Free Inside Out by John Ramsey Miller Page A

wife got an eyeful, and you'll be fortunate indeed if she doesn't ask her husband to skin you two alive. Next time, if you want to play ‘punch the monkey,' do it on your side of the island,” Greg said.
    The woman giggled again.
    “Don't ever let me catch you on this side of this island again. Go! Run!” They started to go up over the dunes but Greg thundered, “All the way around! Stay the hell out of my trees!”
    Winter turned and walked toward the house like a man with a broken foot. It was sobering to realize that if the two ensigns had come straight over the hill in the dark at a dead run, he might have killed them. Winter doubted Greg would make an official complaint. It was a good story that would be spoiled if Nations had to end it with the fact that he caused two kids to be busted out of the service, probably their only tickets out of otherwise bleak futures.
    Greg fell into step beside him. “What happened to you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You're walking like somebody pounded sand up your butt.”
    “Strained a groin muscle, I guess.”
    The security lights died and it was night again.
    Martinez stood waiting on the porch with one hand on the doorknob. “Winter, Mrs. Devlin is really sorry about kneeing you in your noogies. She thought you were making an advance . . . of a sexual nature.”
    “Guess there's more than one way to pull a groin muscle,” Greg said, grinning.
    “Forget it,” Winter muttered. He was certain he would never again produce another ounce of semen with anything swimming in it.
    Martinez rolled her eyes and went inside, laughing. Greg followed, and Cross strolled off down the beach, still snickering.
    Winter slumped in the rocking chair. Midnight bumped against his leg. A few minutes later, Jet came out and handed Winter an ice pack.
    “Mr. Greg said you might want this for your pulled muscle.”
    When Jet went back into the house, Winter clearly heard several people whooping with laughter.
    He decided that for the remaining time on the island, whenever the deputies thought about him, the Tampa incident would no longer be the first thing that sprang to mind. He put the bag between his legs. It helped.

14
  
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday

    The guard stared out through the bulletproof glass at the attorney as though the latter were a thief come to steal the gold out of his mouth. The man before him wore a bedraggled hairpiece. Bertran Stern had a nose like a parrot's beak and sad eyes. He was stoop-shouldered and his suit coat hung on his lanky frame like a drape. Liver spots dotted the hand with which he pressed his driver's license through the slot.
    “Here to see Sam Manelli,” Bertran said.
    “You his attorney?”
    “I am.”
    “Bertran Stern?” the guard read. He looked back up and again at the license, comparing the picture against the real thing.
    Stern nodded once.
    “From New Orleans?” the guard said as he inspected the Louisiana license.
    “Yes.”
    “Manelli had another attorney here yesterday.”
    “Mr. Manelli has several legal representatives. I am his private counsel.” Stern exhaled heavily. The guards always asked the same questions. He supposed it was some form of harassment, but he didn't care. He was already thinking about the trip back home, knowing he would be resummoned as soon as he settled in. He had never liked traveling and was terrified of airplanes. But he had been flying back and forth from New Orleans, ferrying messages between Johnny Russo and Sam, since the mobster's arrest two weeks earlier. Johnny had been running Sam's crime empire for five years and doing a pretty good job as far as Bertran could tell. Sam seemed pleased with what Johnny was telling the attorney and Johnny liked the messages he got back.
    After a few long minutes the solid steel door slid open. A female guard led Bertran to the exercise yard reserved for maximum security prisoners.
    Sam was in his early seventies but looked a decade younger. The gangster was a