Killer (16 page)

I didn’t bother saying the obvious, that a fifty-thousand-dollar judgment against me didn’t sound all that successful. I knew what his answer would be – that that amount of money would be peanuts compared to what the rights to my story could bring in. I tried reading the clauses at the end of the contract, but the print was too small for my eyes, and I had to take him at his word. I went back over the section of the contract that spelled out how they would represent me, and tried to figure out if it would preclude my having Sophie as a co-author. From what I could tell, it wouldn’t. “Isn’t twenty-five percent high?” I asked, referring to the percentage that his firm would collect on any payment I received.

“That would be fair given the situation,” he told me, straight-faced, although I guess there was some truth to it. If you’re being extorted, twenty-five percent probably would be fair in most situations. “Besides,” he added, “it would only come into play if you decided to sell the rights, which you’re telling me you won’t.”

He looked on pleasantly while I signed and initialed the contract where he told me to. After I handed it back to him he asked for all the documents that I had. He read through them quickly and looked up at me, puzzled.

“Their attorney, Harwood, has filed five separate wrongful-death actions against you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why wouldn’t he join them into a single lawsuit?”

I shrugged. “They’re not doing this for money.”

Brest gave me an empty smile. “What’s their reason then?”

“Harwood’s probably acting for the Lombard family,” I said. “These lawsuits are being used to keep me in the Boston area, and maybe to be punitive. I’m sure the Lombard family also likes knowing the dates I’m required to be back in Chelsea.”

The way Brest’s eyes glazed while he continued smiling his empty smile, he clearly didn’t put much stock in my explanation for why the different lawsuits hadn’t been grouped into a single action. He noticed the way I was rubbing my temples, and with a knowing wink asked if I was having a migraine.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “More of a constant dull ache.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “Migraines can be a bitch.”

There was a knock on the door, and the bailiff’s voice warning us that the fifteen-minute recess was over. Once we were back in the courtroom, Brest joined me at my table and informed the judge that he would be representing me, then requested that the case be dismissed since I had confessed to the police back in 1993 to murdering John Dunn and the three-year statute of limitations had long since expired. The plaintiff’s lawyer dryly argued that the contents of my confession had only been released to the public seven months earlier and it wasn’t until then that his clients learned I had murdered their respective loving husband and father.

The judge put up a hand to stop any further discussion on the matter. “I want written arguments delivered to me by Friday,” he said. He had a brief consultation with the clerk about the court calendar, then announced that the case would be continued a week from Tuesday. “I will make my decision then whether the statute of limitations has been reached. If I determine it hasn’t, the trial will start at that time.”

That was it for now. I stood up to see the white-hot anger burning in the faces of the thirty or so spectators seated behind me. I don’t know what they were expecting from the court that day – condemnation, punishment, blood – but whatever it was they didn’t get it, and they were near beside themselves with grief and rage. It was fucking ridiculous. I was just an instrument for Sal Lombard, and whatever retribution they wanted for me should’ve been directed at Lombard and his family, but I was an easier target. Lombard’s family wouldn’t lose sleep over putting them all in the ground next to their same loved ones that I’d already taken care of years earlier.

I almost yelled at them all to grow a fucking pair and face Lombard’s boys and deal with the ones truly responsible, but Brest spoke to me first, interrupting my thoughts. I guess he had noticed this mob also.

“Let me show you another way out of here,” he said.

I followed him towards the conference room we had gone to earlier, leaving a stunned mob behind us. By the time they realized what was happening we were already out a side door and in a parking lot behind the courthouse. Brest led me to a new BMW sedan, and asked me if he could give me a lift somewhere. I told him South Station, and he said that wouldn’t be a problem.

“That looked like it could’ve gotten ugly back there,” he said, referring to the mob we escaped from in the courtroom. “If I can’t get the case dismissed, I’ll have to try for a change of venue, at least get it out of Suffolk County. Failing that, make sure there’s enough police presence so you can get in and out of court safely.”

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” I said. “Deep down they’re gutless. Besides, there were others waiting outside the courthouse who were more worth worrying about.”

He gave me a curious look, but didn’t pursue the subject any further. Instead he told me how he was going to handle the case, that if he couldn’t get it dismissed, he’d make the case all about my near destitute situation and how the lawsuits should’ve been filed against the parties truly responsible, namely the people who had hired me to commit the murders. I only half paid attention to what he was saying. I had more important things on my mind. Like Lombard’s two men who were waiting outside the courthouse when I first showed up. They weren’t there for their health. I knew I’d be seeing them soon enough. My thoughts also drifted to Sophie. I couldn’t help feeling anxious about seeing her later that day.

When Brest pulled up to South Station, he hesitated, then commented on the book and movie rights to my life story. “It was gold before you put on a cape and tackled those two would-be robbers outside that liquor store, but that just put it over the top.” He licked his lips, added, “Leonard, last week I took it upon myself to contact several New York publishing houses. We could get seven figures for a book deal. We just have to put these lawsuits to bed first.”

He had earlier given me a business card with his contact information, just as I had given him my cell-phone number and address. As I was getting out of his car, I commented how for twenty-five percent of a seven-figure deal, he should’ve been giving me taxi service back to my apartment.

“Let’s beat these lawsuits first, okay, Leonard?” he said with a half-smile.

I watched him drive off, then walked over to wait for my bus back to Waltham.

Later when I met Sophie she was radiant as she described the scheme she had come up with. “What we’ll do is sign a book deal under my name,” she told me, beaming from ear to ear. “I’ll funnel your share of the money under the table. Fuck any lawsuit filed against you.”

It was so damn childish. Any good lawyer would find the money and take it from us. But watching her so happy and proud of herself, I felt a lightness in my heart. She was just so damn beautiful, and in her own way, so damn innocent. I didn’t tell her about the contract I had signed with Brest. It didn’t matter. If he got rid of the lawsuits without too much damage, I would insist that Sophie be my co-author in any book deal. It would be a tough fight since a publishing house laying out seven figures for a book would want me teamed up with a professional ghostwriter, but I wouldn’t back down on the demand, and if they wanted the book bad enough to pay a million plus for it, they’d eventually give in.

I told Sophie we’d do that, that we would write the book together, and then she could try selling it. I figured by the time we had a book completed the lawsuits would be finished with. At least it would give me more time to spend with her in the meantime.

As soon as I agreed to writing the book with her, Sophie put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth. There was no tongue involved, just lips, but there was also no disgust on her face when she pulled away. Only excitement.

“This is going to be so much fun,” she said with a throaty purr. “And Leonard, you’re not going to regret this, I promise.”

I nodded, already regretting this small deception with her, but unable to have done anything else. We agreed on where and when to meet next, and I sat mesmerized watching the swaying of her slender hips as she walked away. I was sitting on a park bench, and my stare stayed fixed on where she had walked off to. Even though she was long out of sight, it was minutes later before I could look away. A young woman pushing a baby carriage reacted with horror on walking past me. She didn’t recognize me – that wasn’t the reason for her horror. It was something about the way my face had hardened, a transformation that had come over my features while I had been staring after Sophie. After the woman with the baby carriage had nearly run off in a sprint, I got off the bench and headed back to my apartment. It was getting late and I still had a long night of work ahead of me.

When I got back to my apartment building I found a note that had been slipped into my mailbox. It was from Eric Slaine. His paper gave approval for paying me ten grand for an interview, and he wanted me to call him right away.

I took the note to my apartment and carefully read the contract I had signed with Brest. A week earlier I had bought a pair of magnifying eyeglasses, and used those so I could read all the small print. There was nothing in the contract concerning newspaper interviews.

I didn’t want Slaine having my cell-phone number, so I waited until later when I headed off to work and passed a payphone before calling him back. I told him I needed a week to think things over, but I’d call him again. He didn’t like it, especially, he claimed, after going to bat for me the way he did. I hung up on him in the middle of his objections.

At work, the same kid was back at the security desk, and like all the other times we didn’t say a word to each other when I checked out the keys, later when I checked them back in, or any time in between.

chapter 25

1992

It had been four months since Fred Marzone slipped past me at that Lynn roadside motel. When I later gave Lombard a bullshit story about Marzone already being gone by the time I showed up I thought he was going to put a bullet in my ear himself. Fuck, he was furious. But he calmed down enough to instead poke me several times in the chest with a thick sausage-like finger and warn me that I better not fuck this job up again. That my only priority in life from that moment on was icing Marzone. Since then I’ve been sent on a dozen wild goose chases, including a week-long trip to Raleigh, North Carolina. It’s been getting harder to explain to Jenny why I’m having to take off at the drop of a hat like I’ve been doing, but I have no choice. Lombard’s losing patience, and at this point I don’t think he’s got much left. If this latest tip turns out as bad as all the others, I might have to change my plans fast and take Lombard out before he tries doing the same to me and my family.

Supposedly Marzone’s back in Massachusetts, and this tip has me at a warehouse parking lot in East Boston. It’s probably as much bullshit as all the other tips Lombard’s been feeding me, but I have to check it out so I am standing by the side of the warehouse shivering in the fucking cold, the wind whipping around and deadening the skin on my face and making the tips of my ears feel like they can be snapped off like icicles. It’s one-thirty in the morning, and Marzone’s supposed to be here buying a brick of heroin. At least that’s the bullshit tip I was given.

I’m about to give up when I see someone lumbering into the parking lot who could be Marzone. He has the same hefty build as Marzone, but he’s got his back mostly turned to me so I can’t tell for sure. I walk out quietly, my 9mm Luger held at my hip. It’s dark, but there’s enough moonlight that I’ll be able to see his face once he turns around.

When I get within ten feet of him, I yell out, “Hey, Marzone, my buddy, where you been?”

Nine times out of ten that will get them looking behind with a stupid grin plastered on their faces. Marzone, though, takes off like a bat out of hell, faking towards his left then running to his right. My fucking gun jams. I can’t believe it. Even with his dumbass juke move I would’ve separated his spine. I’ve got another gun on me, a .32 caliber revolver. I start pulling it out of its holster with my left hand, all the while running after Marzone and cursing the sonofabitch every step of the way.

He’s gained some ground on me, maybe forty feet in front of me now, and he runs me across streets and through parking lots. I’m panting hard, my chest feeling like it’s going to burst, but I keep pushing myself, and Marzone, the dumbass, keeps zigzagging like he’s watched too many war movies. The way Marzone’s running allows me to make up ground. I’m maybe twenty feet away and am about to take out his right knee with a shot when I hit a patch of ice and my feet fly out from under me. Marzone hears my tumble and stops. When he turns around I can see the indecision in his expression – whether to go after me or keep running. He’s panting also, hands on knees, but he’s too slow in reacting, too late in making a charge at me, and I’m already scrambling back to my feet. He realizes his lost opportunity, and takes off running again with me following right behind him.

He’s running slower now. I’m starting to make up some distance when he does a header on to the pavement, his face taking the brunt of it. A pistol he’s been trying to take out of his jacket tumbles out of his hand and clatters harmlessly away. I walk up to him slowly while trying to catch my breath. When I’m standing over him, he looks up at me feebly, his eyes dazed, a good chunk of the skin scraped off his face. I put a bullet in his forehead, then while he’s lying dead on the pavement, I put two more in the back of his skull for good measure.

I’m still breathing raggedly, my chest aching, my leg muscles tired and sore. I first slip the worthless piece of shit Luger in its holster, then the .32 caliber. I adjust my pants and jacket and look around quickly. That’s when I see her.