Killer (15 page)

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. Minutes 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.

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 pounding 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.

I made myself a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, along with toast, then took a shower, shaved, and changed into the cleanest clothes I had. A suit would’ve been desirable, but I didn’t have one.

The same voice from the earlier calls chuckled lightly, said, “Answering your phone again, huh, March?” “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“Not too much,” he said. “Only to let you know that I’ll be seeing you in court today. And afterwards too.”

“You’re such a tough guy,” I said, “how about showing some balls and giving me your name?”

Whoever it was must’ve found some humor in my request. He broke into a wheezing laugh before telling me he’d be seeing me soon enough and I’d know his name then, and hung up.

I thought about turning off my phone again, but decided if he wanted to call me some more, let him. I found the court documents that were sent to me while I was in prison, gave them a cursory look, then took all of the papers I had with me as I headed off to catch the first bus I needed to take to get to Chelsea.

The bus let me off three blocks from the courthouse. The rain had stopped sometime Sunday night, and it was a crisp late October day. I had forty minutes before my scheduled court appearance, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in a hall surrounded by an angry mob of my victims’ relatives, so instead I found a small diner a block in the opposite direction of the courthouse and took a seat at the counter. There were several blue-collar types already sitting at the counter, all big heavy men who showed the kind of work they did by their dirt-stained fingernails. One by one they looked over at me, and as they did, I could see a faint glint of recognition in their eyes. That was it, though. They didn’t show anything by their pokerfaced expressions, nor did they say anything. They drank their coffee, while a couple of them also ignored the state-wide smoking ban as they let cigs burn between their fingers. One of them got up and casually headed towards the door, his pace quickening only once he got near it.

Through the storefront window I saw him take out a cell phone, then watched as he walked out of view. Whoever he was going to be calling it didn’t much matter – I’d be heading back to court before they’d show up.

I nodded to the guy working the counter who from his demeanor probably also owned the place. He was a middle-aged man, barrel-chested, with a thick neck and a red face, and had on a stained tee shirt and an even more badly stained apron over a pair of khakis. A short buzz cut flattened out the top of his head. He stood to the side glowering at me, several blue-green tattoos expanding as he ominously flexed his arm muscles. He clearly didn’t want to wait on me, but I asked him for some coffee anyway.

“We don’t serve rats here,” he said, a deep frown creasing his face, and his mouth puckered up to show his disgust.

I sat quietly for the next ten minutes and drank my coffee. The place had become a tomb. All conversation had died. The man working the counter avoided looking in my direction, almost as if he was scared he’d turn to stone if he caught a glimpse of me, while the other blue-collar types at the counter were afraid to make any movement outside of a few anxious glances. All because I had let my old self out for a brief moment. When I finished my coffee I dropped a couple of dollars on the counter and left.

It was a few minutes before ten by the time I had arrived at the courthouse. Standing outside were two wiseguys. They both had the same hardened look about them, both dressed casually in jeans and sneakers; one wearing a leather bomber jacket, the other a New England Patriots windbreaker. They had on dark shades so I couldn’t see their eyes, but there was no hiding that they were in the game, and my gut told me they worked for Lombard. I knew they were watching me as I entered the courthouse but they kept their distance. They could have just as well been carved out of granite by the way they stood unmoving and the cold deadness in their faces.

I was left alone as I walked through the courthouse, and it wasn’t until I reached the courtroom where my hearing was scheduled that I encountered an angry mob waiting for me. There were maybe thirty people there and they erupted at the sight me. They started yelling at me, mostly about what they hoped would happen to me in the near future. One big burly guy who looked like he could’ve been a bouncer at a club made a charge at me. Two of the other people in the crowd were able to get in his way and pull him back, but he kept trying to break free, red-faced and spittle flying off as he yelled at me. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t have broken his wrist if he had put a hand on me, but I guess the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

I stood for a moment trying to pick out their individual voices to see if I could recognize the joker who had been calling me on the cell phone, but there was too much noise coming from them for me to be able to do that. Faces in the crowd did seem familiar, and I realized how much some of them resembled the men that I’d taken out, in particular, the thick-bodied bouncer-type who had gone after me. I tried to remember who he had looked so much like, but couldn’t quite pull it out of my memory.

I gave up the effort of trying to match their faces with my past targets, and pushed my way through them so I could get into the courtroom. They followed me in, still shouting at me. The court clerk, a short gnome-like man with a stooped back, looked up, startled by the commotion, and warned them to be quiet or they would be arrested. They didn’t stop until the bailiff took a few menacing steps in their direction while shouting for them to shut up. After that they took their seats, but their faces showed their rage.

I took a seat in the front row. The clerk appeared visibly shaken as he looked over the courtroom. After a few minutes the judge entered the room from his chambers. He was tall and thin and with a pink face and a full head of wavy white hair. The clerk had us all rise as he announced him, and the judge took his time walking to the bench. After he was seated, the clerk approached him for a short conversation, and the judge quickly looked annoyed at what he heard. Clearing his throat, he addressed the court as the clerk had earlier, warning that outbursts would not be tolerated.

“I understand that emotions may be running high,” he said, his pale blue eyes scanning the room, “but if any of you make a disturbance you will be taken out in handcuffs and arrested. Do I make myself clear?”

He waited until a couple of members of the crowd nodded before he asked the clerk to call out the parties of Dunn vs March.

The wife and two sons of John Dunn were the plaintiffs in the suit. Dunn was one of the men with Douglas Behrle when I shot up the Datsun they were in. Dunn’s wife was about my age and looked gray and used up, as if there just wasn’t much left of her any more. The two sons were in their late thirties and neither of them seemed like they wanted to be there. My guess was they were being paid to file their suit against me.

The judge looked at me sitting alone at the defendant’s table and asked if I had legal representation.

“Your honor, I’m close to indigent. I don’t have any funds to hire a lawyer.”

Someone in the crowd snickered behind me and commented on how that was a shame. The bailiff took two angry steps forward, and the judge’s eyes shot up as he tried to pick out the guilty party. Only after the room had become deathly still again did he turn back to me.

“I was released from prison three weeks ago after serving fourteen years,” I said. “I have no savings, no bank accounts, and am still getting state assistance, and will continue to for the next five months.”

“Do you have any documentation regarding your state assistance?”

“Yes, your honor.”

The bailiff walked over to me for one of the papers I had taken out of my stack, and he brought it over to the judge who studied it carefully before asking me whether I had a job.

“Yes, your honor. I’m working as a janitor making eight dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. My rent is five hundred and sixty dollars a month, which doesn’t leave me much, if anything, left over.”

The judge turned to the plaintiff’s lawyer. “What’s the point of this action?” he asked. “Do you have any reason to believe that Mr March has assets that the state doesn’t know about?”

The lawyer stood up. He had small dark eyes and a piggish and disingenuous mouth, and I could smell Lombard all over him. “Not exactly, your honor,” he said. “But we do believe Mr March will be selling the book and movie rights to his atrocities.”

The judge accepted that and smiled at me apologetically. “Mr March,” he said, “regardless of your financial situation, you should’ve arranged for legal counsel to represent your interests. This is a civil proceeding, not criminal, and as such the state cannot provide you free legal help.”

A voice spoke out from behind me, “Your honor, Daniel Brest from Brest and Callow. If I could confer with Mr March, my firm may be interested in representing him pro bono.”

I turned to see a man standing three rows behind me. He was smiling pleasantly, but it didn’t quite mask the shrewdness in his eyes. From the way he was dressed he was clearly doing well – I could make out the same style of Cartier watch on his wrist that I had once taken off one of my targets, plus I’d been around enough cheap suits in my time to recognize an expensive number, and his cost some bucks.

The judge asked me if I’d like to take the attorney up on his offer, and I told him I would.

“Fifteen-minute recess then,” the judge said.

The plaintiff’s lawyer didn’t seem happy about this turn of events, nor did he seem surprised, and he kept his mouth shut. Dunn’s widow and two sons sat morosely. If anything they appeared disappointed that they had to be there longer than they hoped for. Daniel Brest came swiftly around the aisle to meet me and offer his hand, and then the bailiff led us to a private conference room. Once we were seated I asked him why he wanted to help me.

“I could feed you the standard boilerplate bullshit,” he said. “That we believe every party in a courtroom deserves legal representation, blah, blah, blah. The truth is we want the publicity this case will give us. Also, we’d like to represent you if you choose someday to sell the rights to your life story.”

“I don’t plan on ever doing that.”

He took a contract from his briefcase and handed it to me, as well as a pen. “In case you ever change your mind,” he said.

The contract was fully made out and gave Brest’s firm exclusive rights to act as my agent in a book, movie or any other media deal, in the event that they successfully represented me in any and all wrongful-death lawsuits filed against me.

“What would be considered successful?” I asked.

“That’s defined in a subclause on the last page. But basically, if we’re able to limit a judgment against you to an aggregate of fifty thousand dollars.”