by Lisa Libby
“We are closed.”
“Waylon and Mr. Alterman are expecting me.”
“Oh, my apologies, of course, come in.”
The sweet smell of cigar smoke filters through my nose. Dim lighting and dark wood throughout make it difficult to see too far ahead. I follow the bartender to the back of the bar where a dim green light fixture hangs above four oversized leather chairs with a round glass coffee table in the middle. Waylon and Mr. Alterman are sitting with cigars in one hand and what looks like a glass of whiskey in the other hand. They both stand as I approach.
“Ava, this is Waylon Wilson.” Mr. Alterman makes the introductions.
He grabs my hand, consuming it with his swollen fingers.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady.”
I like him immediately. I’m thankful Mr. Alterman is helping me.
I don’t shake Mr. Alterman’s hand; we only shook hands the first time we met.
I take a seat across from them both. Mr. Alterman pours me a glass of whiskey.
I drink it down in one sip.
“Woo, lady, slow down, we have a long meeting,” Waylon laughs.
“I’ve had one hell of day,” I reply.
“Seems like you’re having one hell of a life.”
“It’s been adventurous at times,” I laugh.
“Ava, we need to get on the same page before we go see the Dillon’s. Let’s begin with the motion filed by the defense, the Dillon’s. They are seeking to dismiss the charges against Susan O’Daire. The prosecutor requested a reciprocal disclosure, in other words requested the defendant to disclose the evidence. We need to know what exactly the Dillon’s are going to disclose; that is the purpose of our meeting today. My hunch is that Susan may plead guilty only if it is foreseen that she would get house arrest or probation, and that means the Dillon’s are looking for someone to pin it on. It would be the closest parties to Susan: first Johnny and then you. The Dillon’s goal is to plea bargain before trial. However, I am here to make sure you are not a part of that plea bargaining. By law, it is not required that a federal court accept a plea agreement. If the court rejects the plea agreement, the defendant may withdraw the guilty pleas, and this would mean the case will proceed to trial,” Waylon explains.
He takes a break from speaking to smoke and sip his whiskey.
“Your Irish friends certainly want to avoid trial at all cost,” he continues. “So, my question to you is … do you want to stick to the original plan we discussed?”
“Yes,” I reply, handing over two identical USB drives. The files on the USB drives prove my innocence of no involvement with the accounts they were laundering or approved access to Susan’s financial spreadsheets, all thanks to Paul coming through for me at the last minute. I’m still wary that he hasn’t really forgiven me, but all I have is his word. He brilliantly made sure it shows I had no access to their computer software or login and hides all the other guilty pleasures we were getting ourselves into at Atlantic. One copy is for the Dillon’s and the other for the prosecutors if the Mob tries to throw me to the wolves.
The most important thing that’s missing on this file is proof that I wasn’t involved with skimming accounts owned by the Mob. This information will be used, if necessary, at tomorrow’s meeting, but Waylon doesn’t need this information. This is my leverage against the Mob.
“Bartender, get us another bottle and a cigar for my friend Ava.” Waylon is feeling generous.
We drink, smoke and I listen to them reminisce about the good old days when Mr. Alterman was a cop and Waylon was battling criminal cases in Boston. Waylon doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. His demeanor puts my mind at ease. Mr. Alterman wasn’t kidding when he said he was the best man for the job.
It was a long night of drinking and I’m not looking forward to the meeting with the Dillon’s. Waylon will meet me at their offices. I walk by my old employer’s office building. There’s a sign in the first-floor window advertising office space for rent.
The Dillon and Associate’s office is located on the 42nd floor. I check in with the receptionist and she kindly offers me coffee or water. I decline and take a seat in the waiting room. The lights are so bright that I can hardly open my eyes. I decide to put my sunglasses on and tilt my head back while I wait for Waylon to arrive.
“Ava, wake up,” Waylon says, shaking me.
I jump to my feet and follow him through the office.
In the far back of the office is an oversized corner conference room. There’s a long dark table in the middle. And there they sit, the two sleazy brother lawyers, the Dillon’s. I could smash both their faces into the table, but instead I take a seat next to Waylon.
“Terry Dillon, Brennan Dillion, I am here today with my client Ava Madden
to ensure she is not used as your scapegoat to get Susan O’Daire’s charges nullified. I understand you have already submitted your plea agreement. My client will not take the blame for Susan’s money laundering at Atlantic. Furthermore,” Waylon slides one of the USB drives across the table to the Dillon’s, “here is proof that my client is completely innocent of any wrongdoing. In fact, the files on the USB are evidence that will further damage your client’s credibility. Ava has provided proof of Susan’s transactions and where she made mistakes. If I am not misguided, the Mob might be interested in Susan’s incompetence as an accountant, and truly she is the sole reason the Mob has had to deal with this entire muddle. And, if the Mob decides they want to continue to stick out their necks for Susan, that is their decision to make. I must advise, Johnny is just as guilty as Susan. We both know Ava is in no way affiliated with the Mob,” Waylon takes a pause to inhale a deep breath. “We have photographic evidence that Johnny has been abusive towards Ava, and if our backs are against the wall, we will push ‘abusive supervisor’ who cheats on his pregnant wife. Poor Ava was forced to work in a dangerously controlling environment. Giving the prosecutors this new evidence will surely deny your plea and head to trial. A jury will eat up a pretty, smart, young, naive girl, who was just trying to survive another workday in hell at Atlantic.” He slides colored photos of my bruised face and neck across the table.
Waylon pushes his chair back to give him room to cross one of his legs. He just stares at the Dillon’s. They whisper back and forth before asking us to leave the room, so they can consult together in private.
We are ushered back to the waiting area.
“What do you think?” I ask anxiously.
“Does a hen lay eggs?”
“Yes?”
“Remain positive, until you aren’t.”
I put my sunglasses back on and sit in silence.
Less than thirty minutes goes by when the model-like receptionist tells us we can go back in.
I can feel my heart pounding up my neck into my ears. Waylon looks unbothered, and a real badass.
We take our seats in the same spots.
“We have consulted with our client. She wants you to know she’s not pleased about you stealing funds but is impressed with your knowledge and would like to meet with you to come to an agreement,” Terry informs us.
“No,” Waylon replies. “We will not waste any more time with this nonsense—”
“Yes, tell her I will meet with her, without my lawyer present. I have more information that is confidential and would like to share it only with your client,” I interrupt before Waylon can continue.
“Well, then, we are done here and will be in contact.”
Waylon is hesitant to get out of his chair, but eventually does and follows me out.
We don’t speak until we are in the elevator.
“You’ve just agreed to a meeting with the devil herself.”
“I’ve met Claire before; she doesn’t intimidate me. Plus, it sounds like if I don’t, there will be no deal. I can take it from here, Waylon
.”
“It’s your life, I trust you are making the right decision.”
We part ways at Atlantic. Waylon will remain in Boston for the week because that’s how long Ruben paid him to be in the city. I don’t think we will need him any longer, since I have Connor working in the background. I won’t pressure the Mob to accuse Johnny unless I’m pushed to breaking point. Of course, I love Johnny and would rather see Susan in jail, but it’s my life over his any day.
JOHNNY
CHAPTER 34
Birds are Singing
I lie with one arm behind my head and the other wrapped around Ava. I’ve been lying in bed watching her and listening to the birds chirping outside. The sound tells me that Spring is soon approaching. We were up all night talking about the future. I promised her the impossible more than once. I told her I’m done with Casey, will move back to my parents, and share custody of my soon to be son. This is the only way I can get Ava to even consider letting me in her house and doing what she does best, pleasuring me all night. She’s better in bed than Casey. Especially now that Casey is putting on weight – her belly gets in the way.
My father reaches out to me this morning with concerns about Stan. He hasn’t been in contact with anyone for a about a week. My father went to visit his boxing gym, and the guys at the gym claim he hasn’t been in to workout in over a week. It’s not like Stan to miss even one day at the gym. Even on his resting day, he goes to the gym to hang out with his boxing buddies. I’ve never heard my father this stressed. He demands I come to the house immediately, but I’m in no rush to look for Stan. I’m sure he’s fine.
I roll Ava over on her side, lift her leg and push myself inside of her. She hates fucking in the morning, but she never says no. I finish so quick I don’t even think she has the chance to fully awaken. I smack her on her ass and tell her to come take a shower with me. She grunts but follows me into the shower. I enjoy taking showers with Ava now that she has lost weight. I love watching her wash her body, the soap suds dripping down and around her perky full breasts and pink nipples. Her breasts are unusually full and I notice she’s putting on some weight around the waist. When she tilts her head back under the shower, she closes her eyes the same as when I’m pleasuring her. Sometimes I catch her biting her lip. I think she does it on purpose if she feels me watching her.
“My father needs my help around the house today,” I lie. Will ya be around later tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here. My father’s coming over soon. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
I kiss her on the forehead before exiting the shower.
My father is already outside when I pull up to the house. He gets in my car just before I stop in the driveway. It’s strange behavior.
“Johnny, I’m worried sick,” he says.
The alcohol on his breath is fresh. He doesn’t drink in the morning.
“Dad, calm down, Stan’s fine, we will find him.”
“No, this is not like him at all. We talk every morning. Stan would never miss a call.”
It’s as if he’s bragging about his and Stan’s relationship. I think what he wants to say is, “My own flesh and blood son doesn’t call me every day”.
“You got his cellphone records?”
“I already have them. His cellphone’s last ping location was in Falmouth, MA. It’s a five-mile radius, so there’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Okay, let’s get going then.”
I understand my father’s concerns, especially since Stan’s phone hasn’t been used in a week. The last resort is getting the police involved and if we did, we would make an anonymous call to the police. Stan isn’t exactly a model citizen. He has a lengthy arrest record. I just hope that we can find him alive.
We have about an hour’s drive, so I decide this is a good time to discuss the trial.
“Have ya heard anythin’ more about the trial?” I ask.
There’s no response. I think he doesn’t hear me, so I repeat myself.
“I hear you, Johnny, but do ya really think this is the time to discuss this? We have enough shit going on.”
“Okay, well, when the hell is the best time then?”
“Jesus Christ Johnny, I don’t know.”
“Dad, you always put Stan before me, always, and it’s bullshit, just pure bullshit.”
“That’s not true.”
“Stan has always been your favorite, and ya know it.”
“Johnny, you’re just a spoiled, selfish, incompetent boy. I told your damn mother a long time ago not to give you everything you asked for, but no, she spoiled you anyway, rotten to the core.”
“Don’t blame your problems on Mom, you’ve been an asshole to me all by yourself.”
I feel something hit the side of my face. To my shock, it’s my father’s fist. I yank the steering wheel and pull the car over in the breakdown lane and exit the vehicle. If I didn’t exit the car right then and there I would have hit the old man, but I know I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. Instead I decide to start walking back to the city or keep walking until I’m too tired to be angry.
“Johnny, come back, let’s talk. I didn’t mean to hit you. I’m stressed, I love you, you are my only child. Stan will never replace you. Stan is like a son, but no one can take your place.”
I keep walking, ignoring his words, instead focusing on the sound of cars passing by.
My phone is vibrating in my pocket. I stop walking to check who’s calling. It’s my mother.
“Hi Mom.”
“Johnny, thank goodness you answered.”
I can hear the stress in her voice.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Honey are you with your—”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. She’s sobbing uncontrollably. I immediately think something has happened to Casey or my unborn child.
“Your father, is he with you?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m with Dad, what’s, what’s wrong?”
“Stan … dead.”
“Stan is dead?” As soon as the words spill from my lips my knees feel weak. Every happy memory of Stan floods my thoughts as if someone pressed fast forward in my mind. My chest tightens, and a lump forms in my throat.
“Johnny, Johnny, oh Johnny please be gentle breaking the news to your father. Please Johnny, please I can’t, I can’t tell him.”
She’s silent, but I can hear her sobbing and wiping her nose.
“How?”
“Johnny, how is not important right now. Bring your father home right now.”
I know Stan was murdered by the panic in her voice. If it was natural causes or an accident my mother would explain in more detail. It’s not a question of who would want Stan killed, it’s a question of who did it. Working with my father’s business dealings is not exactly a safe means of employment. While Stan is not affiliated with the Irish or Italians, he’s dealing with them in some form of business relations, since my father works closely with both.
I walk back to my father who is sitting on the hood of the car, his legs blocking one of the headlights. His head is hanging low as if ashamed. I lean against the car next to him and light a cigarette.
“I’m sorry, Johnny.”
“It’s okay, Dad. I love you and I was out of line.”
I take a deep drag of my cigarette before breaking my father’s heart.
“Mom called. Stan is … dead.”
My father drops to his knees, screaming Stan’s name. I kneel next to him to try to comfort him, but he shrugs me off. It’s clear he doesn’t want me to touch him. I climb in the driver’s seat because I feel so uncomfortable seeing my father cry. I’m sure he appreciates me not sticking around. I wait patiently in the car chain smoking. My father will get in the car when he is ready. Several minutes pass before my father climbs to his feet. He’s
on his phone when he climbs in the car.
“Drive to Falmouth Hospital,” my father demands.
I don’t question him and just drive. I can only assume Stan’s body is at the hospital. The drive is long and depressing. My father has stopped crying and returned to his everyday expression: anger. I’m not done crying for my brother, but hold back the tears, too embarrassed to cry. I will just stay quiet until we arrive at the hospital. I pull up to the front of the hospital, dropping my father off before looking for parking. My phone is ringing nonstop. It’s my mother, but I don’t answer. She knows my father will not rest until he knows who murdered Stan and why.
I head into the hospital and give Stan’s name at the main reception desk. I’m directed to the hospital’s morgue on the ground floor. As soon as the elevator doors open, I no longer feel like I’m in the same hospital I just entered. The cold air whips around my body. There are very few signs for direction and no one to greet you at the elevator. I roam the hallways, pushing through the first set of gray double swinging doors to another hall with more of the exact same doors. Finally, I come to a hallway where my father sits in the only chair. This must be where Stan’s body is. My father is staring at the door that reads MORGUE in large capital letters. He’s either contemplating going in or has already identified Stan. I quietly stand next to my father, waiting for him to speak.
“I can’t, Johnny.”
“What, Dad?”
“I can’t go in there because I know he’s in there, but I can’t go in. I don’t want to see him this way.”
I know he wants me to offer to go in. We are Stan’s only family, so someone needs to identify him so we can lay him to rest.
“I will go in Dad, wait here.”
“Thank you, son, you’re a good boy.”