Free PART 35 by John Nicholas Iannuzzi Page B

with a metal plate. “That’s our air conditioning.”
    â€œYou mean that’s all the air that gets into your cell?”
    â€œThat’s it. But I got a good system. I take my blanket, they give us a blanket upstairs, I soak it in the sink until it’s soaking wet and then I put it on the cot and I sleep on that.”
    â€œYou’ll get arthritis. Does it keep you cool?”
    â€œIt keep you soggy but not too bad. It helps.”
    â€œListen, Luis, I wanted to talk to you alone today because I want to get to the bottom of this story of yours. Once and for all.”
    â€œOkay, Mr. Luca. What you want to know?” Alvarado pulled a single cigarette from his shirt pocket. It was a Pall Mall again. Filter cigarettes aren’t allowed in prison—supposedly because prisoners can do funny things with filters, make something to get high. Pall Mall, as the original king-size cigarette, has never relinquished its popularity in prisons, where smoking is a luxury to be prolonged. It outsells all other brands there two to one.
    â€œFirst, let me explain this to you,” said Sandro. “I want you to tell me the truth. No phony story. Understand?”
    â€œI tol’ you, I got no reason to lie to you, Mr. Luca,” Alvarado said firmly, looking directly at Sandro. “I know you trying to help me.”
    â€œThat’s right. And we told you that if you give us a story that’s not true and we accept it and build your defense on it, and it blows in our face, it’s your hide. Understand? Your hide’s going to find itself in jeopardy, not ours.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œSo what I’m suggesting,” Sandro said very carefully and slowly, leaning toward Alvarado, “is that you don’t know the law, and if you want to make up a story or alibi, at least you should make up a story that’s right, that’ll help. I know the law.” Sandro was hoping to lead Alvarado into the truth through the back door. “We can work out the story together. At least, if it’s going to be manufactured, it will be manufactured right.” Sandro didn’t intend to manufacture the story, or suborn perjury, but he did want the truth.
    â€œI already telling you the truth. I know it’s no good for my case to hide anything from you,” replied Alvarado.
    â€œAll right. Tell me again all that happened.”
    â€œLike I told you. I was in the house. Oh wait, I remember something I didn’t tell you and Mr. Sam Bemer last time. About a quarter after two, two thirty, before I went home to get a shower and then go in the subway, I took a haircut on Roebling Street.”
    â€œA haircut. You got a haircut about two fifteen or two thirty?”
    â€œYes, I didn’t tol’ you last time you was here. I remember being out of the house and being near Broadway and Roebling Street. I did some things, killed time, and then I went to take a haircut. After, I wented home and taking a shower and dressed and talking to Jorge. Then I went to Times Square.”
    â€œAre you sure about the time at the barber shop?” Sandro studied Alvarado closely.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhere is this barber shop?”
    â€œIt’s on”—he studied the ceiling, his eyes zeroing in on the barber shop—”I think between Broadway and South Ninth on Roebling Street on this side of the street.” His hand motioned toward his left.
    â€œWhat side of the street is that? Is it the east side or the west side of the street?”
    â€œI think it’s the … well, when you looking from Broadway to South Ninth Street it’s on the left side. What side is that?”
    â€œEast. It’s on the east side of the street between Broadway and South Ninth Street?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you know who the barber was or what he looked like?”
    â€œA short guy with a moustache. Young.” It sounded like