Dave Zeltserman - Killer

Later, as I was vacuuming the offices I thought I heard voices again drifting in from the lobby, but by the time I turned the vacuum off they were gone. This time I didn’t bother checking it out.

I can still smell that dense, musky smell coming from my skin.

I’ve been sitting in the steam room at the Y off and on for over two hours now and I can’t seem to sweat it out of me. Deep down I know the smell doesn’t really exist, that it’s some sort of obsessive compulsive thing going on, but it doesn’t help me much. I took the target out hours ago. It was a clean hit, too. No witnesses, no surprises, not even a drop of blood on me.

I play the hit over in my mind. The guy I took out is a piece of shit, and nobody’s going to be missing him much. I have no remorse over what I did. This isn’t anything like that. No guilt is eating away at me. It’s just that when I smell that odor, even if I know it’s only in my mind, I don’t want my kids anywhere near me. I can’t help feeling that if I have any physical contact with them, I’ll get that stench all over them too, and I don’t want to stain them that way. Even if I know it’s all just in my head.

And that’s the rub. Because today is Paul’s sixth birthday. Jenny’s throwing a party for him, something she’s been planning for a while now, and I promised her I’d be there. And fuck, I want to be there. But then I had to get that call last night. Sal Lombard needed the hit done this morning. I couldn’t argue with him. He’s not the type of man you can argue with. Besides, I wouldn’t have had any good reason for postponing it. The hit went down easy and all it should mean is once less piece of scum in the world.

I leave the steam room to go back to the showers where I scrub myself under hot water for a good fifteen minutes. This is the third time I’ve done this. After I turn off the water I inhale deeply. The stench is faint, but it’s still there. Me, personally, I couldn’t care less about it, but I just don’t want it on my kids. As it is I know they sense something about me, at least Michael and Allison do. Michael’s always been a quiet and moody kid, and the last year it’s like he skulks around when he’s near me, never saying more than two words to me, at least not voluntarily. It breaks my heart having him like that.

Something’s up with Allison too. She always used to be Daddy’s little girl, always jumping into my lap when I’m trying to read the racing forms or watching TV. She doesn’t do that any more. Hasn’t for months now. Recently I’ve been catching this odd look on her, like she’s not quite sure what to make of me.

Jenny knows something’s not right with me and these two kids. She doesn’t say anything to me about it, but I can see the questioning looks she gives me when those two start moping around in my presence, like I’m abusing them or something. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve never once laid a hand on either of them. Never raised my voice either. So I ignore those looks Jenny gives me. What am I going to tell her? How am I going to explain that those two have a bad feeling about me? Christ, it doesn’t make any sense. Even the family cat still crawls into my arms as if I’m a decent person. Those two kids somehow see something that the cat doesn’t, or at least they think they do.

Paul’s different than Michael and Allison. Whatever it is that the other two kids think they know about me, he’s oblivious to it. Maybe it’s because he takes after me while the other two have so much of Jenny in them. With Allison it’s a good thing, you can see that she’s going to grow up to be a beautiful woman. Even with Michael I guess it’s probably good too; maybe he’ll escape having to be the same ugly fuck I am.

Paul, though, he’s already a miniature version of me. Short and thin and wiry, and with this ferociousness about him. He’s half the size of Michael, and only six years old to Michael’s eleven, but I’d still bet money on Paul having a first-round knockout if the two of them ever got into a fight. But there’s not much chance of that ever happening – whenever Paul tries pushing Michael into a fight, Michael backs down, and as much as he tries to pretend otherwise, it’s out of fear, not restraint.

I head back to the steam room to try to sweat out the last faint remnants of that stench, and I see from a clock on the wall that the party has already been underway for over an hour. I doubt it will still be going on by the time I head home. Jenny’s going to be disappointed, but she won’t say anything to me about it. She stopped voicing her disappointment years ago, besides, she knows whatever excuse I give her will be a lie. Anyway, deep down inside the last thing she wants is any hint of the truth. Paul, on the other hand, won’t let it faze him one way or the other. With Michael and Allison this will be one more grudge for them to hold against me.

I take a seat in the steam room and close my eyes, my head lowered, a towel hanging loosely around my neck. I don’t have much left to sweat out, but what else am I going to do?

If only I hadn’t gotten that call last night…

present

At nine o’clock the next morning someone knocked on my door. When I didn’t answer it, the person knocked harder and shouted through the door, announcing himself as Eric Slaine, a reporter for one of the local Boston papers. I put away the book I had been reading and pushed myself out of the recliner. If Lombard’s boys had figured out where I was living, they wouldn’t bother with a trick like pretending they were a reporter to get me to open the door – they would just kick it down.

I opened the door enough to look out. Standing in the hallway was a kid in his thirties, about my size, dressed casually in jeans and a turtleneck sweater. As thin and short as he was, he was good-looking with thick brown hair and the type of pretty-boy looks a lot of girls go for. He also looked damned pleased with himself as he stood there smirking at me.

He introduced himself again and held out a hand for me. When I didn’t take it, it didn’t deter him in the slightest. All it did was make his expression all the more smug.

“Leonard March,” he said, whistling softly to himself. “I’ve been looking nonstop for you for over a day now. What will it take to let me interview you about what happened outside Donnegan’s Liquors?”

He was lying to me. It couldn’t have been true about him looking nonstop for me, not with how refreshed he looked. He had clearly had a good night’s sleep. He’d also taken the time in the morning to shave and shower, and not a hair was out of place. You could tell he wasn’t someone who was ever going to skimp on his personal appearance. Instinctively, I didn’t like him.

“How’d you find me?” I asked.

“A professional secret,” Slaine said.

“If you were able to find me, others will too, and these will be people who are going to want something other than an interview. So why don’t you quit acting cute and tell me if someone’s selling my address.”

I didn’t need him to tell me that. I already knew somebody was. While it was no mystery that I was living in Waltham, nobody should’ve known my address, at least outside of my prison caseworker, Theo Ogden, and whoever had access to the apartment building’s administrative files. The story I was given about pest maintenance being in my apartment was bullshit. My place had been searched by professionals the other day, and I wanted to know whether Theo or someone else was giving out my address.

Slaine considered what I asked him. “I’ll trade you,” he said. “You give me an interview and I’ll tell you how I found you.”