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dorms, clean cafeteria serving three squares a day, a weight room, billiards, cards, racquetball, basketball, volleyball, jogging track, library, chapel, ministers on duty, counselors, caseworkers, unlimited visiting hours.
    Trumble was as good as it could get for prisoners, all of whom were classified as low risk. Eighty percent were there for drug crimes. About forty had robbed banks without hurting or really scaring anyone. The rest were white-collar types whose crimes ranged from small-time scams to Dr. Floyd, a surgeon whose office had bilked Medicare out of $6 million over two decades.
    Violence was not tolerated at Trumble. Threats were rare. There were plenty of rules and the administration had little trouble enforcing them. If you screwed up, they sent you away, to a medium-security prison, one with razor wire and rough guards.
    Trumble’s prisoners were content to behave themselves and count their days, the federal way.
    Pursuing serious criminal activity on the inside was unheard of, until the arrival of Joe Roy Spicer. Before his fall, Spicer had heard stories about the Angola scam, named for the infamous Louisiana state penitentiary. Some inmates there had perfected the gay-extortion scheme, and before they were caught they had fleeced their victims of $700,000.
    Spicer was from a rural county near the Louisiana line, and the Angola scam was a notorious affair in his part of the state. He never dreamed he’d copy it. But he woke up one morning in a federal pen, anddecided to shaft every living soul he could get close enough to.
    He walked the track every day at 1 P.M. ., usually alone, always with a pack of Marlboros. He hadn’t smoked for ten years before his incarceration; now he was up to two packs a day. So he walked to negate the damage to his lungs. In thirty-four months he’d walked 1,242 miles. And he’d lost twenty pounds, though probably not from exercise, as he liked to claim. The prohibition against beer was more responsible for the weight loss.
    Thirty-four months of walking and smoking, twenty-one months to go.
    Ninety thousand dollars of the stolen bingo money was literally buried in his backyard, a half a mile behind his house next to a toolshed—entombed in a homemade concrete vault his wife knew nothing about. She’d helped him spend the rest of the loot, $180,000 altogether, though the feds had traced only half of it. They’d bought Cadillacs and flown to Las Vegas, first class out of New Orleans, and they’d been driven around by casino limos and put up in suites.
    If he had any dreams left, one was to be a professional gambler, headquartered out of Vegas but known and feared by casinos everywhere. Blackjack was his game, and though he’d lost a ton, he was still convinced he could beat any house. There were casinos in the Caribbean he’d never seen. Asia was heating up. He’d travel the world, first class, with or without his wife, stay in fancy suites, order room service, and terrorize any blackjack dealer dumb enough to deal him cards.
    He’d take the $90,000 from his backyard, add it to his share of the Angola scam, and move to Vegas. With or without her. She hadn’t been to Trumble in four months, although she used to come every three weeks. He had nightmares of her plowing up the backyard looking for his buried treasure. He was almost convinced she didn’t know about the money, but there was room for doubt. He’d been drinking two nights before being shipped off to prison, and had said something about the $90,000. He couldn’t remember his exact words. Try as he might, he simply could not recall what he’d told her.
    He lit another Marlboro at mile one. Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Rita Spicer was an attractive woman, a little chunky in places but nothing $90,000 couldn’t hide. What if she and a new squeeze had found the money and were already spending it? One of Joe Roy’s worst recurring nightmares was a scene from a bad movie—Rita and some unknown male with