Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Twenty-One

Barry Lester’s nickname was Lucky, and he was lucky. Take his looks. Barry reminded some people of a ferret. He was short, skinny, and freckle-faced with watery blue eyes and spiky red hair that stuck out at odd angles no matter how often he combed it. But somehow he was always lucky with the ladies.

Then there was his career. Barry was a criminal who was not very good at the con games and petty thefts that were his bread and butter. Though he was arrested frequently enough, Barry usually managed to avoid punishment for his crimes; a DA would screw up, a witness wouldn’t show up, or else he’d glom onto information about a more serious gangster he would trade for dismissal or an easy sentence.

Unfortunately, it looked like Barry’s luck had finally run out. He had been the wheelman in a liquor-store robbery. When his equally inept coconspirators jumped into his car, screaming, “Go, go, go,” Barry tried to comply, but two blocks from the crime scene the car ran out of gas and everyone had been arrested. Barry called his attorney as soon as he had the chance, but his attorney was on vacation. The attorneys for the rest of the gang, however, were not, and they beat feet to the prosecutor’s door to cut deals, which left Barry holding the bag. When Barry’s attorney returned from Hawaii, tanned and rested, he informed his client that he was probably going to be spending the next few Christmases behind bars.

But Barry Lester wasn’t called Lucky for nothing. Just when it looked like storm clouds were going to be a permanent part of his future, Tiffany Starr, Barry’s girlfriend, came to see him, and those clouds parted and let in the sun. Two days later, Barry made sure his luck held up by picking a fight with an ultraviolent criminal named Gregor Karpinski.



Gregor Karpinski earned his living by inflicting grievous bodily harm on anyone Nikolai Orlansky told him to. He was six feet five inches tall, with muscles like concrete, an IQ just slightly above normal, and a very mean disposition. The inmates of the Lee County jail were allowed one hour of recreation each day, and Gregor spent his time pumping iron in a corner of the fenced-in, asphalt-paved area where other inmates played basketball or sat around smoking and talking. He was on his way to that corner when Barry Lester walked into him. The impact barely moved Gregor. Instead of running for his life, Barry glared at Gregor and barked, “Watch where you’re going, a*shole,” which Gregor would normally translate to mean, “Please beat me until I resemble hamburger, then put ketchup on me and eat me.” But he had his instructions, and instead of ripping Barry’s head from his body, Gregor merely hoisted Barry into the air by his hair and broke his nose.

From that point on, Barry saw the world through a red haze. He remembered guards rushing to his rescue, and he definitely remembered begging the guards to take him out of population and put him in isolation, the section of the jail where snitches and inmates who were in danger of being killed or maimed by other inmates were held for their own protection. After a trip to the infirmary, where they worked on his nose, Barry Lester got his wish.