Dave Zeltserman - Killer

That night I couldn’t help feeling a heaviness in my chest as I cleaned the office building. I tried listening to music, but my mind kept wandering too much, and I ended up tuning into a talk show. More scandals had broken since I’d been released from prison. The big one that they talked about that night was the recent shooting involving a ball player at a local club. The ball player, who was unhurt, had supposedly been the target for the shooting but a bystander was the one who took a bullet in the neck and was now in critical condition and on life support. The people calling into the talk show were speculating that the ball player had fired shots also, maybe even the one which wounded the bystander. I was quickly fading into yesterday’s news.

When I walked home later, I tried to stay alert. The streets were empty and I didn’t see any cars. No one was out there looking for me. I pretty much convinced myself that I must’ve been seeing things the other night.

It was twenty past two by the time I got back to my apartment. I almost called my son, Michael. I wanted to. I had the cell phone out and had keyed in his phone number, but in the end I flipped the phone shut. If I had made the call at that hour all I’d be doing would be giving him and his wife more ammunition to use against me. At least I had enough sense to realize that, and that was mostly why I didn’t make the call, but I guess it was also partly that I hadn’t worked up the nerve yet to do it.

I’m stocking bottles of gin and vodka when a face from the past walks into the store. Joey Lando. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, not since that day when we worked Ernie Arlosi over for fourteen hundred bucks and Joey ended up ratting me out to DiGrassi. I almost don’t recognize him with how much fleshier he’s gotten and the thick white scar running from his eye to his chin. The scar makes his flesh look uneven, almost as if he’s wearing a piece of leather over part of his face. When he spots me a wide grin stretches his lips and there’s no mistaking him.

He eyes me up and down, smirking, then walks over. It’s a fluke that he catches me while I’m actually doing work. Every once in a while, I get restless and stock merchandise or handle the cash register or some other menial task. Mostly when I’m there I hang out in the backroom reading racing forms or magazines. It’s lucky Joey walks in when he does; it helps convince him I’m just a blue-collar working stiff.

“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes,” he says, still grinning his half-smirk. “Fuck, I thought they were just bullshit rumors. Lenny March working an honest job. Don’t tell me it’s true about you having a wife and kids also?”

“Yeah, it’s true.” I look past him to make sure no one’s standing nearby. “I never thought I’d see your face again. Not after you ratting me out to Vincent DiGrassi.”

“His boys give you a good beating, huh?”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

Joey points to the small circle of red puckered skin on my cheek. “You get that from him?”

I nod. “It was part of a test to see if I was a rat. I passed, I guess you and Steve didn’t.”

Joey’s eyes dull a bit. He’s still grinning but it’s forced now. “I always regretted that,” he says. “But you don’t know what they were doing to us to make us talk.” He runs a thumb over the full length of his scar. “And besides, you got off easy compared to Steve and me.”

I soften as I look at him and remember the old days when we ran together. It’s a shame that he and Steve fell apart the way they did when DiGrassi put them to the test, but I guess they just didn’t have what it took.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“How about buying you a beer or two.”

“No problem. The cooler’s back against the wall. These days I’m drinking Michelob. You want to break up a six-pack, go for it.”

He laughs. “Not here, Lenny. Someplace quiet where we can sit down and talk. How about it?”

“Where do you have in mind?”

“Connolly’s Pub. One block down. What do you say?”

For years I had thought about looking him and Steve up and kicking the shit out of them. Those feelings have passed. Now I’m curious what he wants to talk about. Of course, I could leave with him now – no one here has me on a clock, but I want to keep up the pretense of working a real job. I tell him I get off at six and I’ll meet him then. He tells me he’ll be there. After he leaves, I go back to stacking bottles. When I’m done, I head to the backroom and pick up the day’s racing form. I was given a “can’t miss” tip for later that night at Suffolk Downs, and figure I might as well play the rest of the ponies while I’m there.

I walk into Connolly’s Pub at quarter past six and Joey’s waiting at the bar, trying to look casual about it. He orders a couple of beers and we take them to a table in back.

“I still can’t believe you’re working a nine-to-five job,” he says, shaking his head.

“Eight to six,” I say, correcting him.

He takes a long pull on his Bud, wipes a hand across his mouth. “We ran together long enough back in the day. I know you, Lenny, I know what you’re made of, and I don’t buy that you can be happy living this bullshit life.”

“People change.”

“Not you.” He’s shaking his head angrily, takes another long pull at his Bud, emptying it. “Fuck, I saw first hand the things you used to do, and the look in your eyes when you did them. No one was a badder muthafucka in the day. And the guy I’m looking at now is the same fucking person. So don’t feed me any bullshit about people changing.”

He brings the Bud to his lips, realizes the bottle’s empty and leaves the table. When he returns he has a couple of fresh beers; the Michelob he hands to me. His demeanor is calmer, more relaxed. He leans forward and asks me if I want to hear what he has to say. I nod. He edges even closer, his eyelids drop a quarter of an inch. He’s got his back to the room while I’m facing it, but he knows I’ll warn him if anyone comes nearby.

“The two of us, we can each make thirty grand next week,” he says, his voice low enough that I have to strain to hear him.

“I told you before I’m out of the game.”

“Sure you are.” A thin smile creeps over his lips. He edges even closer so he’s leaning halfway across the table. “You know those bank machines popping up all over the place? I’ve got someone on the inside giving me a schedule of when a certain bank refills theirs. When it’s done, it’s with twenties, about ten grand worth. Next week I’m going to hit ten banks, all within a three-hour span. By the time the bank realizes what’s going on it will be too late for them to do anything about adding security.”

“Why do you need me?”

“It’s a two-man job.” Joey’s lids drop even further, the little I can see of his eyes is hard stone as they stare at me. “You got one guard in the armored truck, another reloading the machine. It’s mostly a smash and grab, but you need someone keeping the guard in the truck occupied.”

“What about your inside man?”

Joey makes a face. “It’s a she, and no, she’s not the one to do this with me.”

“Problem is, neither am I. I’ve got a wife, kids, and a steady job. Sorry, Joey.”

He smiles at me as if I’m kidding him. Slowly it wears off once he realizes I’m not, and what’s left behind is the hard look of a stone-cold killer.

“You’re full of shit,” he tells me.

I shrug. “It’s the way it is now.”

“You’re only kidding yourself. A fucking blind man can see that.”

I don’t say anything.

I can see the decision being made in his eyes on what he’s going to do next. “Are you going to rat me out?” he asks.