Killer (9 page)

chapter 15

1978

Vincent DiGrassi’s face looks older and grayer, as if he’s aged five years in the six months since I’ve last seen him. He appears stiffer also. His neck and back must be bothering him with the way he’s grimacing and the twisted off-kilter way he’s holding himself. He gives me two names. One of them is Joey Lando.

“That one you got a history with,” he acknowledges bluntly. “The same punk who sold you out to me after a five-minute beating.”

So he remembers. Christ, that was thirteen years ago. The guy’s mind is like a steel trap, nothing gets out of it. Even remembering every kid he ever ordered a beat-down on.

His grimace tightens, deep lines etch his face. “What the fuck the long face for?” he demands. “I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to pay that punk back.”

“What’s the reason for the hit?” I ask.

DiGrassi doesn’t answer, just tries to stare me down, his grimace turning into something menacing.

“You’re right,” I say to break the silence. “I’ve got a history with him. You can tell me the reason for the hit.”

The old DiGrassi would’ve been looking to tear my head off for asking that. This one, there’s something not quite right with him. His menacing look cracks, and he mutters something about Joey being a punk. “Is that good enough for you?” he asks sarcastically.

“I have my reasons for wanting to know,” I say.

DiGrassi’s eyes waver as he stares at me. He looks away first. “Your old rat friend is bringing special attention from the Feds because of his bank jobs. We asked him politely to lay off, and what does he do? The fucker hits five more deliveries to bank machines. And he doesn’t even offer to kick over any of it. He’s a punk, and a lesson needs to be made of him and his partner. Satisfied?”

“How come only two names?” I ask. “What about his inside person?”

DiGrassi’s scowling at me. “What do you mean inside person?”

“The one working at the bank who’s giving him the delivery schedules.”

“How do you know this?”

“I just do.”

At first his eyes blaze because I’m not giving him more of an explanation, but they slowly turn glassy as he calms down and accepts what I’m telling him. “Get this guy also.”

“It’s a woman.”

“Whatever. And Lenny, make these bloody. The bodies have to be recognizable for the Feds, but this still has to be a statement.”

It isn’t hard finding Joey, nor is it hard getting him into the back of a stolen van. In his heart he believes I’m crooked and can’t accept that I’m leading a clean life, so when I tell him I have forty cases of stolen booze that I want to unload cheap, he goes in willingly. Before he realizes what’s happening, he’s out cold.

I drive the van to a secluded garage where I have another stolen car waiting for me. Joey’s tied up in back. It doesn’t take much to get him to give up where his partner is holed up and the name of his inside person. No more than a couple of minutes of persuasion and only two lost fingernails. When I leave him he has this odd expression on his face, kind of a mix of hurt and validation.

I first go to Joey’s apartment where I pick up enough evidence so I can tie him to the bank jobs, then I find his partner where he’s holed up, and leave him sprawled out on the floor with a full clip from a forty-five in his torso. When I find their inside person I have a change of heart. She’s just a wisp of a woman. Cute in her own way with stringy red hair and this innocent baby face that makes her look even younger than her twenty-four years. I’ve never killed a woman before – all my hits have been men, and I decide I don’t want to start with this one. I end up making a deal with her instead. I have her type up a confession. I’m going to let her make a run for it. Maybe she makes it to Mexico before the Feds catch up to her, maybe she doesn’t, but I let her know what will happen if she ever mentions a word about me. I’m wearing a ski mask so she can’t identify me, and I show her Polaroids I took of Joey’s partner so she knows I mean business. As far as DiGrassi is concerned, the story I’ll give him is that someone must’ve tipped her off. He’ll find the confession curious, but in the end he’ll accept what I tell him. He has no reason to think that I’d go soft with a woman target. I watch as she packs a small suitcase and leaves. I’m not worried about her talking if she gets caught. If that happens, I’ll deal with it.

When I return back to Joey, he’s gotten himself a little more courage. Somehow he’s convinced himself I’m just trying to rip him off. I listen to what he says, then I make it bloody like I’m supposed to. I leave behind the evidence tying him to the bank jobs. Then I leave the van in a place where it can be found after an anonymous tip.

I had put on overalls so I could finish the job with Joey without getting any blood splatters. I take them off, also an old pair of sneakers, and bring them with me so I can incinerate them later. I’ve also brought a change of clothes. The ones I’m wearing are clean but they’ll be incinerated with the rest of the stuff. I know it’s crazy, some sort of a phobia I’ve picked up, but I just don’t want to risk my kids smelling death on me.

I slip on a pair of loafers that I brought along and I go to the YMCA so I can take a shower, change into my new clothes, and be clean for when I go home to Jenny and my two kids.

chapter 16

present

The next morning my cell phone rang again. I almost didn’t answer it assuming it was the same tough guy from before, but then looked at the caller ID and saw it was my son, Michael. At first I didn’t believe it, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me.

“Michael?” I said, my voice cracking as I answered the phone.

“Yeah, it’s me. You called yesterday.” There was a pause, then, “I guess you’re out of prison.”

I laughed at that. I couldn’t help it. “Come on, you must’ve seen something about it on the news.”

“I don’t watch much TV or read the papers these days.

What do you want?”

“What do I want? Michael, I’m your father. Chrissakes, I haven’t seen or heard from you in over fourteen years.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” There was another long pause before he added, “After what you did you’re expecting some sort of father–son relationship? Are you out of your mind?”

His voice wasn’t angry or sarcastic, just tired. I felt tongue-tied for a long moment before stumbling out with, “Whatever I did, it doesn’t change that you’re my son.”

I’m sure it sounded as stupid and trite to him as it did to me. I sat cringing, waiting for his response. It seemed a long time before he answered me, and when he did his voice sounded like he was on the brink of exhaustion. Like it took every bit of strength he had to respond.

“Let me explain the obvious to you. You murdered twenty-eight people. For money. Whatever you were back then you were never my father. Fathers have real jobs, they’re not mob hit men. They’re not cold-blooded psychopaths. Do you have any idea what all that did to me? How many years of therapy I’ve gone through, and how fucked up I still am? And not just me, but Allie and Paul? And Mom, too. You don’t think that had anything to do with her developing cancer?”

He wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t thought about for years. After hearing about Jenny, I read everything I could about liver cancer in the prison library and I knew some people believed stress played a large role in it.

I said, “I just want to see you.” I wanted to ask him for Paul’s address and number, but stopped myself, knowing that that request would lead to a quick hang-up. Instead, carefully choosing my words, I added, “I don’t want anything from you other than that. A half hour, Michael, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Yeah, well, you’re asking a hell of a lot. I spoke to Allie this morning. She doesn’t want you calling her again and leaving any more messages, so don’t.”

“Maybe Allie will change her mind someday.”

“She’s not changing her mind.”

I hesitated, my voice lowering almost to a whisper. “Michael, you’re my son. I love you. I just want to see you.”

He laughed at that, a tired, exhausted laugh. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that’s what kept you surviving prison.”

I lied then and told him it was partly that. In truth, I wasn’t sure what it was that kept me going all those years. I knew it was self-preservation and anger that made me cut the deal in the first place. During those early years I was driven by wanting to see Jenny again, and to a lesser extent, wanting to walk out of prison as a big loud fuck-you to Lombard. After Jenny died and I no longer had any sort of life waiting for me on the outside, that fuck-you message I wanted to deliver stopped seeming all that important to me. I had to fight while inside prison to make it from day to day, but the thing was, I’d be damned if I knew why I bothered.

Michael took some time digesting what I told him. When he spoke again it was to tell me that I was lying, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice. “Don’t call me again,” he said. “Maybe I’ll call you back someday, I’m not sure, but don’t you ever fucking call me again.”

He hung up then. I felt jittery inside, but also a little hopeful. Before his call, I never thought I would hear his voice again, and it went about as well as I could’ve expected.

Christ, my head was hurting me. Like it was being cracked open like a walnut. I sat for a while with my head bowed, cradling it in both hands. When I could I straightened up and reached for the bottle of aspirin that I kept next to the bed. My hand shook as I spilled several tablets into it. I chewed them slowly without bothering to get any water. I knew they weren’t going to do much good. They never did much good.

Later that morning I was at a coffee shop trying to mind my own business while I ate a two dollar and fifty cent maple-banana-nut muffin and drank a three dollar cup of coffee – all of it costing more than a full breakfast at Lucinda’s diner would’ve cost – when I noticed a woman sitting a few tables over staring at me. She was in her thirties, thick dark hair, dark features, probably of Italian descent, and all I could think was that I was about to have a confrontation with another of my victims’ relatives.

I stared back. I didn’t care. Let her shout and scream all she wanted. She got up from her table and walked over to me. Up close her hair was all tangled, like a hornet’s nest. It looked like it hadn’t been combed in days, that it needed washing and, even more badly, some work at a salon. But as bad a hair day as she might’ve been having it didn’t hide that her features were striking, even given how skinny she was.

“I must’ve been staring,” she said, keeping her voice soft and low. When I didn’t say anything in response, she showed a trace of a shit-eating grin, and added, “I was there yesterday morning at the Blue Bell Diner when you and that fat guy gave us your two-man show. It was very entertaining. Do you mind if I join you?”

She waited a few seconds for me to answer her, and when I didn’t, she sat across from me anyway, her shit-eating grin stretching a fraction of an inch. I remembered her then from the diner. She’d been sitting at a table in the back and I caught a glimpse of her when I stood up to leave. If she hadn’t been so strikingly beautiful I wouldn’t have noticed her. But as beautiful as she was, she was also somewhat a mess, both with her hair and her clothing, and no makeup on. My first thought would’ve been that she was a drug addict, except her eyes were bright and clear, and her skin too healthy for that.

“Did you follow me here?” I asked, my voice cracking and coming out as a hoarse rumble.

She laughed at that. It was a nice throaty laugh. “Hardly,” she said. “Boy, are you one paranoid sonofabitch, but I guess given your situation I can’t blame you for that.” Her eyes glistened as she looked at me. “I was in here minding my own business when I recognized you from the other day. A coincidence, that’s all.”

“What do you want?”

She raised an eyebrow at that, her grin growing more amused. “It’s not enough that a somewhat attractive woman wants to sit at the same table with you?” she asked.

“Again, what do you want?”

Her lips pursing, she asked, “I have to want something?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” she said. Her eyes glistened several degrees brighter as she studied me. “What you went through in that diner yesterday was rough. I felt for you, but I also liked the way you handled yourself.” She looked away for a moment, a solemnness momentarily weighing on her features. “I guess I also felt empathy. I’ve done plenty of things in the past that I’m not proud of, things that weren’t so nice and that I wish I could take back. I wouldn’t be happy if complete strangers kept throwing them in my face. Fuck that guy yesterday, you know. From what you said, it sounds like you did the world a favor killing his scumbag rapist of an old man. Was what you said true? He really did that to that girl?”

I nodded.

“Well, good for you then.”

“I don’t have money stashed away, if that’s what you’re after.”

More of that throaty laugh, her eyes shining again. “You don’t trust people much, do you?”

“Not too much.” I gave her a long hard look, trying to figure out what she was after. “I’m not killing anyone else, if that’s what you’re here for.”

She didn’t say anything in response to that, but the amusement in her eyes and smile showed that wasn’t it either.

“You want to write a book about me, don’t you?” I asked.

She shook her head and told me that she wasn’t a writer, but there was a hesitation when she did so. So that was it. A wild stab in the dark, but I had figured her out. Another hopeful author who wanted to sell my life story for fame and fortune. At least this one was nice to look at, and more than that, had some personality. I felt comfortable with her.

She stood up, an impish smile still on her lips. She told me she had to get going, but that she lived in the area and she was sure she’d run into me now and again. She warned me if that happened for me not to get all paranoid and think she was following me. I had no doubt that I’d see her again. She’d make sure of it. She was smart enough where she’d give it some time before making her sales pitch about me writing a book with her, but I didn’t much mind the prospect of that.

I watched as she walked away, noticing how nice her curves looked with her dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. Although she probably weighed no more than ninety pounds, I realized her build was more athletic and slender than skinny. Usually I liked a woman with more meat on her bones, but she was still stunning enough to stop your heart, especially with the way she smiled. It was almost a shame watching her slip on a bulky cotton jacket, but it didn’t do much to hide how beautiful she was.

When she reached the door, she stopped to look back at me and give me a few more seconds of that shit-eating grin of hers. I almost called out to ask her her name, but I knew next time I saw her she would make sure to give it to me.

I felt an uneasiness after she left, and sat back and finished my muffin and coffee without really tasting much of either. When I was in prison I made sure to avoid other people and lived a mostly solitary existence. It wasn’t safe otherwise, and the fight to stay alive and survive my stretch so I could someday walk out of prison gave me enough to focus on to make it easy. Now that I was out I found myself needing some sort of human interaction, and was looking forward to when I’d see this dark-haired beauty again, even if she was nothing but a con artist. And that was really what she was. Her plan was to befriend me, even hold out the promise of sex – not that there was any real chance of that happening – and eventually wear me down so I would agree to writing a book with her. I’d been around more than enough con men to know how this was going to work, but what she didn’t understand was as much as she was trying to play a game on me, there actually was a connection between us. Not enough so that we’d ever end up romantically involved, but there was something there. Right now she was on too much of a high in working her game to get the book deal, but at some point she’d see it also.

I put the call out of my mind, and instead thought more about the woman who had just left me, and found myself anxiously looking forward to when I’d see her again. I knew it would be soon – she wouldn’t let too much time go by, not with her just starting her game.

It turned out I was right. That Saturday I went to the same coffee shop and she was already camped out there with a dog-eared paperback in one hand and a large cup of coffee in the other. I’d done the same plenty of times when I was waiting for a target.

She glanced up shortly after I’d walked into the shop, and as she saw me her eyes grew exaggeratedly large. With a wicked grin, she accused me of stalking her. I shook my head, but that grin of hers was infectious enough to crack a smile from me, which doesn’t happen often. She waited until after I bought a coffee and slice of lemon pound cake and had been sitting alone for a few minutes before getting up from her table and asking if she could join me.

“It looks like you could use the company,” she said, her grin even more wicked.

“Yes, sure, I’d like that.”

I felt a pang of guilt knowing that I wasn’t going to be agreeing to write a book with her. I should’ve told her point blank there wasn’t any chance of it happening and let her drop her game, but I couldn’t. Like the other day, she was strikingly beautiful, but also unkempt. Her hair was the same tangled hornet’s nest and her clothes were badly worn and tattered. She probably bought them from a similar thrift store to the one I had shopped at earlier, except in her case she had worn them to near threads. She was clearly in the midst of a bad stretch, and had latched on to this book idea as a way to pull herself out. As beautiful as she was she could’ve made a nice income as a stripper, and an even nicer one as a high-class hooker, but I guess no matter how hard up she was for money she wasn’t about to resort to either of those, and that just made me like her all the more.