The Wrong Man

10

Lorenzo Fowler was a married man, so when he visited Sasha, he had to go to her place. It was more accurately described as his place, as he bought the condo and paid the utilities and assessment. It was one of the ritzier places on the blossoming near-west side of the city. Sasha could have had her pick of spots, but she fancied herself an artist and liked the feel of this part of the city.

Fowler parked his car down the street, got out, and pulled up his coat collar. It was dark and cold, and before he trudged forward, he took only a quick look about him for immediate threats.

He didn’t see any.

He didn’t see Peter Ramini, sitting in a different car down the street, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets.

It was nine-forty when he arrived at Sasha’s condo. Anyone trying to predict Lorenzo’s movements would estimate that he would spend about four hours at her place before returning home. He always returned home. He never spent the night at Sasha’s.

Just over four hours later, Lorenzo emerged from the elevator in the building’s lobby. He nodded to the man at the front desk with no trace of embarrassment or guilt. He always felt better after an evening with Sasha. For a Ukrainian gal, she could make a plate of sausage and peppers. And in the bedroom, she performed feats of gymnastic agility that could earn her a gold medal in the Olympics. He was a bit lightheaded after a half-bottle of wine and the food and the sex. It was a welcome break.

The early-morning air was a harsh return to reality. Things had been tough for Lorenzo of late. That strip club owner Lorenzo had disciplined with an aluminum baseball bat had died two days ago. The police had come looking for Lorenzo today at the lumberyard. They’d be back again tomorrow. Paulie would be nervous.

Paulie was always nervous these days. It wasn’t like how it used to be. The feds had always been around, but the surveillance was so good these days that it was impossible to know where you were safe. Nowadays, Paulie wouldn’t communicate with anybody other than a whisper directly into his ear.

So what would Paulie think of the cops wanting to talk to Lorenzo about a dead strip club owner?

Lorenzo shuddered. He thought about his conversation the other day with that lawyer, Kolarich. He seemed like the sort that wouldn’t shy away from helping him. Some lawyers, they heard the Mob was involved, they’d back off. Kolarich seemed like the kind of guy who would get off on it. And the kid had brass; Lorenzo hadn’t met that many people who, knowing that Lorenzo worked for the Capparellis, told him to fuck off. Despite what he’d said, Kolarich would be there for him, he figured, if he needed him.

Trading the identity of Gin Rummy could do it, he felt certain. The feds would jump in and walk him on the strip club owner’s death and probably anything else for which they charged Lorenzo. You take away Gin Rummy, you take away Paulie’s best muscle. You take away one of the few people Paulie still trusted. It was valuable information. Lorenzo would be able to write his own ticket. Someplace warm, that much was for sure. An apartment for Sasha, too, if she’d come. Would she?

And then something felt wrong, and all at once Lorenzo felt exposed. Nothing he could put his finger on, but it wasn’t an accident he’d managed to stay alive for fifty-two years, thirty-four of them with the Capparellis.

He slowed his pace and removed his Beretta from the back of his pants so that he was holding it at his side. The streets were empty. The nearest bars were two blocks away. Other than a couple on the corner who appeared to be engrossed in each other, Lorenzo felt reasonably sure he was alone.

Still, he widened his approach to his parked car, so that he could see into the backseat before he got too close. Okay, the backseat was empty, good enough. As he kept walking around his car, he saw something on the ground, a single flower and a note. It stopped his movement for just a moment, while he focused on the ground behind his automobile.

In that brief window of time, a bullet threaded his windpipe and sent him staggering backward against the chained-up door of a used bookstore. He tried to hold himself up, tried to raise his gun, but the signals weren’t reaching their intended targets.

A second bullet shattered Lorenzo’s left kneecap. A third did the same to his right.

Lorenzo crumpled into a heap at the door of the used bookstore.

He tried to scream, but no sound came except something warm and sticky through the hole in his throat.

You had your chance, he told himself, as the lights went out.