Twenty-Three“I may as well come clean with you, Mr. Simms,” said Brewster, lying in a narrow bed, the sweat-stained sheets stinking almost as much as him.
“Anything you can tell me will aid you, Brewster. I ain't making no promises, but—”
“I can,” said Cross, standing close by. “I can and I will.” He bent down and studied Brewster with his piercing blue eyes. “I am a Federal agent, son, here to investigate the death of Senator Bowen. You tell us what in the hell has been going on and I can guarantee your sentence will be commuted. If it leads to the arrest of the perpetrators, I can even go so far as to say you will serve no more than fifteen years. Maybe even ten.”
“Holy Moses, you would do that for me, Mr. Federal agent, sir?”
“Yes, I will.”
“So,” said Simms, “there you have it Brew
