Killer

Chapter 17
1979

Vincent DiGrassi opens an eye as I approach him. He’s lying propped up on his bed. Both his eyes are now open. As yellowish and bloody as they are, there’s still an alertness to them. He knows full well why I’m there. I pull a chair up next to him and sit so I’m resting the forty-five and its attached silencer on my thigh. What used to be such a robust bull of a man is now only skin and bones. He’s probably dropped eighty pounds in the past year.

“Sal send you?” he asks, his voice not much more than a croak.

“Yeah.”

He digests that, puckers up his mouth, and says in an aggrieved tone, “So you’re dealing with Sal directly now.”

“Yeah, ever since it’s been clear how sick you are.”

The little that’s left of his face folds into an ugly frown. At first I think he’s going to start bawling, but he turns his eyes towards me and stares with utter fury.

“This is bullshit,” he insists.

I shrug. What is there for me to say?

“I’m not talking to no cops. There’s no reason for Sal wanting this.”

I scratch behind an ear, smile at him sadly. “What if you end up hopped up on drugs? Who knows what you say then.

Vincent, you know this has to be done.”

“You little punk, you calling me Vincent now? What the fuck happened to Mr DiGrassi?”

I don’t say anything. His color’s not much better than gray now. He looks away, the fury fades from his eyes leaving them glassy.

“You can tell Sal I’m not going to any hospital,” he says. “I plan on dying in my own bed.”

My smile grows more genuine thinking how right he is. I realize this and force a somber look. “Your wife or kids might think differently. Mr Lombard can’t take the chance. You have to know that.”

“Don’t you fucking patronize me,” he spits out. Then, showing his self pity, he adds, “Fuck you. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes slide sideways to look at me. “That business last year with that skirt you were supposed to hit. The one you claimed was tipped off and made a run for it.”

He was referring to Joey Lando’s inside person. The one I let get away. “Yeah, what about it?” I say.

“Sal and some of his boys thought it sounded funny. They thought maybe you’d gone soft and couldn’t hit a skirt. I went out on a limb for you and convinced them you were on the level. I hadn’t done that you’d be buried in a landfill now.”

He’s staring hard at me, trying to read inside me. He sees what he’s looking for and turns away. “What the fuck do you know,” he mutters. “They were right.”

His thick lips curl to show the contempt he feels for me.

“She was just a kid,” I explain. “It wouldn’t have been right.”

“Who the fuck are you to make that decision? A bank guard died in those robberies your rat punk buddy did and she was as responsible as the other two of them.”

He realizes then the irony in chastising me for being sentimental and not killing one of my targets while at the same time trying to talk me into doing the same now. I can see the confusion clouding up his eyes.

“You don’t have to use the forty-five,” he says after a while. “You can use the pillow instead. That way Angie and my kids can have an open casket.”

He’s bracing himself waiting. I don’t move. There’s been something I’ve been wanting to ask him for a long time.

“That hit I did right before my wedding. Who the fuck was that guy?”

His eyes come alive once he remembers the hit. He starts laughing. It’s a weak, broken-down type laugh, and before too long he starts choking on it, then breaks into a coughing fit. After he settles down, he nods and tells me, “You.”

I’m confused. I ask him what he means.

“The guy you hit was the same as you. Another hit man for Sal.”

“Why’d I hit him?”

DiGrassi makes a face showing his disgust. “’Cause he got soft. Claimed one of his targets skipped town to parts unknown without him tipping the target off. Sal didn’t believe him. Neither did I. So are you going to use the fucking pillow or what?”

I shake my head, push the barrel of the forty-five against his right temple. He’s too weak to put up any fight.

“I’m sorry, Mr DiGrassi,” I say. “But I have to do it the way Mr Lombard told me to do it.”

“Motherfucker,” he starts, “you owe me at least a call to Sal to ask him-”

Before DiGrassi can finish the sentence I pull the trigger and send a good chunk of his brain splattering against the wall. Then I shove the barrel into his dead mouth and shoot off three more rounds. Sal wants his boys to think DiGrassi was a rat. That’s the reason for the violent death. It’s easier to explain the hit of a loyal friend that way. Who knows, maybe we get lucky and the cops think that a rival did the job.

I use the sheet to wipe the blood off the gun. I give DiGrassi’s lifeless body one last look before leaving. He should’ve been grateful to me for taking him out of his misery the way I did instead of all his bitching and moaning, but I don’t want to let a last few minutes color my memory of him. Jenny’s pregnant with our third kid. She’s convinced it’s going to be a boy. I play around with the thought of Vincent March for a name, but decide against it.

DiGrassi’s wife and kids are out of the house, which makes things easier for me. With the house empty, I think about taking a shower to clean the smell of death off me, but I decide that can wait until I go to the YMCA. Besides, they have a steam room there. I let myself out the back door, same way I came in.