In the Red

by Lisa Libby

  I decided to take the trip not only to see my friend but to help him with Ava’s case. I want him to know who he can and cannot piss off in Boston.

  Ava continues to play the victim, but I know she must be getting her hands dirty because why else would someone attempt to kill her twice and how much bad luck can one person even have? At first the news stations were all over the story about her abduction, “The Girl Found in the Harbor”, but just like that, not 24 hours later, no more news on it. Waylon and I know the media can easily be paid off by someone – it’s an all too familiar tactic. The rumors from a few of my informants say the Italians put a hit out on Ava and the Irish cleaned up the media mess. The other rumor is the Irish put out the hit and are trying to cover it up by spreading rumors it was the Italians. A lot of missing bodies have been washing upon the shores of South Boston beaches and along the Charles River banks, all of which happen to be of Irish descent. Now either we are back to the era of the Irish killing the Irish or the Italians are back to fighting over control.

  “I thought I smelled bagels and lox. Get over here and give your friend a hug, your old Jewish bastard.”

  “Woo Eh, you smell like pig balls and cow shit,” I reply.

  “Can you boys cut that out, be nice to one another,” Carol chimes in.

  Waylon lifts me up, gives me a tight bear hug. He’s put on a lot of weight since the last time I saw him but looks happy.

  I hug Carol gently. She’s a petite, frail woman with long black hair with silver strands peeking through. She always has a lit cigarette in her hand and another one sitting in the ashtray ready to light up.

  “Good to see you, Alterman. Would you like some iced tea, just brewed?” she asks.

  “Yes, and spice it up for me.” By spice I mean alcohol, but she already knows how I like my iced tea.

  I take Carol’s seat next to Waylon. The view from their porch is endless fields full of neat farmed rows of crops and randomly placed farm equipment. There’s a horse barn to the far right of the land. Waylon isn’t big on farm animals, but he can’t say no to Carol. In fact, every time I visit, Carol walks me around the land to show me all her animals, and there’s most always a new animal to show off.

  Carol brings me a glass of tea and sets the pitcher nearby. The glass is filled to the rim with ice. It’s so cold and refreshing in this dry Texas heat, I drink the entire glass in one gulp. I pour another glass for myself, offer to fill Waylon’s glass. She goes back in the house; law talk isn’t of any interest to her.

  “I know you didn’t fly to Texas for my wife’s famous tea. Let’s get to talking about Ms. Madden’s case. There’s a lot of holes in the story you must explain. Like, why in the hell are you helping this young lady?” Waylon looks concerned.

  “Simple; Ava is connected with someone who inadvertently ruined my police career and so many of my friends.”

  “And, who is this person?”

  “Jesus, Waylon, let me finish. When I was young, I dreamed of being a cop, catching the bad guys and being a hero. I went from fighting crime, to solving murders, to being forced to retire from a job I loved and losing my friends. Admittedly, I was scared for my life, a damn coward. When everything went to shit in Boston, I did what I was told, kept my mouth shut, never spoke to my colleagues again, and left Boston. I’m not the man I set out to be. I’m a lonely old man with a severe booze problem. I don’t have much more time; I mean, I’m not sick, but I feel that if I must live this hell, I created any longer, I’ll want to kill myself. I’m just not willing to leave this earth without taking down the very people that destroyed my happiness.”

  My elbows are leaning on my knees, my head slouched between my legs. I’m doing that thing where I feel sorry for myself.

  Waylon gets out of his chair and stands in front of me silently. I look up at him expecting to see his familiar disappointed frown, but his face is hidden behind the shadow from his cowboy hat.

  “Blaming others about your troubles is a symptom of narcissism. My father always reminded me that if a fool listens to your problems and feels bad for you, that fool is no friend. And I don’t feel bad for you. Get your ass out of that chair and bring yourself inside. We have a trial to prepare, but first we need to eat lunch.”

  I grab the empty pitcher of iced tea and my glass and follow him into the house. Carol refills the pitcher. I take a seat on the couch and look in the reflection of the television, admiring the way Waylon helps Carol set the dining table. I’m staring at the reflection of true love. That could have been me, but I’m too much of a coward. The only woman that every loved me ran from me the first chance she got, and when I returned it was too late, she had moved on. I was selfish to think she would have waited for me.

  “Boy, the food is getting cold, stop your daydreaming and come get a plate.”

  Mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, greens, steak tips, biscuits, and more of Carol’s iced tea. I can see how Waylon has put on so much weight.

  “Carol, this looks and smells amazing, thank you for cooking.”

  “It’s never trouble for a good friend. I don’t cook for many, so you count this as a blessing.”

  “This may be the best meal I’ve had in sometime.”

  While we eat, Carol tells us stories of her animals on the farm. I don’t chime in much because I’m too busy shoveling the food in my mouth. My train of thought is interrupted when my phone beeps. It’s a text from Ava. Johnny found her and is taking her back to Boston. She asks if she should try to run.

  “Waylon, it’s Ava, she was found, and they’re returning her to Boston. She wants to know if she should go with them.”

  “Yes, she should return. Tell her to go right to the police station to turn herself in. They will want a statement about her roommate’s murder. Tell her to answer questions, until she feels the questions become accusatory, which they will, we both know that. She then should lawyer up. We should be in Boston in a few weeks before the trial.”

  I text her Waylon’s advice. She agrees to the plan.

  After lunch, we lounge in Waylon’s oversized office, and drink whiskey straight up and smoke cigars.

  Waylon has already started working out the details of the trial by filling out two large white boards with all the key players in the trial, and others that don’t seem to fit in. I explain in detail who everyone is, and their role.

  “Ava disclosed that she was stealing money directly from Atlantic accounts, and without allegedly tapping into any of the Irish funds. She has proof this was transpiring right under Susan and Johnny’s management. She hopes this information will influence the Mob’s lawyers to settle for a plea deal for Susan and not try to push her to take the blame,” I explain.

  “I’m not following.”

  “It’s my understanding her angle is to prove Susan’s mistakes were the direct cause of the FBI investigating Atlantic laundering money, that she didn’t even notice Ava was skimming from Atlantic’s funds. Her hopes are the Irish will see her potential and make a deal with them instead of going to jail.”

  “As her Attorney, I don’t see a better way? After reading through the documents sent over by the Law Office of Dillon and Associates, they are trying to make it look like they are helping Ava. They want her to stand trial and admit to some wrongdoing to accounting errors to lessen Susan’s jail time or get her off completely. Ava can’t admit to the FBI that she knew about the laundering, because that will guarantee her jail time. For all we know the Mob has evidence that Ava knowingly accepted laundered cash in accounts.”

  “Waylon, is there a way to get more information from them, like hack the lawyers? I mean Ava knows someone that can do that, if she hasn’t done it already.”

  “We need to focus on the facts of the case. It’s fun to talk about the what if’s, but we are not at that point and furthermore, hacked information wouldn’t stand up as evidence in court because
, as you know, it’s illegal. The FBI obviously have enough for a conviction against Susan, since she is still sitting in jail. We need to get inside information on the FBI. I assume the Mob’s lawyers are hiding that information. It really is up to Ava to figure out what plan she wants to go with, and I will build a case around that. Right now, this looks like a big pile of shit that no shovel in my barn can tackle.”

  “You’re right, this is Ava’s decision.”

  “In the end, maybe we will fuck those Boston mobsters after all, and if we can pull this off, we old men still got some tricks left.”

  “Watch your mouth, Waylon,” Carol yells from the other room.

  Waylon pours two more glasses of whiskey and we click our glasses together. This motion seals the deal. Waylon has that old look in his eyes, like when he was an attorney in Boston. He’s just as excited as me to take on Boston’s criminal world one final time.

  JIMMY

  CHAPTER 31

  Race

  “I found Ava with some black guy in a New Orleans hotel,” Johnny says.

  “Ouch, someone is jealous. Who cares that tha guys black? Aren’t ya a little too young to be racist? I mean I know you are half Italian and ya all have a history of hatred towards the blacks, but damn.”

  “Fuck you, Jimmy, if anyone’s racist it’s you, pig.”

  “Me? Oh Johnny, ya have me all wrong. I’m a church goin’ man now, God’s people love all his creations.”

  “You’re such an asshole and ya daughter’s a slut.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with you on that, if she is anything like her mothah.”

  “That’s nice, ya know Ava’s mother’s dead, don’t ya?”

  “Her adoptive mothah is dead, her real mothah is alive, and she’s a whore.

  “Anyway, I called to let ya know I’m bringing Ava home. Is her house still a crime scene?”

  “No, the Indian and White Man cleaned it up, changed out the furniture, painted the walls. The police still want to question Ava; they have no suspect. The detectives have been to the house several times. Ava told me ya robbed and murdered her roommate’s ex-boyfriend. I think his name is Jose. Ya don’t think that has anything to do with her roommate’s murder, do ya?”

  “Ava didn’t tell you shit. The Dominicans used Ava as a drug mule to traffic drugs from the Dominican Republic to Boston. Jose is the ex-boyfriend of Ava’s roommate. Anyway, I interjected the drug drop in New York and went straight to pay those motherfuckers a visit, and you know the rest. It’s part of my job to stop drugs coming into Boston that are not the Mob’s dealings. I brought the drugs to the Mob and gave Ava the money Jose promised for drug muling. The Mob runs this city, and I can’t willingly allow those transactions to come through.”

  “Boy, Ava has ya for a fool. Just make sure she gets back here safe.”

  “Relax old man, I ain’t gonna harm her.”

  “Ya, bettah text me as soon as she’s home.”

  “I will, and don’t evah call me a racist. Not all Italians are, ya know.”

  “Ya, ya. Oh, and just so ya know, I was the one who told Ava Casey was pregnant. Ya welcome. And do me a favor, tell ya fuckin’ fathah to return my calls.”

  Nothing but silence on the other line.

  “You son of a…”

  I hang up on Johnny, just to piss him off a little more. I love fucking with him. I don’t really care that he’s with Ava, Christ, I don’t want to hear about my daughter’s relationships. She’s obviously using him, and he’s just too dumb to realize. I have more important things on my mind. Like the two fuckers that tried to drown my daughter. It wasn’t difficult to find out who they were. I tracked the boat they used, thanks to Connor McClean. It was rented in Gloucester, about a 90-minute boat ride to the Boston Harbor. The kidnappers must be amateurs because my daughter is still alive. I know just about everyone who owns a boat docked in Boston, so I eliminated them fast. The type of rope that was found tied around Ava’s ankles is used by local fisherman. Who rents a fucking fishing boat to kill someone? What a bunch of idiots. If it was me, I would have stolen the boat, and not a damn fishing boat. I can’t eliminate the Mafia or the Irish, but I know whoever it was they outsourced the job on purpose and didn’t want it to come back to them. This was the second attempted murder of my daughter. The men that kidnapped her in New Hampshire were also amateurs. I assume she’s stolen a lot of money or has something she can use against them.

  She’s a smart girl, I know from seeing her report cards, SAT scores and college grades. Just because I wasn’t physically in Ava’s life, doesn’t mean I didn’t hear all about her progress and big events. My agreement with Mary was for her to mail me letters and photos of Ava to keep me updated. I thought about my daughter every day, and regret giving her to Mary to be raised, but I was selfish. I chose the Mob over my daughter. I had to, I’m a killer. I was afraid if I got too mad or frustrated, I could kill her. Now looking back, it’s a stupid thought. To think I could kill my own daughter. It’s my mind playing tricks. That’s why I write stuff down to make sure it’s real because my mind thinks of the craziest shit. Likely schizophrenia. I mean no doctor has ever diagnosed me, but I read a lot, and the symptoms check out.

  When Mary began dating Lewis Lorcan, I wasn’t onboard at first because I was scared, he would molest her. Stepfathers have a bad rap for this behavior. The truth was I was just jealous of Lewis. I wished I was Lewis.

  I surveilled the home and saw Lewis outside in the backyard teaching her how to ride a tricycle. Mary admired them from the porch. Ava never looked so happy. I’ve never witnessed such a happy family moment, that I wanted to be a part of. Never in my life have I regretted anything, and in that very moment I felt regret. I wanted to do it all over. I wish I’d stayed in Ireland and raised Ava myself. I wanted to run into the backyard and take my daughter, but I knew Ava would miss out on a happy home, something I didn’t know how to maintain. The regret helps me pick up another bottle, the sadness makes me pour another glass, and the pain drives me to another bar or liquor store. I lie to myself every morning when I wake up and say I will not drink today.

  I gave Ava to Mary to keep her safe, so she could live a normal life and now it all seems for nothing. I’m afraid that after this trial, the Mob will want her dead anyway, no matter how good the trial goes. She knows too much about the Mob. They wouldn’t kill her if they knew she was my daughter. Johnny, the Indian and the White Man know, and whoever Ava told. The more people who know the more danger both of us are in.

  I may have enemies on every street in Boston. I’ve murdered so many people, I’ve lost count. I used to keep count in the beginning but writing this information down anywhere is risky and if caught I wouldn’t want to be categorized as a serial killer, so I refrained from keeping items from those I’ve murdered. That’s how most of them get caught. I prefer to be labeled a hitman, and a damn good one. I dress up for every planned hit, some are unexpected, but when I have time to plan, I wear a suit. Others think it’s strange, but I respect the victim. Let them have a nice-looking man kill them. Also, I find humor in the way most people trust me simply because I’m wearing a suit, and this includes the police.

  I wear my trench coat to better conceal my rifle. I’ve hidden a knife in each boot, a double gun holster to carry my two handguns, plastic tie wraps and duct tape. I look back in the mirror. I look so goddamn handsome. After I handle business, I will get a nice lay from one lucky lady tonight. I just hope I don’t get blood on my white undershirt. I grab my keys and head to the North Shore to pay a visit to my daughter’s killers. Their day job is running a construction business, and apparently, they’re working late tonight in the office. If they weren’t at work, I’d go to their homes and kill them and their entire family.

  I turn off my car headlights and drive slowly down the dirt road. The office lights are still on, and their vehicles are parked out front. I
know everything about them, because I’ve wasted my days doing a full week of surveillance. There’s another vehicle in the driveway, one I’ve never seen. This could bring some trouble, but mostly for the sorry son of a bitch who owns the car. I hang out in the car for a little while to see if any more people are coming or going into the building. I use my night vision goggles on the scope of my rifle to check the surrounding area. This scope is unique because it takes pictures and video. I take photos of the car and a closeup on the license plate of the unknown vehicle.

  An hour later, a man walks out the front door. I take multiple photos of this guy. I don’t know him, but I can easily find out this information another time. Nothing is going to stop me from killing these men tonight. I wait thirty minutes before I enter the back door, which is always left unlocked by their lazy staff. Up the two flights of stairs, through a second unlocked door. It’s eerie to get into the building that easily; I get a bad feeling but brush it off.

  The hall leading to their office is dark and only lit by the light coming out of the main office where they should be working.

  “Knock, knock,” I say.

  The men don’t stand, just look up at me, as if they were expecting me. My immediate instinct is someone else is in the building, so I exit the room and duck into a nearby room and wait. The room is so dark, someone else could be in the room and I wouldn’t know. I’m too old for these games. It was much easier to kill people in the old days. I’m sure that their friend in the car didn’t really leave and instead hid out; probably drove his car down the street and came back on foot.

  “You better get the fuck out of here before you end up dead, old man,” a voice yells from the other room.

  I keep quiet. If I respond they’ll know what room I’m in.

  I could probably kill them by shooting through this office wall, but they don’t deserve a quick death. I hear the floor creak; that must be the surprise they were planning. I’m holding both handguns. What they don’t know is I can stand in this room all night; this isn’t my first time. I’ve got a talent for keeping still and quiet. I’ve spent many nights standing in closets waiting for my victims to get home.