Dave Zeltserman - Killer

Her voice brittle, she said, “I liked you better when you were just an old coot.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do me a favor and find some other place to eat breakfast. I’d just as soon never see you again.”

“Lucinda, that was all a long time ago, I was a different person back then…”

My voice faded on me. The look on her face showed what I said didn’t matter. “Okay, sure, if that’s what you want.” My voice again sounded distant and foreign to me. “As soon as I’m done here you won’t see me again.”

I turned away from her, fixed my attention back on my food and continued eating my breakfast. I would’ve liked a refill on my coffee, but I wasn’t going to ask Lucinda for one, and instead planned on getting a cup at a convenience store. As I ate I looked up and met all of their stares until they looked away. I didn’t care any more whether people recognized me. In a way this was good, it hardened me to the prospect. It also woke me up about the way I was spending money. I was living as if I only had another month or two left, but I’d already been out over a week without any sign of Lombard’s boys, and the only relative of any of my victims who bothered looking me up turned out to be a gutless wonder who just wanted to spout off in front of an audience. It was possible that I was going to fade into the background, and that I’d be around a lot longer than I’d thought. I needed to quit eating out as much as I did, maybe buy a few pots and pans and start cooking more for myself.

The place was still as quiet as a tomb when I finished eating. I hesitated for a moment before dropping a twenty dollar bill to cover the food and tip, then left without looking back.

That afternoon I tried calling both Michael and Allison, and left them messages. I didn’t expect them to return my calls, but maybe I’d wear them down over time. After that I went to the library, and a reference librarian helped me try to track down Paul’s address and phone number on a computer. We came up empty. It was at best a wild goose chase. For all I knew he could’ve changed his last name, or be living overseas somewhere. He could even be dead for all I knew.

That same night while I was working I heard voices drifting in from the lobby. I was vacuuming a third-floor office when that happened. When I later asked the kid working security about it, he tried to look through me as if I didn’t exist, then finally admitted that he had been talking to his girlfriend on the phone.

“Some sort of law against that?” he demanded.

“You better lose the attitude,” I warned him, and left to finish my cleaning.

I thought about those voices I heard. It had sounded as if there was more than one person talking, but it was hard to tell with the noise the vacuum made, and by the time I’d realized what was happening and turned it off the conversation had ended. I guess it was possible the kid working security had his girlfriend on speakerphone, but that seemed far-fetched. More likely he was doing some business on the side, probably drugs, and had one or more customers over. If I was my old self I would’ve gotten the answer out of him quick enough, but I was no longer my old self. Besides, it was no concern of mine whether he was lying to me to cover some illegal activity. I had no interest in trying to push my way in on it, so it didn’t really matter one way or the other.

I had more important things on my mind.

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.