Dave Zeltserman - Killer

I have a. 38 snub nose, but I see no reason to use it. Instead I take out a nine-inch stiletto blade and I have it in and out of his back before he ever realizes I’m behind him. He totters for a moment, then falls to his knees and pitches forwards, his face smacking against the brick wall before landing in the puddle he made. I know he’s dead, I know I pierced his heart. I bend over anyway to check, and while I’m checking I also take the roll out of his pocket. Sixty-three hundred bucks. A nice bonus for the night, although I’m going to have to cough a good part of it up to Vincent DiGrassi.

It’s three days later when I meet up with DiGrassi. We’re being careful at this point to keep my connection with him and Lombard hidden. For six months I’ve been on the books at a liquor store over on Lansing Street so it looks like I’m gainfully employed. DiGrassi eyes me carefully. He knows things went smoothly with the hit. No witnesses, no fuss, no problems. What he wants to know is how I’m taking the killing and he’s looking hard into my eyes to figure it out. There’s nothing in there for him to see. He asks me anyway how I’m feeling and I tell him I’m sleeping as well as ever and eating even better. He grunts, satisfied, and as he gets up I hand him an envelope. Inside is three grand. He arches an eyebrow, and I tell him it’s from the sixty-three hundred I took off Slagg. For a second I can see the calculating look in his eyes as he figures I should be handing over more than three grand – after all I’m being paid well for the hit, but the look fades and instead he nods and tells me he’ll be in touch when needed.

My first official hit. As smooth as silk. And an extra thirty-three hundred to boot. Overall I’m feeling pretty good.

present

I had a restless night of it where I slept at most in five-minute stretches. I think the combination of the dank mustiness of the room and the smell of the mattress kept waking me. By morning I was tired but also alert with little chance of getting any more sleep. My back was stiffer than usual, and it took a while to maneuver myself off the bed, and then to simply straighten myself to the point where I could stand normally. I decided then I was going to buy a new bed. I wasn’t going to be left with much once I bought the things I needed.

Without a blanket or sheets it had been too cold that night to sleep in my underwear so I’d worn my clothes to bed, and later ended up putting my jacket on. Now they felt gamey and oily on me, but they were all I had so I had to wear them again. In the morning light my apartment was even more of an eyesore – the walls cracked and stained, the plaster ceiling yellowed and crumbling in spots, the floors filthy. I stumbled to the bathroom to splash water on my face, this time being careful not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I wasn’t up to that, not in the brighter light. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something scurrying towards the kitchen area, probably a mouse. I didn’t bother looking for it, though. As soon as I was done in the bathroom I left the apartment.

It wasn’t as cold as the day before with the sun out and the skies mostly clear, but still, I was shivering. I made my way back to Moody Street. The area was quiet with little traffic on the road and outside of myself, no one else on the sidewalks.

A clock outside a bar showed it was only ten past six. I walked a few blocks, first one side of the street, then the other, and found several greasy-spoon diners advertising breakfast, but the earliest any of them opened was six-thirty. I stepped into a twenty-four-hour convenience store and bought a large black coffee, and while I drank it I picked up a newspaper. I was on page one. The story had broken that I had been released from prison and somehow they found out that I was relocated to Waltham. The article listed the names of each of the men I killed, and scattered throughout it were quotes from their families and state pols about what an outrage it was that I’d been released. The article used what had to have been the prison photo taken several months ago when I was transferred out of Cedar Junction to the medium security prison. I hadn’t seen that photo before, but Christ I looked ghoulish in it.

I took the paper to the cashier and bought it also. I tried to cover up the photo on the front page, but it didn’t much matter. I could tell from the cashier’s eyes that she had already recognized me. She didn’t say anything about it, though. According to a clock behind her it was already six-thirty. I left and made my way to one of the diners that was supposed to be open then.

When I got to the diner the door was still locked. The lights were on and inside I could see a deathly pale girl moving around listlessly as she pulled chairs off tables and prepared the place for opening. She must’ve known I was standing out there but didn’t once look my way. After five minutes of this I knocked on the door hoping she’d let me in so I could get out from the cold. She stared in my direction for a moment as if it pained her greatly to do so, her eyes boring through me instead of looking at me and, showing how much she was being put upon to make the gesture, indicated that it would be one more minute. It ended up being ten more before she unlocked the door. Up close she was younger than I first thought, probably no older than twenty. Her lipstick and mascara were the same black that her hair had been dyed, with the mascara applied thickly enough around her eyes to make a small lone ranger’s mask. I’d seen fishing tackle boxes with less hooks in them than what she had pierced through her face. Mumbling, she thanked me for my patience, her voice flat, barely hiding its sarcasm.

It was clear from the way she looked at me that she had no idea who I was, which I was grateful for. It was too early in the morning to see any more fear and revulsion in a stranger’s face. Just being seen as an anonymous old man was a relief. I followed her into the diner and she mumbled for me to take whichever table I wanted, and I took one far enough from the front window so that anyone walking by and looking in wouldn’t be able to recognize me.

When she returned with a menu, I waved it off. I’d had enough time standing outside to have already memorized the one that had been posted by the front window, and I ordered black coffee, poached eggs, corned beef hash and pancakes; a breakfast I’d been dreaming about for years while in prison. Before she could move away from me I also asked for a yellow pages directory. Her eyes dulled to show how much of a burden this was, but when she came back with the coffee she also brought the phone book. Whenever she and the short-order cook weren’t looking I discreetly ripped pages out of the phone book that I needed. I would’ve asked her for a piece of paper and pen instead, but I didn’t want her feeling any more put upon.

When the food was brought over I started salivating at the sight and smell of it. It was just greasy-spoon stuff, but at that moment I don’t think anything ever tasted better to me. I started shoveling the food in without even realizing it. Then I caught her smirking at me. Embarrassed, I turned away from her while I wiped some egg yolk off my chin, then forced myself to slow down and eat more leisurely. It wasn’t easy. You get conditioned after so many years in prison to wolf your food down. When I was done I almost ordered another breakfast. Instead though, I sat and read the newspaper, asking for refills on my coffee whenever I could get the waitress over. By this time a few more people had wandered into the diner. I had my back to them, I don’t think any of them recognized me. At least I couldn’t feel any of them staring at me.

The third time I tried getting a refill the waitress told me I was only entitled to two with a cup of coffee. From the way her lips had curled into a tiny smirk I knew that wasn’t a rule of the diner, just something she was making up for me. I told her I’d order another cup then, and a piece of apple pie along with it.