It was hard thinking of her dying the way she did. I knew it had been a long, painful death for her. My mom had written me several letters letting me know what Jenny went through. Even through all of that, Jenny acted cheerfully the few times I was able to reach her by phone, trying to pretend there was nothing wrong with her.
When she finally succumbed I didn’t know about it until months afterwards. By this time my mom had already been dead for six months, and I had no contact with my kids. I guess the prison officials left responsibility for informing me about my wife to my kids, or maybe things just slipped through the cracks. Even at this late date I didn’t know where Jenny was buried, but I guess it didn’t much matter. It wasn’t her there, just some bones left from her. It wouldn’t make any difference if I visited the grave or not. Nothing could change that she was gone.
I tried hard to remember what my wife looked like, but I could only bring up a vague impression. It had been years since I’d been able to picture how Jenny looked. I had little to console myself over what happened with her other than I’d been able to tell her where my safety deposit boxes were without the federal or state officials ever having any idea about them. At least she had been able to live out her last few years in comfort before the cancer hit her, and my kids were able to go to college.
After a while I found that I had stopped thinking of Jenny, and instead my thoughts had moved on to my victims. It wasn’t so much that I was trying to make peace with what I had done as trying to understand how I could’ve done what I did. I tried to make some sense of the person I was now and who I used to be and the brutality back then that I was capable of. I thought about the biker in Lucinda’s diner whose wrist I almost broke, and wondered whether that meant anything, and decided it didn’t. But even with who I was back then, I never once laid a finger on my wife or kids. They never once looked at me with fear or dread. I tried to put that in perspective with what I used to see in my victim’s face before the last moment, but it exhausted me.
Eventually I gave up trying to make sense of it. Instead, I focused on just clearing my head and trying to think of nothing. More than anything I wanted to just lie back and enjoy the feel of the sun on my face. It didn’t work. Too many memories pushed their way through, and before too long I had to get up in my attempt to outrun them, or at least outwalk them.
I spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon walking along the Charles River trying to leave those memories far behind, one in particular which especially haunted me. It was four o’clock when I returned back to Moody Street. I ate an early dinner at a Korean barbecue place. The prices were cheap and the food tasted good, and for the most part I was too tired to pay attention to those old memories. After a couple of beers it wasn’t even an issue.
That night when I left work, I thought I again saw a black sedan following me. I had this impression that it had turned down a side street, but by the time I looked for it, it was gone, nothing but a mirage. I was bone-tired, especially after all the walking I’d done earlier, and decided my mind had to’ve been playing tricks on me – it wasn’t as if I could actually remember hearing anything, or for that matter, seeing anything once I rubbed the exhaustion out of my eyes, but still, it left me feeling unsettled.
Tuesday turned out to be uneventful. It was especially quiet that morning at the diner and Lucinda ended up sitting down at my table and reading me prose from a notebook that she kept. When she asked me what I thought, I could see the anxiousness in her eyes and tugging at her mouth. I told her the truth, that I thought it was good, and she made a few cracks, both self-deprecating and insulting, about the state of my mental faculties if I thought that crap was any good and how ridiculous it was for her to care anyway about what a senile old coot like me thought, but I could tell it was a relief to her that I liked it, and she seemed to move lighter on her feet afterwards.
Later, I tried the phone store again, and my salesman still wasn’t there. I spent the rest of the morning at the library searching through old newspapers. Eventually I found Jenny’s obituary. It talked about her being a loving mother and sister, but nothing about being a loving wife. I was left out of it. I wished my kids had included a picture of Jenny with the notice. The only small bit of consolation I pulled out of it was I now knew where Jenny was buried.
I thought about why my kids had left her picture out of the obituary, and decided they had done it intentionally thinking that someday I’d be out of prison and I’d be looking for it. The day I found out about Jenny dying, I left messages with both Michael and Allison, asking if they could send me a picture of their mother since the ones I had brought to prison years earlier had disappeared from my cell. If my kids heard my messages, they didn’t bother responding to them and I never received any pictures in the mail. To make matters even more pointless, the cemetery Jenny was buried in was in Revere and right in the middle of Lombard’s territory. I wouldn’t put it past them having someone watching Jenny’s gravesite. Maybe when I know my time has run out, I’ll make the trip. For now it wouldn’t be safe for me to go there, and I wasn’t about to commit suicide – at least not yet, and especially not by proxy.
That night I couldn’t help feeling a heaviness in my chest as I cleaned the office building. I tried listening to music, but my mind kept wandering too much, and I ended up tuning into a talk show. More scandals had broken since I’d been released from prison. The big one that they talked about that night was the recent shooting involving a ball player at a local club. The ball player, who was unhurt, had supposedly been the target for the shooting but a bystander was the one who took a bullet in the neck and was now in critical condition and on life support. The people calling into the talk show were speculating that the ball player had fired shots also, maybe even the one which wounded the bystander. I was quickly fading into yesterday’s news.
When I walked home later, I tried to stay alert. The streets were empty and I didn’t see any cars. No one was out there looking for me. I pretty much convinced myself that I must’ve been seeing things the other night.
It was twenty past two by the time I got back to my apartment. I almost called my son, Michael. I wanted to. I had the cell phone out and had keyed in his phone number, but in the end I flipped the phone shut. If I had made the call at that hour all I’d be doing would be giving him and his wife more ammunition to use against me. At least I had enough sense to realize that, and that was mostly why I didn’t make the call, but I guess it was also partly that I hadn’t worked up the nerve yet to do it.
chapter 13
1978
I’m stocking bottles of gin and vodka when a face from the past walks into the store. Joey Lando. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, not since that day when we worked Ernie Arlosi over for fourteen hundred bucks and Joey ended up ratting me out to DiGrassi. I almost don’t recognize him with how much fleshier he’s gotten and the thick white scar running from his eye to his chin. The scar makes his flesh look uneven, almost as if he’s wearing a piece of leather over part of his face. When he spots me a wide grin stretches his lips and there’s no mistaking him.
He eyes me up and down, smirking, then walks over. It’s a fluke that he catches me while I’m actually doing work. Every once in a while, I get restless and stock merchandise or handle the cash register or some other menial task. Mostly when I’m there I hang out in the backroom reading racing forms or magazines. It’s lucky Joey walks in when he does; it helps convince him I’m just a blue-collar working stiff.
“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes,” he says, still grinning his half-smirk. “Fuck, I thought they were just bullshit rumors. Lenny March working an honest job. Don’t tell me it’s true about you having a wife and kids also?”
“Yeah, it’s true.” I look past him to make sure no one’s standing nearby. “I never thought I’d see your face again. Not after you ratting me out to Vincent DiGrassi.”
“His boys give you a good beating, h
uh?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
Joey points to the small circle of red puckered skin on my cheek. “You get that from him?”
I nod. “It was part of a test to see if I was a rat. I passed, I guess you and Steve didn’t.”
Joey’s eyes dull a bit. He’s still grinning but it’s forced now. “I always regretted that,” he says. “But you don’t know what they were doing to us to make us talk.” He runs a thumb over the full length of his scar. “And besides, you got off easy compared to Steve and me.”
I soften as I look at him and remember the old days when we ran together. It’s a shame that he and Steve fell apart the way they did when DiGrassi put them to the test, but I guess they just didn’t have what it took.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“How about buying you a beer or two.”
“No problem. The cooler’s back against the wall. These days I’m drinking Michelob. You want to break up a six-pack, go for it.”
He laughs. “Not here, Lenny. Someplace quiet where we can sit down and talk. How about it?”
“Where do you have in mind?”
“Connolly’s Pub. One block down. What do you say?”
For years I had thought about looking him and Steve up and kicking the shit out of them. Those feelings have passed. Now I’m curious what he wants to talk about. Of course, I could leave with him now – no one here has me on a clock, but I want to keep up the pretense of working a real job. I tell him I get off at six and I’ll meet him then. He tells me he’ll be there. After he leaves, I go back to stacking bottles. When I’m done, I head to the backroom and pick up the day’s racing form. I was given a “can’t miss” tip for later that night at Suffolk Downs, and figure I might as well play the rest of the ponies while I’m there.
I walk into Connolly’s Pub at quarter past six and Joey’s waiting at the bar, trying to look casual about it. He orders a couple of beers and we take them to a table in back.
“I still can’t believe you’re working a nine-to-five job,” he says, shaking his head.
“Eight to six,” I say, correcting him.
He takes a long pull on his Bud, wipes a hand across his mouth. “We ran together long enough back in the day. I know you, Lenny, I know what you’re made of, and I don’t buy that you can be happy living this bullshit life.”
“People change.”
“Not you.” He’s shaking his head angrily, takes another long pull at his Bud, emptying it. “Fuck, I saw first hand the things you used to do, and the look in your eyes when you did them. No one was a badder muthafucka in the day. And the guy I’m looking at now is the same fucking person. So don’t feed me any bullshit about people changing.”
He brings the Bud to his lips, realizes the bottle’s empty and leaves the table. When he returns he has a couple of fresh beers; the Michelob he hands to me. His demeanor is calmer, more relaxed. He leans forward and asks me if I want to hear what he has to say. I nod. He edges even closer, his eyelids drop a quarter of an inch. He’s got his back to the room while I’m facing it, but he knows I’ll warn him if anyone comes nearby.
“The two of us, we can each make thirty grand next week,” he says, his voice low enough that I have to strain to hear him.
“I told you before I’m out of the game.”
“Sure you are.” A thin smile creeps over his lips. He edges even closer so he’s leaning halfway across the table. “You know those bank machines popping up all over the place? I’ve got someone on the inside giving me a schedule of when a certain bank refills theirs. When it’s done, it’s with twenties, about ten grand worth. Next week I’m going to hit ten banks, all within a three-hour span. By the time the bank realizes what’s going on it will be too late for them to do anything about adding security.”
“Why do you need me?”
“It’s a two-man job.” Joey’s lids drop even further, the little I can see of his eyes is hard stone as they stare at me. “You got one guard in the armored truck, another reloading the machine. It’s mostly a smash and grab, but you need someone keeping the guard in the truck occupied.”
“What about your inside man?”
Joey makes a face. “It’s a she, and no, she’s not the one to do this with me.”
“Problem is, neither am I. I’ve got a wife, kids, and a steady job. Sorry, Joey.”
He smiles at me as if I’m kidding him. Slowly it wears off once he realizes I’m not, and what’s left behind is the hard look of a stone-cold killer.
“You’re full of shit,” he tells me.
I shrug. “It’s the way it is now.”
“You’re only kidding yourself. A fucking blind man can see that.”
I don’t say anything.
I can see the decision being made in his eyes on what he’s going to do next. “Are you going to rat me out?” he asks.
“If I didn’t back then to DiGrassi, I’m sure as fuck not going to do it now. Besides, I wouldn’t want my wife knowing I used to hang out with people like you.”
He accepts that. Without a word he gets up and walks out of the bar. I sit and finish my beer.
chapter 14
present
It had been a long time since I remembered dreaming. I knew I had dreams as a kid, but couldn’t remember any since then, at least none since I was out of elementary school. That night I woke up from a doozy of one. More than that, the dream jolted me awake, and left me sweating through my underwear and sitting up fast in bed with my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples.
The dream had me at a funeral home, stuck inside a room filled with coffins one stacked on top of the next. There was an unfamiliar man keeping me company. He looked almost like a cadaver himself with red rouge painted on his cheeks and sparse thin hair slicked back with grease. He was dressed in a black suit that was too small on him; it made his sleeves and pants legs pull up showing inches of his bony arms above his wrists and his white socks stretched high above his ankles. He stayed mute, refusing to say anything to me. I couldn’t place ever seeing him before, but he acted as if he knew me.
“What am I doing here?” I asked him.
He smiled showing tiny baby teeth, and gestured that I should look inside the coffins. I wanted to flee the room, I certainly didn’t want to open up any of those coffins, but it was as if I had no choice. Almost like I was a marionette being controlled by strings. I struggled to unstack the coffins. It was hard work, back-breaking work, especially since I didn’t want them falling and breaking open, but eventually I lowered them on to the floor and took the lids off. Inside were badly decomposed bodies. The stench was horrific. There wasn’t much left of any of the corpses, only ragged skin covering their skulls and parts of their bodies, but somehow there was enough left of their faces so I could recognize them as the people I had killed.
There was one coffin that stood out from the others. This one was nailed shut. I counted the coffins I had looked in, and there were twenty-eight of them. I asked the man with me about the twenty-ninth coffin. Instead of answering me he just smiled, his skin stretching tight against his face and looking as thin as if it were paper.
“Am I supposed to be in that last coffin?” I asked him.
He shook his head sadly at me, as if I were supposed to know the answer. Still, though, his smile stretched tighter.
“Jenny?”
His smile stretched still tighter. The skin covering his cheeks began to rip exposing parts of his jaw through the opening. And still, he kept smiling.
I woke up then.
Christ, what a dream. If that’s what they were like, I was grateful that was the first one I could remember in over fifty years. For a good ten minutes I sat silently before I trusted myself to move. Only after the pounding in my chest subsided did I pull myself off the bed and shuffle off to the bathroom to splash cold water over my face and dry the sweat off. I made sure not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I didn’t want to risk seeing those same ho
llowed cheeks and dead sunken eyes that that man in my dream had.
It wasn’t even three-thirty in the morning yet. I’d only been sleeping an hour. I was tired and needed more than that hour, but I didn’t go back to bed. I didn’t want to lie there thinking about what that dream meant, and I certainly didn’t want to find myself slipping back into it. Instead I sat in my recliner and picked up a book that I’d been reading earlier in the day. At some point I dozed off. When I opened my eyes again sunlight was flooding the room. According to my alarm clock it was six o’clock. I had this vague image of lights being turned on and horns being blasted – almost as if I were back in prison, and for a few seconds I could smell that prison stench coming off me in waves. It was stronger than I had smelt it in days. I stumbled to the bathroom to try to scrub it off. I ended up standing in the shower for a half hour, and afterwards I slapped on enough cologne to hide any smell of prison that might’ve lingered.
That morning the diner was busy when I got there and I had to take a table near the front window. Lucinda was too busy running from table to table to do much more than give me a wink. Like every other morning, no one bothered looking at me. As far as the other customers were concerned I was just some invisible old man not worth paying any attention. That was what I liked most about the place, that, and Lucinda.
I was halfway through my French toast and bacon when a man sat down at my table facing me. It took me by surprise, and at first I thought it was the same wannabe writer from the day before. He looked similar; forties, heavy-set, balding. But he wasn’t the same man. This one was glaring at me with a white-hot intensity. A thick ugly vein bulged from his forehead. Nothing but hatred in his face.
“You rotten piece of shit,” he swore, his voice loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear him. The din from the room faded fast after that. I could sense all eyes turned our way. I didn’t want to look, but a glimpse showed Lucinda staring intently at us.
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