Kiss of Temptation: A Deadly Angels Book Read Online Free Page A

willing to concede to the old bat, she said, “What have we got to lose?”
    Even Vikings get the blues . . .
    If prison was a microcosm of regular society, as penal authorities purported it to be, then Ivak was living in a village of idiots. And the chief idiot, Warden Pierce Benton, had just made the most outrageous demand of him.
    “You want me to put together a talent show on the last night of the rodeo? Why me?”
    Twice a year, Angola put on a series of prison rodeos that were open to the public. A more ludicrous, often cruel, event Ivak had never witnessed, except in the days of old Rome when they forced inexperienced slaves to go out into the Colosseum as gladiators.
    “Why not you?” Benton inquired in a heavy Southern drawl as he rolled an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, the whole time staring at him from behind his desk where everyone knew his swivel chair was elevated to give him extra height. The warden, who wore his Christianity on his sleeve, was not a fan of Ivak’s less-than-deferential attitude, not to mention his unconventional manner of dress . . . in particular, combining a clerical collar with unclergyman-like attire. But then, Ivak was not a fan of the stocky, gray-haired man who was more autocratic than some kings Ivak had known over the years. King Bork the Boar came to mind, for one. When Benton smiled, as he did now, with that big space between his front teeth, he resembled a shorter, heavier, older David Letterman, but the smile was deceptive. Behind the amiability was a ruthless autocrat.
    No one was exactly sure what or who Ivak was here at the prison. Not an inmate. Nor a clergyman, precisely, although there were chaplains and religious folks aplenty assigned to all the cellblocks and camps. Oh, he had credentials, thanks to St. Michael and his secret sources, proclaiming him a former inmate chaplain from some small European country, now a nondenominational “spiritual adviser” at Angola, but he didn’t fit anyone’s idea of a church minister.
    Ivak knew better than most the power Benton wielded in this prison. One word from him made the difference between a man being made a trusty with a limited amount of freedom or confinement to a six-by-nine cell for life. One word from him and Ivak’s “job” would be toast.
    “What do you think I am . . . some kind of Simon Cowell?”
    “What a great idea! Y’all can hold an American Idol –type competition. Maybe you’ll discover a Ruben Studdard or Scotty McCreery right here at Angola.” Benton smiled at him, but the humor never made it to his beady eyes. “See, I knew you’d be the man for the job.”
    “Simon Cowell is no longer with Idol . He moved on to X Factor ,” he informed the warden. Or some other friggin’ show. It’s not as if I follow that crap.
    “Even better.”
    The Angola rodeos were held in the spring and the fall. That meant in a little over a month—the rodeo would start and continue each Sunday in October—the warden was expecting Ivak to have a talent show to put on.
    Ivak did a mental crossing of his eyes. He could just see it now. If he rejected Big Tony Fasano in the tryouts, the convicted Dixie Mafia hit man would cut off his balls while he was sleeping . . . and eat them. Or those thugs in Camp J where the prison troublemakers were housed . . . if they tried to audition as a group and Ivak wasn’t impressed, he would find himself someone’s girlfriend by morning. Or they could try. Gang rape was not unheard of in this testosterone-oozing jungle, and since most of the inmates would never leave, they didn’t fear the consequences. Rape didn’t carry a death penalty. Besides that, death would be welcome to many of the hardened souls.
    “This is about me trying to get through to Leroy Sonnier, isn’t it?”
    Sonnier was a model inmate who nevertheless managed to annoy just about everyone in authority at the prison with his attitude. For some reason, maybe because Ivak