think about Tracy Whitney. He supposed other men would consider her beautiful. He wondered, without any real interest, what fifteen years in prison would do to her. It had nothing to do with him.
Daniel Cooper signed the memo and debated whether he had time to take another shower.
Old Iron Pants had Tracy Whitney assigned to the laundry. Of the thirty-five work assignments available to prisoners, the laundry was the worst. The enormous, hot room was filled with rows of washing machines and ironing boards, and the loads of laundry that poured in were endless. Filling and emptying the washing machines and toting heavy baskets to the ironing section was a mindless, backbreaking job.
Work began at 6:00 A.M., and prisoners were permitted one 10-minute rest period every two hours. By the end of the nine-hour day, most of the women were ready to drop from exhaustion. Tracy went about her work mechanically, speaking to no one, cocooned in her own thoughts.
When Ernestine Littlechap heard about Tracy’s assignment, she remarked, ‘Old Iron Pants is out for your ass.’
Tracy said, ‘She doesn’t bother me.’
Ernestine Littlechap was puzzled. This was a different woman from the terrified young girl who had been brought into prison three weeks earlier. Something had changed her, and Ernestine Littlechap was curious to know what it was.
On Tracy’s eighth day working in the laundry, a guard came up to her in the early afternoon. ‘I got a transfer here for you. You’re assigned to the kitchen.’ The most coveted job in the prison.
There were two standards of food in the penitentiary: the prisoners ate hash, hot dogs, beans, or inedible casseroles, while the meals for the guards and prison officials were prepared by professional chefs. Their range of meals included steaks, fresh fish, chops, chicken, fresh vegetables and fruits, and tempting desserts. The convicts who worked in the kitchen had access to those meals, and they took full advantage of it.
When Tracy reported to the kitchen, she was somehow not surprised to see Ernestine Littlechap there.
Tracy approached her. ‘Thank you.’ With difficulty, she forced a friendly note into her voice.
Ernestine grunted and said nothing.
‘How did you get me past Old Iron Pants?’
‘She ain’t with us no mo’.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘We got a little system. If a guard is hard-ass and starts givin’ us too much of a bad time, we get rid of ’em.’
‘You mean the warden listens to –’
‘Shee-et. What’s the warden got to do with it?’
‘Then how can you –?’
‘It’s easy. When the guard you want to get rid of is on duty, hassles begin to happen. Complaints start comin’ in. A prisoner reports that Old Iron Pants grabbed her pussy. The next day ’nother prisoner accuses her of brutality. Then someone complains she took somethin’ from her cell – say a radio – and sure enough, it turns up in Old Iron Pants’s room. Old Iron Pants is gone. The guards don’t run this prison, we do.’
‘What are you in here for?’ Tracy asked. She had no interest in the answer. The important thing was to establish a friendly relationship with this woman.
‘Through no fault of Ernestine Littlechap, you’d better believe it. I had a whole bunch of girls workin’ for me.’
Tracy looked at her. ‘You mean as –?’ She hesitated.
‘Hookers?’ She laughed. ‘Naw. They worked as maids in big homes. I opened me a employment agency. I had at least twenty girls. Rich folks have a hell of a time findin’ maids. I did a lot of fancy advertisin’ in the best newspapers, and when they called me I placed my girls with ’em. The girls would size up the houses, and when their employers was at work or outta town, the girls would gather up all the silver and jewellery and furs and whatever other goodies were around and skip.’ Ernestine sighed. ‘If I told you how much fuckin’ tax-free money we was pullin’ down, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘How did you get caught?’
‘It was the fickle finger of fate, honey. One of my maids was servin’ a luncheon at the mayor’s house, and one of the guests was a old lady the maid had worked for and cleaned out. When the police used hoses on her, my girl began singin’, and she sang the whole opera, and here’s poor ol Ernestine.’
They were standing at a stove by themselves. ‘I can’t stay in this place,’ Tracy whispered. ‘I’ve got to take care of something on the outside. Will you help me escape? I –’
‘Start slicin’ up them onions. We’re havin’ Irish stew tonight.’
And she walked away.
The prison grapevine was incredible. The prisoners knew everything that was going to happen long before it occurred. Inmates known as garbage rats picked up discarded memos, eavesdropped on phone calls, and read the warden’s mail, and all information was carefully digested and sent around to the inmates who were important. Ernestine Littlechap was at the head of the list. Tracy was aware of how the guards and prisoners deferred to Ernestine. Since the other inmates had decided that Ernestine had become Tracy’s protector, she was left strictly alone. Tracy