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 apartmen
t 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.
While I waited I took out my cell phone and tried to work up the courage to call Michael and Allison. It had been over two years since the last time I tried, and maybe they’d had a change of heart. In the end I couldn’t do it. I had Michael’s number keyed in on the phone, but all I could do was stare at it until a hard knocking on the door brought me out of my trance. I flipped the phone off and opened the door enough to see that the delivery men were there with my bed.
They set the new bed up quickly. The lead delivery man presented me with a bill, and while I counted out the cash he looked at me with a puzzled expression and then at his work order form which had the name I’d made up earlier.
“I could swear I know you,” he said.
“Just one of those faces,” I said.
His forehead wrinkled as he tried to dredge out where he knew me from. As he and his partner turned to leave, I reminded them about how they were supposed to remove the old bed. I couldn’t blame them for the lack of enthusiasm they showed at the prospect of that – I wouldn’t want to have to pick up and carry that damn mattress out either, at least not without several layers of protective clothing on. As they removed the mattress, the lead guy called out to me to let me know that he was sure he’d seen me before and he’d remember later. I closed the door on him without saying a word, deciding that I didn’t want to ruin his surprise.
It was six o’clock. I felt bone-tired again, just like I had the other day. I wasn’t used to this type of activity and schedule yet, but maybe more than that, it wore me down worrying about people recognizing me and waiting for that look they’d give me afterwards once they did. It was harder than I thought it would be. All those years that I worked for Lombard as a hit man I operated in the shadows. As far as my wife and kids were concerned, I worked in a liquor store. As far as my neighbors went, I was just someone who blended into the background.
I almost lay down on the new bed. I wanted to badly, but I knew if I did I’d tumble into a deep sleep and miss work. It didn’t make sense for me to care that much about it since my expenses were basically covered for the next month, which was about as far ahead as I needed to worry about, but for some reason the job did seem to matter. Maybe it was the structure of it; giving me someplace to be, and in some small way allowing me to contribute to society. Or maybe it was simply finally doing something that my pop would be proud of. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to lose it.
I loaded batteries into the portable radio I’d bought earlier, and brought it with me as I left the apartment. Once outside, I navigated again to Moody Street and found a cheap restaurant where I could get something to eat and drink enough coffee to keep me awake.
chapter 9
1973
A week before I’m supposed to be marrying Jenny, Vincent DiGrassi meets me about a contract he needs taken care of. He knows I’m getting married, and I ask him how urgent this is.
“Very,” he tells me.
Oh, Christ. This is just what the fuck I need. With Jenny going nuts over all the wedding details, all the last-minute changes, her family coming in for the wedding, and all the other bullshit in my life right then.
“I am getting married…” I start to tell him.
“Maybe,” he says, interrupting me, his eyes little more than what you’d see in a dead fish, his lips wire-tight. “In a week you could be going to a wedding, could be a funeral, all depends on you doing a clean, quick job on this one, or maybe instead you being stupid and thinking you can give me some grief.”
He tries staring me down, but I can see the worry in his face no matter how hard he’s trying to hide it. I don’t know who this guy is that DiGrassi wants me to take out, but whoever he is he has DiGrassi worried.
We continue our staring contest for another ten or so seconds. DiGrassi blinks first. His rock-hard expression melting a bit, he tells me, “Lenny, if you have to postpone your wedding, you gotta do it. This has to take priority, and that comes straight from the top. But there’ll be a bonus in this for you, more than enough to make up for any inconvenience.”
I look again at the name DiGrassi gave me. I don’t know the guy. If he’s in the game, I’m clueless how.
“Who is this guy?” I ask.
DiGrassi regains his ice-cold demeanor. “Why the fuck does that matter to you?”
I shrug, tell him it doesn’t.
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