He heard a noise on the other side of the glass. The handle turned and the metal door opened. Gus started to rise, forgetting for a second that there would be no handshake. He settled back in his chair. Shirley Borge entered. She looked right at him. The door closed behind her. She sat in the chair and faced him, saying nothing. For a moment they just studied each other from opposite sides of the glass.
She looked younger than she had sounded on the telephone. And she was much prettier than Gus had expected. She had sandy blond hair and mysterious brown eyes. The face was thin with attractive lines, the lips full. Still, she was a hardened twenty-five. Andie had pulled her police record and shared it with Gus. Shirley had been convicted on conspiracy charges but had a history of prostitution. A long scar ran frOm her left temple and down across her cheek. Someone had cut her badly, perhaps with a razor. Deep in her eyes, the anger was still there. Gus looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at her misfortune. His eyes drifted down her neck. Inmates didn't wear uniforms at WCCW unless they were in segregation. Shirley was dressed in baggy cotton sweats that were unzipped at the collar to the base of her cleavage, where a small purple tattoo clung to her left breast. The breasts were round and firm, but the tattoo was horrendous, presumably an in-house jail job. Again, Gus tried not to stare, but there was magnetism in this abomination.
She tapped on the window, giving him a start. Gus looked up, embarrassed. The phone was pressed to her ear. Gus picked up.
"You like the tattoo?" she asked.
He blinked, even more embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to figure out what it was."
"What does it look like?"
"Kind of like a flower."
"Not a bad guess. It's my genitalia."
"Excuse me?"
She leaned forward, pointing and offering a closer look, as if she were an anatomical chart. "I know it looks a little strange, but it's dead-on accurate. My labia minora is much larger than my majora. A lot larger. They call it a full-blown rose."
He wasn't sure what to say. "I guess I'd never heard of that."
"Me neither. Till I got locked with seven hundred other women."
He squirmed, which she seemed to enjoy.
"You think I'm kidding?"
"I don't really care. I'm here to find my wife."
Her smile turned sly. "You surprise me. Being married to a shoplifter, I thought maybe you'd have a soft spot for the plight of us convicted felons."
"How do you know so much about Beth?"
"How are you going to get me out of here?" She was glaring, but it wasn't contempt. It was just negotiations.
"Bottom line is that I can't make this happen overnight. I spoke to the FBI at length on the way over here. They don't just spring you from jail because you claim to have information that will help solve a crime."
"Then you've got your work cut out for you, don't you?"
"Yeah, but you have to work with me. It's like any transaction. The FBI has to know what it's buying. Which means you have to show them what you've got."
"Where I come from, you get the cash on the dresser before . You show the bootie."
"This isn't the happy mattress hotel. You can't just walk down the street to the next john and work out a better deal. You have one customer. That customer makes the rules."
She thought for a second, but she seemed a little less tough, as if starting to understand. "So I tell them what I know. Then what?"
"The FBI uses your tip. If it turns out to be true and helps them find my wife, they write a letter to the parole board telling them to please take your cooperation into consideration at the next parole hearing."
"But there's no guarantee."
"No. The board can still deny parole."
She thought for a second, then the eyes narrowed. "Fuck 'em, then."
"What?"
"They don't do the deal my way, I don't do it." "That's not smart."
"Who are you to say?"
"I'm your lawyer."
"You're whatever I say you are."
"I'm here to help you."
"You're here to help yourself."
"We can both win."
"I don't care. Just fuck the FBI. Fuck you, too." "This isn't about me and the FBI."
"Damn right it isn't. It's about me."
"Go to hell, lady. It's about a six-year-old kid who misses her mom."
Their eyes locked. He noticed the slightest twitch in her eye.
"You got a kid?" she asked.
"Yeah. Morgan's her name."
Shirley fell quiet.
He added, "She's full of questions, you know. Half the time she wants to know why someone would take her mommy away. The other half she wants to know why her mommy would leave her. Hard to make a six-year-old understand."
The silence lingered. They were staring at each other, the phones pressed to their ears. Then she blinked.
"I got a little girl, too. She's four."
"Girls are great."
She nodded. "Don't get to see her much."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too," she said with a mirthless laugh. "Pretty hard to make her understand why her mommy has to live here."
Gus started to say something, then let it go. Shirley was thinking, weighing things in her mind, perhaps even agonizing. He could see it in her eyes. In a minute, she had shaken it off. "Tell you what, Mr. Wheatley. I won't just spill my guts to you like some fool. But I'm gonna give you a chance."