“Twenty-five,” I lied.
“You’re ten years off, my friend.”
“You’re only fifteen?” I said, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Chrissakes, I could get myself thrown back into prison for corrupting a minor.”
The word “prison” put a dampener on her mood, and for a few seconds a darkness clouded her face to a color that came close to matching the skies. Then just as quickly it was gone. I couldn’t help feeling something bad had happened to her when she was young, and I wanted to ask her about it but I didn’t want to hear what I knew she would tell me: that she had been abused at one time in her life and ended up serving time for manslaughter or maybe even second-degree murder. Instead I sat there tongue-tied, feeling an awkward silence between us.
She reached over and took hold of my hand and squeezed it, the way a friend would, and just like that, knocked away any of the awkwardness that we had started to feel.
“You’re a charmer, Leonard,” she said. “But as you well know, I’m thirty-five, and it hasn’t been the easiest thirty-five years so far. Not exactly the fairy-tale princess life I’d dreamed about when I was a very young child.”
“The next thirty-five then,” I said.
She nodded solemnly at that. “The next thirty-five it will be,” she agreed.
“If you want to tell me anything, feel free,” I said. I forced a rigid smile. “I’m not exactly someone who could hold you or anyone else in judgment.”
“There’s not much to tell,” she said. “Bad stuff happened to me as a child, I ended up in foster homes, then much worse stuff happened. Now I’m in Waltham trying to figure out what to do with my life, and I meet you.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “Leonard what were your parents like? Were they the reason you ended up working for the mob?”
From her tone and the hopefulness in her eyes, she was really searching for why her own life had taken the course that it did, because if I had made my wrong turn due to environmental factors maybe she had also. Maybe there wasn’t something seriously broken in either of us. It would’ve been easy to lie to her; instead, though, I shook my head.
“My parents? No. Hardly. My pop was what you’d call a salt o’the earth type. As honest and decent as the day is long. A good man who never had a harsh word for anyone, and sweated blood every day as he worked his way to an early grave.” “Your mom, then?”
“My mom and I never got along,” I admitted. “She had a hard life herself, lots of tragedies and losses, but she had nothing to do with me working for the mob either. They gave me a good home. Whatever happened was my doing.”
The skies opened up then, the rain coming down hard and suddenly as if a faucet had been turned on full. I took my jacket off so Sophie could use it to shield herself. We ran the two blocks back to Moody Street, stopping only when we were under an awning. Even with my jacket sheltering her Sophie had still gotten soaked and was looking a bit like a drowned rat. I was so winded I had a hard time breathing, and thought at first that I might be having a heart attack, but the moment passed and my breathing became less ragged.
Sophie handed me back my jacket. With a heartbreaking smile, she said, “What a mess we are, huh? Leonard, dear, I’m sorry you got so wet, but it was very chivalrous of you. I thank you.”
She looked so miserable standing there with her hair hanging down in wet tangled clumps and her threadbare jacket and jeans soaked through. She had also started to shiver. I ignored her protests and draped my leather jacket around her thin shoulders, then told her there was a store a block over where I was going to buy her a new jacket.
“I can’t let you do that,” she said.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Think of it as a gift from the Waltham Police.”
That got her curious, and I explained how the police had first tried to tie me up with an assault charge after I had broken up the attempted liquor store robbery, and later how I squeezed a hundred and fifty dollars out of them. Even with the way she was shivering I could tell that she enjoyed the story.
“I can’t think of a better way of spending that money,” I told her.
She didn’t put up a fight over it, and we made our way through the rain to the next block by darting in and out of doorways and under awnings for protection. When we got to the department store, I first bought a beach towel, which we used to dry ourselves off, then I helped Sophie pick out a ski jacket. It was bulky on her and hid her curves, which was a shame, but it was waterproof, had a hood, and offered much better protection from the cold than what she’d been wearing. When she put it on she gave me one of the brightest smiles I’d ever seen. Yeah, it was going to cost me a hundred and seventy dollars and my funds were dwindling, but it was worth the price. And besides, if I got ten grand for that interview, money wasn’t going to be much of an issue, at least not for a while.
The rain was still coming down in sheets and Sophie insisted that I also buy an umbrella for myself. When I took the jacket and umbrella to the cash register, the cashier gave us a puzzled look as he tried to figure out whether we were father and daughter, and if not, what the possible attraction might’ve been. I couldn’t blame him. Based purely on our appearances we were as mismatched a couple as you could’ve found. After he handed me my change and we had him cut the tags off the jacket, we left him still trying to solve the mystery.
Once we were back outside and under the store’s awning, Sophie put her new jacket on, including the hood, and zipped up, and we both stood quietly for a long moment watching the rain beating down even harder than before. Sophie spoke first, asking how she looked in her jacket.
“Like a million bucks,” I told her.
She rolled her eyes at that. “Yeah, right.” Her expression turned pensive, and she added, “Leonard, we never did talk about the two of us writing a book together.”
I hesitated. I had planned to lie and keep my own little con going as long as Sophie was keeping hers, but I couldn’t do it any more; besides, hers was no longer as much of a con as she probably thought it was.
I looked away from her. “I don’t think us writing a book is possible,” I said, my voice barely audible over the rain. “Monday I’m going to court for wrongful death suits that have been filed against me. Any money that we’d get on a book deal would end up getting attacked by the relatives behind these lawsuits. We wouldn’t make any money off of it.”
I couldn’t look at her, nor could I move. My jaw clamped shut, and as I stood there, I felt a hollowness expanding throughout my chest, making me feel as if I could be crumpled as easily as a piece of tinfoil. I dreaded what I was about to lose. Seeing Sophie, even if it was only a game on her part, and even if it was only for a few spare minutes every couple of days, was one of the few things that allowed me to feel human.
I waited for her to leave me, but instead her hand found mine. The warmth and feel of it were dizzying.
“Leonard, I have to go away this weekend,” she said. “Let’s talk again on Monday after your court hearing. Maybe we’ll figure something out, but even if we don’t, at least it will give us a chance to see each other.”
I nodded. I still couldn’t look at her. I wanted to believe there was a genuineness in what she was saying, and that she wasn’t just trying to keep the con going as long as there was still a glimmer of hope in pulling it off. From her voice it sounded like there was a chance that it was that way, but I didn’t want to risk looking into her eyes and having my fantasy squashed.
We agreed on where and when to meet on Monday, then her lips touched lightly against my cheek as she kissed me.
“That was so sweet of you buying me this jacket,” she said.
My head turned and I caught the look in her eyes. It wasn’t just a con any more. Not entirely, anyway. She gave my hand one last squeeze so that her fingernails left small indentations in my skin, then, smiling weakly at me, she walked off into the rain. I stood silently and watched her as she hurried down the sidewalk and disappeared from sight. Minu
tes after she was gone I still stood silently as I thought things over. What I should’ve done next was head back to my apartment so I could take a shower and dry off properly. Instead, though, I trudged off to the public library.
It rained constantly that weekend. Saturday morning I felt like a caged animal as I stayed inside my apartment. I was too anxious to sit still, and pretty quickly gave up trying to read the book that I had picked up. My mind kept racing, both thinking about Sophie and what the zoo atmosphere was going be like when I went to the Chelsea District Courthouse on Monday. I also kept thinking about who would be there waiting for me.
I ate an early lunch, frying a sausage and cutting it up so I could add it to a can of minestrone soup, but in the state of mind I was in I could barely taste any of it. By one o’clock I found myself pacing the apartment, too agitated to do much else. I grabbed my jacket and umbrella then and ventured out to a local movie theatre that was a half-mile from my apartment. It was nasty walking with the rain coming down almost horizontally and the umbrella doing little to protect my pants legs and shoes, but I was glad to be out of my apartment, and even though my mind was drifting too much to follow the movie I ended up seeing, I felt better sitting in that dark room with noises and random images to distract me. It didn’t matter that my head was hurting worse than usual and my pants and shoes were soaked – I felt more relaxed sitting there. Maybe it took me back to my childhood, I don’t know. But I ended up sitting through two showings of the movie, and I couldn’t tell you a thing about it.
After leaving the movie house, I stopped off at a bar for an early dinner and several beers. I could’ve had several more easily enough, but I had my job to go to later that night.
Later, when I showed up at the office building, there was a different man working security. He was just as tight-lipped as the kid who was usually there, and like the kid, didn’t say a word to me as I checked out the keys. He wasn’t any kid, though. He was at least my age, probably older, white hair framing a face that was as wrinkled as any turtle’s.
Work went by fast. I had left my radio back in the apartment, not wanting to risk the rain damaging it. That night, though, I didn’t mind the silence. It helped having all those menial tasks to focus my thoughts on, and I ended up finishing an hour early. I spent the extra hour sitting in a third-floor office and watching the rain come down. At two o’clock, when I checked the office keys back in, the old man filling in at security avoided eye contact with me, and I left the building without the two of us exchanging a single word.
The streets were desolate as I made my way back to my apartment. The only sign of life were some rats in an alleyway that had converged by an open garbage bin. I stopped to watch them for a while, then continued on.
That night I had an erotic dream about Sophie. The two of us were alone in an unfamiliar room. Sophie stood shivering in front of me, an uneasiness in her eyes, although she didn’t say anything as I undressed her. My mouth became dry as I studied her thin but still near-perfect naked body; her slender hips, the slight bulge to her stomach, the small patch of pubic hair, her breasts – no bigger than a handful, but the sight of them making my head pound. While I looked her over, her olive complexion brightened to a crimson. I ran my thumb over her perfect pink nipples and felt them as they hardened.
I could see the pleading in her eyes as I lifted her and carried her to a bed, but she didn’t say anything and any objections she might’ve had stayed buried in her throat. I positioned her so she was on her knees. Her skin was hot, nearly burning, and the feel of her small hips made me breathless. I penetrated her from behind and I pushed myself over and over again into her, the only sound coming from her being soft gasps, maybe sobs, I wasn’t sure which.
I woke up having stained my underwear. My erection grew soft, and I lay frozen, desperately trying to hold on to the way it felt in my dream being with Sophie and the way she had looked naked, but it was gone.
It was dark in my room. I stared bleary-eyed at my alarm clock until I could see that it was only four in the morning. I pushed myself out of bed, stripped off my underwear and washed it in the bathroom sink. After hanging it up to dry, I took a shower, then, after dressing, sat in my recliner and tried to read one of my books. My mind kept drifting too much to pay any attention to what I was trying to read, but I needed to do something to kill time until the sun came out.
chapter 23
1991
Fred Marzone’s in the motel room next to me screwing the shit out of a hooker. I can hear them through the cheaply plastered wall, which is probably no thicker than a piece of cardboard. I know she’s a hooker. I was watching Marzone’s room from across the street when she arrived. Just a kid, really. Not much flesh on her, not enough anyway, her arms and legs looking like broomsticks with her dressed up in hot pants, a tube top, and cheap gold stiletto heels. Way too much makeup on her as well. It made me think of my daughter when she used to play dress-up.
It was lousy timing her showing up when she did. Marzone must know there’s a hit on him; it’s the only thing that explains why it’s been such a pain in the ass tracking him down, and why he’s holed up now at a fleabag roadside motel in Lynn. I’d only just found Marzone and was preparing myself to kick down his motel room door and put a few bullets in his head when I saw the hooker coming out of nowhere. I slipped back into the shadows then and watched as she walked hesitantly to his door and knocked on it, and then Marzone letting her in. After that I checked out the neighboring room, found that it was empty, and was able to easily pick the lock. Now I’m settled in and listening to her moaning while Marzone’s grunting away like a rutting pig.
Lombard would probably be putting a hit on me if he knew I was sitting here waiting for them to finish up and for that hooker to leave instead of just busting in and icing the both of them. I can imagine what Lombard would be yelling at me if he knew what I was doing now. Why the fuck you sittin’ on your ass? For Chrissakes, who the fuck’s going to give a shit about some crack addict whore? Do your goddamned job!
It’s almost like I can hear him growling in my ear. But the thought of taking out this skinny hooker with way too much makeup on makes me sick to my stomach, especially given that the kid’s last few minutes are going to be taking Marzone’s five inches up her ass. No one should have to die with that being their last few moments on earth. What’s the harm in showing a little patience? So Marzone’s brains will be blown out later tonight instead of right now, what’s the harm in that?
They’ve been going at it over an hour. My stomach’s knotting up more each minute as I sit there. I can’t help worrying that the room I’m camped out in will be rented and I’ll be forced to take out more victims than just Marzone. The smart play is to go in there now and take care of the situation, but I sit paralyzed thinking of how young the girl is and the sad, almost despair-ridden look I saw on her while she waited outside Marzone’s door.
It hits me that I’m not hearing bedsprings squeaking any more, and that I haven’t for a while now. There’s still grunting and moaning and occasional voices whispering through the wall, but none of the squealing that the bed was making earlier. My blood runs cold as I strain to hear more of the voices coming from the other room and realize that’s not Marzone in there – at least it’s not the same voice I heard earlier.
A sweat dampens the back of my neck as I run out of the room. I check to make sure no one’s watching, then while holding a. 40 caliber subcompact in one hand, use my burglar’s pick to unlock Marzone’s door. The room’s empty. The noises I’d been hearing are coming from the TV set. The sonofabitch had ordered up a porn movie and left it running while he took off.
I give the room a quick search. There was nothing personal left behind. Marzone’s not coming back. That paranoid fuck must’ve left that porn movie running as a precaution. He couldn’t have known anyone was next door listening in, because if it was anyone with half a brain they wouldn’t have given a shit about the teenage hooker he was pound
ing away on.
I use the one clean towel in the rat-trap of a bathroom to wipe the sweat off the back of my neck and forehead, and try to think of what I’m going to tell Lombard. I know he paid good money for the tip off of where Marzone was, and I know he’s not going to be happy when he finds out Marzone’s still alive.
I curse myself out as I leave the room, and just hope Lombard will buy the load of bullshit I’ll be giving him later.
chapter 24
present
Sunday was just one of those days to get through like all those days during my fourteen-year prison stretch. It was still raining hard, and I was sick of the wet and cold, but was feeling too antsy to stay caged inside my studio apartment. By noon I had to get out, and I made my way to Moody Street and found a cheap bar to camp out in. From one o’clock to ten in the evening football was on the TV, and I nursed a half dozen beers, had a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and stared vacantly at the TV. It wasn’t quite the same watching football without having any action on the games, but at least it killed the day. At times I noticed people staring at me, but I didn’t care whether they recognized me. They gave me a wide berth, and that was all I cared about.
Later, miraculously, I slept through the night, and woke up only when the alarm went off at six o’clock Monday morning. I lay disoriented before remembering where I was and what I had to do later that morning. Reaching over, I turned off the buzzer and forced myself out of bed. My court appearance was scheduled for ten o’clock. The previous week I had worked out the connecting buses I needed to take to get to the courthouse in Chelsea, and it required me to leave my apartment by seven-thirty.
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