Dave Zeltserman - Killer

I sat quietly appraising him. He was serious, but he was also talking out of his ass. He didn’t have a book deal. Even if he did, though, I wouldn’t have had any interest. Even if I could’ve kept the money instead of paying it all out after the wrongful death suits went to court, I wouldn’t have had any interest.

“I have some advice for you,” I said.

“What?”

“Next time you want to talk business with someone, ask if you can sit at their table. Don’t just force your way in like an asshole.”

At first his expression was blank. Once he comprehended what I said, hurt showed on his mouth. He pushed himself a few inches from the table.

“I’m sorry if I was rude, but I’ve been talking to publishers, and the money I’m telling you about is real.”

“All I want is for you to get up from my table and walk away.”

It was like all the air had been let out of a tire the way he seemed to deflate right in front of me. He stood up, took a couple of aimless steps away from me, then fished a business card out of his pocket and spun on his heels like a drunk man so he could drop the card on the table in front of me.

“When you change your mind, call me,” he said. “There’s too much money in this for you not to change your mind.”

He stood silently staring at me, a shrewdness slowly taking over his expression. “I’ve read enough about you to know what your financial situation is,” he continued. “And besides, this would give you a chance to get your story out in your own words instead of how the media is portraying you.”

I pocketed his card for no other reason than to get him to leave. He was wrong. As far as the media went, I’d been getting off easy. The last thing I wanted was for people to be able to read what really happened. The bare sketches that the newspapers provided were bad enough, but not nearly as ugly as what the real truth was. I had no excuses and no reasonable explanations for the things I did.

He smiled when he saw me put his card away. He took several steps away before turning back to face me again, this time warning me not to try to cut him out. “Everyone thinks they can write a book these days,” he told me, accusingly. “It’s bullshit, which is why the market is flooded with so much crap.”

With that he finally left. I twisted my body around enough so I could watch him walk out the door. When I turned back around, I noticed Lucinda standing a few tables away holding a coffee pot, her eyes fixed on me.

“What was that all about?” she asked me.

Her complexion before had been on the pale side, now it looked almost bone-white in contrast to all of her goth shading. I wondered briefly how much of the conversation she had heard. All I knew was that she had heard enough to freak her out a bit.

“The guy’s a nut,” I said. “I never saw him before. He just came in and sat at my table, then started rambling on about some nonsense.”

She walked over and poured me a cup of coffee, her mouth compressed tightly. It wasn’t until she moved away that she asked me about the book the guy was talking about. “Why was that?” she asked, her eyes scrunching suspiciously. “Are you someone famous or something?”

I shook my head. “You got me right the first time. These days I’m not much more than an old coot. No one worth paying attention to.”

I saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes as she walked away. While I waited for my breakfast, I drank the black coffee Lucinda had poured me and chewed on a few aspirin. My headache had gotten worse the last few minutes.

When Lucinda brought my food over she was closer to her usual acerbic self. Not a hundred percent, but closer. It didn’t help me any. I’d already lost my appetite.

Vincent DiGrassi tells me I have a choice. “This one’s not family business,” he tells me. “So you don’t got to take it.” He pauses for a moment to take a healthy swig of Pepto-Bismol, then continues, “Lenny, it’s not gonna be the way you usually do business. It’s risky. But if you do it, there’s a ten grand bonus in it for you.”

Ten grand will help right now. Jenny’s pregnant with our second kid, and we just bought a house in Revere, and then there’s all this new furniture Jenny wants. I have DiGrassi explain it to me, and when he does I almost walk away from it. Risky isn’t even close to what this is. If it weren’t for that extra ten grand…

“What the hell,” I tell him. “A job’s a job, even one as fucked up as this one. Mr DiGrassi, you on a diet these days? It looks like you shed a few.”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m on a diet. It’s called the sonofabitch heartburn diet. Sal’s going to be grateful you doing this, Lenny. Both the money part of it and that it don’t hurt to have that prick in Southie owing us a favor. And he’s going to be owing us big for this.”

“Yeah, he will. At least if his information is on the level. I wonder how he got tipped off?”

DiGrassi shrugs. It not that important to him. I collect what I need from him and leave.

That was hours ago. Now I’m driving a stolen car to every hole-in-the-wall bar in Charlestown looking for my target. I’m dressed in a blond wig with matching fake blond mustache and beard glued on. Under the seat next to me is a 9mm automatic. Each bar I go to it’s the same thing; at this hour nothing but a few degenerate alkies scattered around. According to our client in Southie, my target, one Douglas Behrle, is supposed to be hiding out in Charlestown before meeting with the Feds at four o’clock. Supposedly Behrle wants to turn rat and I have to ice him before he has the opportunity.

I’m reaching the point where I’m about to give up. It’s past three o’clock already and who knows how good the information is. Probably old bullshit, or maybe Behrle planned to hang out in Charlestown and had a change of heart. Who the fuck knows where he is now? There’s any number of towns around here where he could be killing an afternoon sucking down beers in a dive bar.

I hang an illegal U-turn on Monument Avenue, and that’s when I spot Behrle with two other guys, all of them getting into a Datsun sports coupe. I know it’s Behrle, I have his picture on the seat next to me. Medium-height, beanpole thin, pronounced Adam’s apple, acne-scarred face. I have no clue who the guys are with him. They could be Feds, could be other Southie guys. It doesn’t matter. I slam the Buick Regal I’m driving into the side of their Datsun. While they’re still collecting themselves and trying to figure out what happened, I jump out of the car with the 9mm in hand, first popping the two guys with Behrle, then Behrle himself. It all takes no more than thirty seconds. With the way his brains are leaking out of his skull, Behrle’s gotta be dead, no question. The other two should be dead, and it would be tragic for them if they weren’t given the way I’m leaving them, but in either case it doesn’t much matter.

Without bothering to look around for witnesses, I race back to my car and drive off. The next ten minutes are going to be the trickiest. If anyone calls in my car and the police run into me I’ll be earning every penny of that ten grand bonus.

I work my way off Monument Ave., driving away from the Bunker Hill monument before circling back using side streets, then finding the alley where a car’s waiting for me. No cops, no one following me. Sinking low in my seat, I take the wig off, then use an adhesive remover to get the fake beard and mustache off. I pull off the flowered Hawaiian shirt I’m wearing and slip on a gray tee shirt. The shirt, fake beard, mustache, wig, 9mm go into a bag, and I take it with me when I move to the Ford Pinto waiting for me. I wait until I get into the Pinto before I take off my driving gloves and drop them in the bag also.