By Phil Rossi
Roy hadn’t seen Alcatraz since his great escape, over fifty years ago. Parked in the bleachers of the tour boat, Roy listened to the piped-in audio of notorious inmates and failed break attempts, claiming he was dead. A mug shot with Roy’s old prison number, AZ 2515, rested in his pocket.
“That hotel’s haunted. Only place where time sits still,” Jimmy had said, Roy’s escape partner.
Ask any guest, and they’ll swear the hours on Alcatraz leaked from Dali’s molten clocks. Jimmy never cared for an old timer’s day, scratching his head over Roy’s bucket list. To Jimmy, they already beat the devil, with no rematch required. It was the last call they shared before Jimmy checked out for good.
Roy glanced the water as the tour ship zeroed in on the island. The night of the escape, they slashed the same viscous tide, chopping for Angel Island in a rubber raft. Roy recalled the meticulous break, the stashed inflatable, and links of stolen cars used to flee Frisco for Southern California.
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