Dave Zeltserman - Killer

Later, miraculously, I slept through the night, and woke up only when the alarm went off at six o’clock Monday morning. I lay disoriented before remembering where I was and what I had to do later that morning. Reaching over, I turned off the buzzer and forced myself out of bed. My court appearance was scheduled for ten o’clock. The previous week I had worked out the connecting buses I needed to take to get to the courthouse in Chelsea, and it required me to leave my apartment by seven-thirty.

I made myself a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, along with toast, then took a shower, shaved, and changed into the cleanest clothes I had. A suit would’ve been desirable, but I didn’t have one.

Saturday morning I had gotten another call from unavailable, and instead of answering it I had turned off my cell phone. I turned my phone back on and saw that I had seven messages waiting for me. I didn’t bother checking them or the call log to see who they were from. Within minutes of turning the phone back on, it rang with the caller ID indicating again unavailable. This time I answered it, asking whoever it was what the fuck they wanted.

The same voice from the earlier calls chuckled lightly, said, “Answering your phone again, huh, March?” “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“Not too much,” he said. “Only to let you know that I’ll be seeing you in court today. And afterwards too.”

“You’re such a tough guy,” I said, “how about showing some balls and giving me your name?”

Whoever it was must’ve found some humor in my request. He broke into a wheezing laugh before telling me he’d be seeing me soon enough and I’d know his name then, and hung up.

I thought about turning off my phone again, but decided if he wanted to call me some more, let him. I found the court documents that were sent to me while I was in prison, gave them a cursory look, then took all of the papers I had with me as I headed off to catch the first bus I needed to take to get to Chelsea.

The bus let me off three blocks from the courthouse. The rain had stopped sometime Sunday night, and it was a crisp late October day. I had forty minutes before my scheduled court appearance, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in a hall surrounded by an angry mob of my victims’ relatives, so instead I found a small diner a block in the opposite direction of the courthouse and took a seat at the counter. There were several blue-collar types already sitting at the counter, all big heavy men who showed the kind of work they did by their dirt-stained fingernails. One by one they looked over at me, and as they did, I could see a faint glint of recognition in their eyes. That was it, though. They didn’t show anything by their pokerfaced expressions, nor did they say anything. They drank their coffee, while a couple of them also ignored the state-wide smoking ban as they let cigs burn between their fingers. One of them got up and casually headed towards the door, his pace quickening only once he got near it.

Through the storefront window I saw him take out a cell phone, then watched as he walked out of view. Whoever he was going to be calling it didn’t much matter – I’d be heading back to court before they’d show up.

I nodded to the guy working the counter who from his demeanor probably also owned the place. He was a middle-aged man, barrel-chested, with a thick neck and a red face, and had on a stained tee shirt and an even more badly stained apron over a pair of khakis. A short buzz cut flattened out the top of his head. He stood to the side glowering at me, several blue-green tattoos expanding as he ominously flexed his arm muscles. He clearly didn’t want to wait on me, but I asked him for some coffee anyway.

“We don’t serve rats here,” he said, a deep frown creasing his face, and his mouth puckered up to show his disgust.

I couldn’t get over that. We don’t serve rats here. It didn’t matter that I had murdered all the people that I did, what he cared about was that I had ratted on Lombard. It just seemed so out of proportion, and I could feel my blood heating up and my steely old self coming to the fore, and I told him he’d better start learning how to. He wavered, not quite so sure of himself after that, and grudgingly poured me a cup of coffee. He didn’t even spit in it as he pushed it towards me. The other customers sitting at the counter had picked up on my tone, and I could sense their growing nervousness. I looked over my shoulder at them and could see the tightness around each of their mouths as they struggled to maintain their nonchalant act. If I yelled boo at least one of them probably would’ve passed out on the spot. I looked away from them.

I sat quietly for the next ten minutes and drank my coffee. The place had become a tomb. All conversation had died. The man working the counter avoided looking in my direction, almost as if he was scared he’d turn to stone if he caught a glimpse of me, while the other blue-collar types at the counter were afraid to make any movement outside of a few anxious glances. All because I had let my old self out for a brief moment. When I finished my coffee I dropped a couple of dollars on the counter and left.

It was a few minutes before ten by the time I had arrived at the courthouse. Standing outside were two wiseguys. They both had the same hardened look about them, both dressed casually in jeans and sneakers; one wearing a leather bomber jacket, the other a New England Patriots windbreaker. They had on dark shades so I couldn’t see their eyes, but there was no hiding that they were in the game, and my gut told me they worked for Lombard. I knew they were watching me as I entered the courthouse but they kept their distance. They could have just as well been carved out of granite by the way they stood unmoving and the cold deadness in their faces.

I was left alone as I walked through the courthouse, and it wasn’t until I reached the courtroom where my hearing was scheduled that I encountered an angry mob waiting for me. There were maybe thirty people there and they erupted at the sight me. They started yelling at me, mostly about what they hoped would happen to me in the near future. One big burly guy who looked like he could’ve been a bouncer at a club made a charge at me. Two of the other people in the crowd were able to get in his way and pull him back, but he kept trying to break free, red-faced and spittle flying off as he yelled at me. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t have broken his wrist if he had put a hand on me, but I guess the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

I stood for a moment trying to pick out their individual voices to see if I could recognize the joker who had been calling me on the cell phone, but there was too much noise coming from them for me to be able to do that. Faces in the crowd did seem familiar, and I realized how much some of them resembled the men that I’d taken out, in particular, the thick-bodied bouncer-type who had gone after me. I tried to remember who he had looked so much like, but couldn’t quite pull it out of my memory.

I gave up the effort of trying to match their faces with my past targets, and pushed my way through them so I could get into the courtroom. They followed me in, still shouting at me. The court clerk, a short gnome-like man with a stooped back, looked up, startled by the commotion, and warned them to be quiet or they would be arrested. They didn’t stop until the bailiff took a few menacing steps in their direction while shouting for them to shut up. After that they took their seats, but their faces showed their rage.

I took a seat in the front row. The clerk appeared visibly shaken as he looked over the courtroom. After a few minutes the judge entered the room from his chambers. He was tall and thin and with a pink face and a full head of wavy white hair. The clerk had us all rise as he announced him, and the judge took his time walking to the bench. After he was seated, the clerk approached him for a short conversation, and the judge quickly looked annoyed at what he heard. Clearing his throat, he addressed the court as the clerk had earlier, warning that outbursts would not be tolerated.