Killer (5 page)

I spent a lot of time thinking about it in prison. For years I tried to convince myself that I did it as payback for whoever it was inside of Lombard’s organization who gave me up to the Feds, especially since I had wanted to retire from that life and I’d let Lombard strong-arm me into running that business at the docks. Over time I realized that wasn’t the reason, as much as I wanted it to be. What was mostly behind my making that deal was that I needed a glimmer of hope, no matter how dim, of someday walking out of prison. I don’t think I could’ve managed inside without that. But that probably wasn’t the only reason; at that point in my life I needed to come clean with what I’d done. I don’t know, but I think that was behind what I did, at least at a subconscious level. But no matter how much I struggled over it, I could never be quite sure how much of a role that played in it, if any at all.

I had finished both bathrooms on the first floor and was pushing the cart towards the elevator when I realized I was mumbling under my breath, carrying on a one-sided conversation with my pop. Yeah, I was going to need a radio or something, otherwise this quiet would drive me nuts. Looking around sheepishly, I checked to see if the security guard was nearby and whether he could’ve overheard me. I didn’t see him, and I pushed the cart past the elevator until I spotted him sitting behind the same security desk he’d been at earlier. I doubt he had heard me, he seemed too engrossed in the paperback he was reading. When I started to push the cart back to the elevator, he looked up, startled, as if I had spooked him. Our eyes met for a brief moment before he glanced back towards his paperback, his round pink face turning flaccid. If it wasn’t clear enough earlier, it was clear then that the two of us were never going to have much of a conversation together while I worked there – he was terrified of me, and that wasn’t going to change.

I pushed the cleaning cart into the elevator and took it to the second floor and started on the bathrooms there. Once I was done with those I moved up to the third floor, and then after those were done, started emptying trash cans throughout the building, then vacuuming each office and the hallways.

I was finished by one o’clock. I had no better place to be, and besides, I was supposed to be working until two so I stayed holed up in the last office I had vacuumed. They had a plush leather sofa in their lobby that was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the cot I had waiting for me. A few times I almost drifted off, my eyelids heavy, but I stayed awake until two, and then trotted back to the front security desk and checked the keys in with the apple-cheeked youth working there. He didn’t say a word to me, nor me to him, and I knew that was the routine we had settled into, not that I should’ve expected much else.

Stepping outside I held my jacket collar tight against my throat, trying to seal off the cold. A wind was whipping about and I lowered my head against it. After half a block, I looked up, thinking that I had seen something out of the corner of my eye – a black sedan driving away with its headlights off. I must’ve imagined it because when I looked up the street was empty and the only noise I could hear was the wind. I stood staring bleary-eyed for a moment, then lowered my head again and quickened my pace.

chapter 7

1970

Carl Slagg’s a big fucker. Large ruddy face, barrel-chested, and a good sixty pounds heavier and a half-foot taller than I am. The two of us are in a dive in Charlestown, a walk-down bar off of Washington Street. It’s Saturday night and the place is packed with local toughs, sailors on leave, and chicks looking to drink free and maybe hook up for the night. I’m hoping Slagg doesn’t pick any of these girls up, but with the way he’s flashing his roll there’s a good chance of it, especially given how shitfaced he is. There are some tough broads in the crowd, and I’m sure a few of them have already given some thought to trying to take that roll off him. It would be unfortunate if that happens. This is my first official hit for DiGrassi and I’m hoping it goes down easy. If Slagg leaves with one of these girls I’ll have to take both of them out.

DiGrassi didn’t tell me the reason for taking Slagg out, nor was I going to ask him, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out. I’d heard one of Lombard’s boys was in the poker game that got ripped off, that the next day Lombard sent one of his men to let Slagg know there was a contract on his head but for half the money taken from the game – ten grand – he could fix the contract and see that it went away. Slagg, the dumb fuck, had to tell the guy to go fuck himself.

Slagg is one boisterous son of a bitch. He’s slamming down shot after shot, all the while his voice booming through the bar as he argues Red Sox, Celtics and Bruins with anyone who’ll listen to him. Now it’s how without Bobby Orr the Bruins would still have won the Stanley Cup. Christ, the guy keeps proving over and over again that he’s too dumb to live.

His voice dies away. He wipes a thick hand across his mouth, his eyes intent on a blonde dye-job standing near him, and she’s eyeing him back. I’m sure she noticed his roll earlier.

He approaches her. His neck bends so his mouth is against her ear. She’s buying what he’s selling her, and I’m thinking how I’m going to be leaving two bodies later, but then Slagg goes too far. Whatever he tells her, it leaves her eyes like hard stones and her mouth showing hurt. He tries to physically move her from her barstool, but then a group of sailors standing nearby come to her rescue. It’s four against one and I’m waiting for the first punch to be thrown, but Slagg’s too fucking drunk and loses his train of thought and ends up stumbling away. He stops for a moment, then continues until he’s heading up the stairs and out of the bar. I leave through a back door, moving fast to catch up with him.

He makes things easy for me, the dumb fuck. After walking half a block, he turns down an alley. Sure enough he’s swaying a bit on his feet while he takes a leak in the alleyway. Watching him, it’s like he’s on a boat that’s listing badly from side to side.

I have a .38 snub nose, but I see no reason to use it. Instead I take out a nine-inch stiletto blade and I have it in and out of his back before he ever realizes I’m behind him. He totters for a moment, then falls to his knees and pitches forwards, his face smacking against the brick wall before landing in the puddle he made. I know he’s dead, I know I pierced his heart. I bend over anyway to check, and while I’m checking I also take the roll out of his pocket. Sixty-three hundred bucks. A nice bonus for the night, although I’m going to have to cough a good part of it up to Vincent DiGrassi.

It’s three days later when I meet up with DiGrassi. We’re being careful at this point to keep my connection with him and Lombard hidden. For six months I’ve been on the books at a liquor store over on Lansing Street so it looks like I’m gainfully employed. DiGrassi eyes me carefully. He knows things went smoothly with the hit. No witnesses, no fuss, no problems. What he wants to know is how I’m taking the killing and he’s looking hard into my eyes to figure it out. There’s nothing in there for him to see. He asks me anyway how I’m feeling and I tell him I’m sleeping as well as ever and eating even better. He grunts, satisfied, and as he gets up I hand him an envelope. Inside is three grand. He arches an eyebrow, and I tell him it’s from the sixty-three hundred I took off Slagg. For a second I can see the calculating look in his eyes as he figures I should be handing over more than three grand – after all I’m being paid well for the hit, but the look fades and instead he nods and tells me he’ll be in touch when needed.

My first official hit. As smooth as silk. And an extra thirty-three hundred to boot. Overall I’m feeling pretty good.

chapter 8

present

I had a restless night of it where I slept at most in five-minute stretches. I think the combination of the dank mustiness of the room and the smell of the mattress kept waking me. By morning I was tired but also alert with little chance of getting any more sleep. My back was stiffer than usual, and it took a while to maneuver myself off the bed, and then to simply straighten myself to the point where I could stand normally. I decided then I was going to buy a new bed. I wasn’t going to be left with much once I bought the things I needed.

Without a blanket or sheets it had been too cold that night to sleep in my underwear so I’d worn my clothes to bed, and later ended up putting my jacket on. Now they felt gamey and oily on me, but they were all I had so I had to wear them again. In the morning light my apartment was even more of an eyesore – the walls cracked and stained, the plaster ceiling yellowed and crumbling in spots, the floors filthy. I stumbled to the bathroom to splash water on my face, this time being careful not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I wasn’t up to that, not in the brighter light. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something scurrying towards the kitchen area, probably a mouse. I didn’t bother looking for it, though. As soon as I was done in the bathroom I left the apartment.

It wasn’t as cold as the day before with the sun out and the skies mostly clear, but still, I was shivering. I made my way back to Moody Street. The area was quiet with little traffic on the road and outside of myself, no one else on the sidewalks.

A clock outside a bar showed it was only ten past six. I walked a few blocks, first one side of the street, then the other, and found several greasy-spoon diners advertising breakfast, but the earliest any of them opened was six-thirty. I stepped into a twenty-four-hour convenience store and bought a large black coffee, and while I drank it I picked up a newspaper. I was on page one. The story had broken that I had been released from prison and somehow they found out that I was relocated to Waltham. The article listed the names of each of the men I killed, and scattered throughout it were quotes from their families and state pols about what an outrage it was that I’d been released. The article used what had to have been the prison photo taken several months ago when I was transferred out of Cedar Junction to the medium security prison. I hadn’t seen that photo before, but Christ I looked ghoulish in it.

I took the paper to the cashier and bought it also. I tried to cover up the photo on the front page, but it didn’t much matter. I could tell from the cashier’s eyes that she had already recognized me. She didn’t say anything about it, though. According to a clock behind her it was already six-thirty. I left and made my way to one of the diners that was supposed to be open then.

When I got to the diner the door was still locked. The lights were on and inside I could see a deathly pale girl moving around listlessly as she pulled chairs off tables and prepared the place for opening. She must’ve known I was standing out there but didn’t once look my way. After five minutes of this I knocked on the door hoping she’d let me in so I could get out from the cold. She stared in my direction for a moment as if it pained her greatly to do so, her eyes boring through me instead of looking at me and, showing how much she was being put upon to make the gesture, indicated that it would be one more minute. It ended up being ten more before she unlocked the door. Up close she was younger than I first thought, probably no older than twenty. Her lipstick and mascara were the same black that her hair had been dyed, with the mascara applied thickly enough around her eyes to make a small lone ranger’s mask. I’d seen fishing tackle boxes with less hooks in them than what she had pierced through her face. Mumbling, she thanked me for my patience, her voice flat, barely hiding its sarcasm.

It was clear from the way she looked at me that she had no idea who I was, which I was grateful for. It was too early in the morning to see any more fear and revulsion in a stranger’s face. Just being seen as an anonymous old man was a relief. I followed her into the diner and she mumbled for me to take whichever table I wanted, and I took one far enough from the front window so that anyone walking by and looking in wouldn’t be able to recognize me.

When she returned with a menu, I waved it off. I’d had enough time standing outside to have already memorized the one that had been posted by the front window, and I ordered black coffee, poached eggs, corned beef hash and pancakes; a breakfast I’d been dreaming about for years while in prison. Before she could move away from me I also asked for a yellow pages directory. Her eyes dulled to show how much of a burden this was, but when she came back with the coffee she also brought the phone book. Whenever she and the short-order cook weren’t looking I discreetly ripped pages out of the phone book that I needed. I would’ve asked her for a piece of paper and pen instead, but I didn’t want her feeling any more put upon.

When the food was brought over I started salivating at the sight and smell of it. It was just greasy-spoon stuff, but at that moment I don’t think anything ever tasted better to me. I started shoveling the food in without even realizing it. Then I caught her smirking at me. Embarrassed, I turned away from her while I wiped some egg yolk off my chin, then forced myself to slow down and eat more leisurely. It wasn’t easy. You get conditioned after so many years in prison to wolf your food down. When I was done I almost ordered another breakfast. Instead though, I sat and read the newspaper, asking for refills on my coffee whenever I could get the waitress over. By this time a few more people had wandered into the diner. I had my back to them, I don’t think any of them recognized me. At least I couldn’t feel any of them staring at me.

The third time I tried getting a refill the waitress told me I was only entitled to two with a cup of coffee. From the way her lips had curled into a tiny smirk I knew that wasn’t a rule of the diner, just something she was making up for me. I told her I’d order another cup then, and a piece of apple pie along with it.

“We don’t have pie this early.”

“Then a doughnut. Jelly-filled.”

There was still no recognition on her part, she just wanted me to leave the table. The place was mostly empty, but the way she was keeping at arm’s length and had wrinkled her nose, it was probably because of the way I smelled, which surprised me. Not because I didn’t smell, but that she could pick up my body odor over the dense musk perfume she had doused herself with.

She looked like she wanted to tell me they didn’t have any doughnuts either, but she didn’t. Instead she left and came back ten minutes later with the doughnut and a fresh cup of coffee. This time I stretched things out further. By eight o’clock the diner had gotten crowded. A couple of blue-collar types stood nearby glowering at me as they waited for me to vacate my table, but they were wasting their efforts. I was just finishing up my first refill on the new cup and waiting for the waitress so I could get my second. I didn’t leave the diner until after nine o’clock. I wanted to make sure the stores I needed to go to would be open before I left.

After I stepped outside I pulled from my pocket all of the pages from the phone book that I had crammed in there, then squinted at them until I could make out the addresses I needed. I was going to need a phone, at least for a little while, and I walked three blocks to a shop where for sixty bucks I bought a disposable cell phone with more calling minutes than I was going to need. The salesman tried selling me other services, like texting and music downloads, and I listened patiently until he gave up and finally accepted that he wasn’t going to get any more money out of me. I was impressed with his initiative, though. You’d have thought with the way I smelled he’d be anxious to just close the deal on the phone purchase and herd me out of the store.

Once I was outside again, I found a quiet spot and played around with the phone until I figured out how to use it, then I took out those phone book pages again and called a mattress store. I negotiated the cheapest price I could and arranged to have the bed delivered by six, telling the salesman I’d pay cash instead of using a credit card. When he asked for a name, I made one up, and when he asked for my address I froze for a few moments before I was able to find the form I’d brought with me that had it on it. I guess the salesman must’ve taken it as a senior moment.

With the bed ordered and the little money I had dwindling fast, I next walked to a hardware store where I bought what I needed to clean my apartment, then I lugged the stuff back to the apartment building. I was out of breath by the time I got back and rested for a while before getting to work. It took several hours before I was done. I don’t think it was possible to get the apartment really clean, but at least I knocked a good deal of the grime off of it. I went out again after that and bought several bath towels, soap, shampoo, and other personal hygiene items. When I returned to the apartment, I stripped and took a shower. The water never got hotter than lukewarm, but I stood under the shower head for a good hour trying to scrub those fourteen years of prison off of me.

After leaving the shower I brushed my teeth hard enough with a new toothbrush that my gums were bleeding up a small river in no time. I’d gotten used to shaving in prison without looking at myself, and I did it once more as I tried hard not to catch even a glimpse of myself in the mirror. When I was done with that I poured on some cheap cologne hoping it would hide the stench that had gotten embedded in my clothing. Then I got dressed and headed out.

It was a little before three o’clock. There wasn’t much foot traffic, but there were plenty of cars once I got back on to Moody Street. I tried not to look, I tried to keep my focus straight ahead, but I could sense the occasional car slowing down to get a better look at me. I could feel the driver’s eyes on me. It didn’t happen often, maybe with four cars, but it was enough to get my heart pounding. I veered off Moody Street first chance I had and walked side streets as much as I could. I had to stop a couple of times to ask directions. In one of the stores the guy behind the cash register recognized me right off and after giving me a slow look up and down told me to go fuck myself. The other people I asked never bothered to get a good enough look at me to recognize me. The first three of them ignored me, the fourth gave me directions, talking loudly as if I were hard of hearing. I don’t know why she thought that, but I didn’t bother correcting her.

My first stop was at a bedding store where I bought sheets, a pillow and a blanket. After that I went to a thrift store where I was able to buy some used clothing very cheaply that fit better than what I had on. Three pairs of pants, same number of shirts, and a heavy wool sweater. The stuff smelled of mothballs, but that was an improvement on how my other clothes were smelling. I also bought a portable radio, a Red Sox cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. I put on the cap and pulled it down low, then the sunglasses, figuring that it might help disguise me. The way the lady working the cash register chatted with me it must’ve at least worked with her.

I was too loaded up with packages to drag the stuff back to my apartment, and I asked the woman if she could call me a taxi. She was more than happy to, and as I stood waiting for it she kept chatting away. I didn’t pay attention to what she was saying. I wasn’t used to that much talking. It was probably the most anyone had talked to me since prison, and maybe well before that. Anyway, all she accomplished was making my headache worse.

When the cab mercifully arrived, the driver sat where he was while I made two trips to carry out my packages. He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment when I gave him my address. He wasn’t going to make much money on this, and from the looks of me – especially given that he was picking me up at a thrift shop – he knew he wasn’t going to get much of a tip. After a few minutes I noticed him studying me in the rear-view mirror.

“You’re him,” he said.

I didn’t bother answering. I just looked out the window and tried to pretend he wasn’t talking to me.

“You’re him,” he repeated, unperturbed by my ignoring him. “You’re the one in the papers.”

I felt my ears reddening. “So what,” I found myself muttering.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

I faced forward and found myself staring hard at the back of his head. “So what,” I said again, louder this time.

“So maybe you can give me your autograph?”

The reddening in my ears had spread to my cheeks. At least it felt that way from the hotness. “Why the fuck would you want that?” I half-heard myself asking him.

He shrugged. “It might be worth money someday. I’ll tell you what, you give me your autograph and the fare will be on me.”

I didn’t say another word to him. When he pulled up to my building the meter read three dollars and forty cents and I counted out exact change and pushed it through the slot in the Plexiglas separating us. His thick eyelids lowered in response. He watched me pull my packages out of the cab, waiting until I had them all out and was loaded up before calling out to me, telling me how he hoped they would catch up with me and in the end I’d get mine. Maybe the “they” he was referring to were Lombard’s organization, maybe it was the families of my victims. I wasn’t sure which it was, but in either case, I couldn’t much argue with him, and didn’t bother turning around.

It was five o’clock by the time I was back in my apartment. While I waited for the bed to be delivered I took inventory of the money I had left. Putting aside the hundred fifty dollars that the bed was going to cost me, I had eight hundred and forty-two dollars, and I still had more things I needed to buy. Still, even after that I should be left with five hundred, which would be enough to let me live somewhat decently for a month, and then I’d be on Theo’s budget. I thought briefly about trying my luck at the track, see if I could boost what I had, but realized the futility of that. In my old days I made money that way, but it was because I was connected and the tips I was given were usually good. Anyway, a month would probably be enough time for me.