Killer

chapter 10

present

When I showed up at work, the same kid from the night before was at the front security desk. He handed me the office keys and tried hard to look through me, acting as if I weren’t there. He might’ve been able to pull off this air of contempt but a tightness around his mouth betrayed him, showing how uneasy he was. I tried to think of something to say to put him at ease, but couldn’t come up with anything. What was I going to tell him? That I was over sixty now, a changed man, and too conflicted over what I’d done in the past to even consider any more violence in my life? Fuck it, it would’ve been a waste of breath. In the end, neither of us said a word to the other.

Like the other day, I started on the bathrooms first. I had my portable radio set up on the cleaning cart and tried listening to music, but I found my mind kept drifting. It didn’t help that my dinner had left me sluggish. I’d had my first cheeseburger and fries since being arrested, and while I’d poured a pot of black coffee down my throat, I’d also had my first beers in fourteen years and I was feeling the effects of them. To keep my mind focused and off the thoughts that kept trying to sneak in, I tuned in to a talk show.

For the first hour they had an author on talking about his latest book. The guy had a thick Irish brogue and it was interesting enough to keep me distracted. I still felt myself moving sluggishly, but at least I was distracted. After the segment with the author finished, I sobered up instantly from the effects of my greasy dinner and two beers when in the next segment they started discussing my release from prison. At first it was tough listening to what they were saying, but after a while I hardened to it. The comments from the people calling in were what you’d expect; what a travesty it was that the state would make any deal that allowed me to walk out of prison. One caller had to point out my ethnicity, claiming that I wasn’t a full-blooded Italian, that my mother had been Jewish, as if that had anything to do with it. Another talked about my pop, how he knew him years ago, and how he was a good man who must be rolling around in his grave now over what I’d done.

The show attracted a few callers who tried to sound like tough guys. These wannabes speculated about how I must have a death wish staying in the area, hinting that there were enough people with grudges against me that I’d be turned into a grease spot soon enough. They tried to sound as if they were in the game, but they weren’t. No one from Lombard’s organization would’ve called that show.

About forty minutes into it, a woman’s voice stopped me cold. She was talking about how much pain and suffering I had caused, her voice soft and halting as if she were on the verge of breaking down. I was pretty sure it was my daughter, Allison. I hadn’t heard her voice since she was eighteen, and she’d be thirty-two now, but I was pretty sure it was her. I stood frozen for a minute listening to her, then realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time. I moved quickly to the cleaning cart and turned off the radio. My heart was pounding a mile a minute.

For a long time I couldn’t move. I just kept playing her voice back in my head, replaying everything she had said as I tried to figure out if that caller had been my daughter. In the end I just wasn’t sure. I almost took out my cell phone with the thought of calling Allison, but I couldn’t do it.

That night I finished up a few minutes before two. Again, no words were spoken between me and the security guard when I checked in the keys. I wasn’t so much tired when I walked back to my apartment – it was more like listlessness. It was desolate at that hour. No traffic sounds, no sight of anyone else. I couldn’t shake this uneasiness in my gut, like I was walking through a graveyard. And I just couldn’t get that woman’s voice out of my head. The one who might’ve been Allison.

Later when I dropped on to my bed, I don’t know if I fell asleep or drifted into some sort of unconsciousness, but whichever it was, I was grateful for the reprieve it gave me from all the thoughts buzzing through my head.

It was two days later that I caught the mouse that had been running around my apartment. I had left a mostly empty peanut butter jar on its side, and when I heard something clattering around inside it, I flipped the jar over. My original plan was to drown the damn thing in the toilet, but when I saw it on its hind legs with its front paws frantically scratching at the inside of the jar, I had a change of heart. Instead I got dressed, put my sweater and jacket on, and carried the jar to a small park four blocks away where I let it down on the grass. After the mouse scurried away from me, I tossed the jar into a trash can and headed back to my apartment. I had just gotten on to Moody Street when my cell phone rang.

No one should’ve had my number. I took the phone out of my pocket and stared at it before flipping it open. I didn’t say anything, I just stood quietly and listened to what sounded like static on the other end. Then a man’s voice came over the phone and told me I was a dead man. He called me by name so there was no mistaking that it could’ve been a wrong number. I didn’t say anything in response. There was another half a minute of static before a click sounded to show that he had hung up.

I’d been so absorbed by the call that I’d stopped paying attention to my surroundings. Usually I was more careful about letting my guard down like that, and I looked around quickly, noticing the cars driving past me and the other pedestrians walking about. A man in his forties seemed to notice me looking at him and stared back. I don’t think he had noticed me before that, and I looked away from him. If anyone had been watching me out there, I couldn’t spot them. After giving it some thought, I headed back to the store where I’d bought the cell phone.

The salesman who had sold me the phone wasn’t there. I tried describing him to the salesgirl on duty. She was in her twenties, very thin, not very attractive. While I explained how I wanted to talk again to this salesman, she stared at me with a humoring expression.

“Sir, what seems to be the problem?” she said instead of answering my question, a plastic smile stuck on her face.

“Someone called me on my cell phone,” I said. “I want to talk to the salesman who sold me this. I think he must’ve given my number out.”

“I’m sure he didn’t do that,” she said.

“He had to’ve,” I said. “I didn’t give my number to anyone, and I was told my number wouldn’t be published anywhere.”

“Are you sure you didn’t give someone your number and forget about it?” she asked, her smile and tone turning even more patronizing.

“That’s not what happened.”

She shrugged, her eyes glazing enough to show that she didn’t believe me. “Maybe you called someone first and they got your number from caller ID?” she offered.

“The person knew my name,” I said. “Nobody I called on this phone knows my name.”

She held her hand out for my cell phone. I gave it to her and she checked the call log, frowning at what she saw. “Is this the call?” she asked. “Today at nine-twenty?”

“Yeah.”

“The call shows up in the log as unavailable. There’s no phone number attached.” She handed me back my phone. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do to help you with this.”

“Of course there is. You can give me the name of the salesman who sold me this phone like I’ve been asking.”

“I can’t do that,” she said, her tone losing some of its patience.

“The phone call I received was threatening,” I said. “The person calling me threatened my life.”

She blinked several times as she looked at me, at first not believing what I told her. Then it dawned on her who I was. Her plastic smile faded fast from her face, leaving fear floating in her now liquid eyes. Watching the transformation that came over her made me just want to get the hell out of there.

“I don’t know who sold you the phone,” she said, lying to me, her voice weak, shaky. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. Like she wanted nothing more than to bolt from the store. “If you’d like I could exchange your phone so you would have a new number.”

I thought about it, but decided I’d rather keep the phone. If someone wanted to call me badly enough, let them. “That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ll keep this one.” I started towards the door. I wanted to get out of there before she passed out on me, which she looked like she was about to do. I could spend some mornings watching the store for when my salesman returned back to work, but it would probably be as big a waste of time as this was. I doubted whether he would’ve gotten a name for whoever it was he gave my number to. Even if he was able to describe the person to me, what good would it do? After fourteen years out of the game, odds were I wouldn’t know him, and even if it was someone from the old days, so what?

I did get one useful piece of information out of this. Someone must’ve followed me to the store when I first bought the phone, which meant someone was keeping track of me. At least on that day they were.

On my way back to my apartment I stopped off at the diner I’d had breakfast at my first morning out of prison and every day since. The same waitress from before was working – the one with the thick black mascara painted on to match her dye-job and lipstick. She’d been on the job every morning I’d been there. She still didn’t know who I was, but the last couple of days she had warmed up to me – at least enough where she had dropped the gag about only allowing me two refills with a cup of coffee. When she saw me walk in and take a table, her eyes sparkled like black polished glass and a thin smile twisted her lips.

She walked over to my table, leaned in close, and said softly enough so that only I could hear, “The old coot’s back again.”

“I’ve been called worse,” I said.

“I’m sure you have,” she said, her smile turning more playful. “I’d ask if you’d like your usual, but with senility and all, I doubt you’d remember what your usual was.”

I sat back in my seat and arched an eyebrow at her. “Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you so sure I’m senile?”

She looked around quickly to make sure no one could hear her. “This is your fourth straight day coming here. You obviously can’t remember what the food tastes like.”

I laughed at that, and the sound of it startled me. It was the first time I had laughed out loud in years. In my mind I’d imagined my laugh sounding completely different, not like the wheezing, crackling noise that ended up oozing out of me. I cut it off quickly.

“I’ve been eating a lot worse,” I said. “And yeah, I’ll have the usual.”

She gave me a funny look, but nodded. “Corned beef hash, poached eggs and pancakes it is. If you’re going to be coming here all the time, we might as well know each other’s names so that I can quit calling you the old coot, not that it’s not fitting. My name’s Lucinda.”

She offered me a small hand, her fingernails painted the same black as her lips, hair and eyes. I took it, felt the warmth of her skin. I almost gave her my real name, but I ended up telling her I was Larry.

“Larry, huh?” she said. “I guess we’re both a couple of Ls. Seems so fitting. I’ll get your breakfast order in.” She started to walk away but stopped to look over her shoulder at me. “You should laugh more,” she told me. “It sounds like you’re badly out of practice.”

I watched as she walked away, and fought against the impure thoughts I was having about a girl younger than my own daughter. Once I remembered how I now looked and how old I was, those thoughts went away as fast as if a switch had been thrown. As if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on my head.

Like every other time I’d been there I was sitting with my back to the window so that passersby wouldn’t be able to recognize me. I didn’t hear him walk into the diner, and it caught me by surprise when he sat across from me. He was the same man I’d seen earlier after I’d gotten that phone call: the one who caught me looking in his direction and ended up staring back at me in response.

“Leonard March?” he said.

I didn’t say anything. Instinctively I reached for the knife laid out in front of me. He noticed this movement, and I caught myself and pulled my hand back. We both sat staring at each other. He was balding, a thick build, and sloppily dressed with his jacket collar partially up and a polo shirt hanging loosely out of his pants. I knew he wasn’t part of Lombard’s organization – he was too soft-looking for it to be that. Almost as if a deck of cards were flipping through my mind, I tried to picture the faces of the men I had killed. Some of them were nothing more than a blur, most, though, I could see clearly. If this man was related to any of them, I couldn’t figure it out.

“You have to be Leonard March,” he said, nodding, satisfied. His tongue was thick and looked almost purple as it pushed out of his mouth and wetted his lips. He leaned forward so that his arms rested on the table. They were thick, heavy arms, but more fat than muscle.

“My name’s Andy Baker,” he said, an eagerness shining in his eyes. “I have a proposition for you.”

He waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, he appeared stuck for a few seconds as if things weren’t going according to a carefully devised script. He wet his lips again, said, “I’m a writer. I want to write a book with you.”

That wasn’t what I was expecting. I gave him a hard look, trying to figure out if this was some line or if he was serious.

“How long have you been following me?” I asked.

“What? No, I haven’t been following you. When I heard on the news about you living in Waltham, I drove down here this morning hoping to spot you, but no, I haven’t been following you. Just serendipity, that’s all.”

“You didn’t call me on my cell phone this morning?”

He looked confused. “Call you on your cell phone? What are you talking about? How would I’ve gotten your number?” He edged closer, said, “But I do want to write a book with you. The two of us can make a lot of money doing this, Mr March. Maybe a hundred grand each for the advance, a lot more if the book does well.”

I sat quietly appraising him. He was serious, but he was also talking out of his ass. He didn’t have a book deal. Even if he did, though, I wouldn’t have had any interest. Even if I could’ve kept the money instead of paying it all out after the wrongful death suits went to court, I wouldn’t have had any interest.

“I have some advice for you,” I said.

“What?”

“Next time you want to talk business with someone, ask if you can sit at their table. Don’t just force your way in like an asshole.”

At first his expression was blank. Once he comprehended what I said, hurt showed on his mouth. He pushed himself a few inches from the table.

“I’m sorry if I was rude, but I’ve been talking to publishers, and the money I’m telling you about is real.”

“All I want is for you to get up from my table and walk away.”

It was like all the air had been let out of a tire the way he seemed to deflate right in front of me. He stood up, took a couple of aimless steps away from me, then fished a business card out of his pocket and spun on his heels like a drunk man so he could drop the card on the table in front of me.

“When you change your mind, call me,” he said. “There’s too much money in this for you not to change your mind.”

He stood silently staring at me, a shrewdness slowly taking over his expression. “I’ve read enough about you to know what your financial situation is,” he continued. “And besides, this would give you a chance to get your story out in your own words instead of how the media is portraying you.”

I pocketed his card for no other reason than to get him to leave. He was wrong. As far as the media went, I’d been getting off easy. The last thing I wanted was for people to be able to read what really happened. The bare sketches that the newspapers provided were bad enough, but not nearly as ugly as what the real truth was. I had no excuses and no reasonable explanations for the things I did.

He smiled when he saw me put his card away. He took several steps away before turning back to face me again, this time warning me not to try to cut him out. “Everyone thinks they can write a book these days,” he told me, accusingly. “It’s bullshit, which is why the market is flooded with so much crap.”

With that he finally left. I twisted my body around enough so I could watch him walk out the door. When I turned back around, I noticed Lucinda standing a few tables away holding a coffee pot, her eyes fixed on me.

“What was that all about?” she asked me.

Her complexion before had been on the pale side, now it looked almost bone-white in contrast to all of her goth shading. I wondered briefly how much of the conversation she had heard. All I knew was that she had heard enough to freak her out a bit.

“The guy’s a nut,” I said. “I never saw him before. He just came in and sat at my table, then started rambling on about some nonsense.”

She walked over and poured me a cup of coffee, her mouth compressed tightly. It wasn’t until she moved away that she asked me about the book the guy was talking about. “Why was that?” she asked, her eyes scrunching suspiciously. “Are you someone famous or something?”

I shook my head. “You got me right the first time. These days I’m not much more than an old coot. No one worth paying attention to.”

I saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes as she walked away. While I waited for my breakfast, I drank the black coffee Lucinda had poured me and chewed on a few aspirin. My headache had gotten worse the last few minutes.

When Lucinda brought my food over she was closer to her usual acerbic self. Not a hundred percent, but closer. It didn’t help me any. I’d already lost my appetite.