Dave Zeltserman - Killer

He clamped his mouth shut after that and focused on his digging. It was another twenty minutes before he hit a wood plank. He pried it out with the shovel, then reached in and pulled out a valise. Inside were packets of bills wrapped in cellophane.

“You can count it if you’d like,” he said. “There’s over a hundred grand in there.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Let’s go get your incriminating evidence.”

I followed him up the stairs and out of the house. Nick Lombard saw the Cadillac parked off in the distance.

“Let me check on my guys,” he said. “I want to see they’re okay.”

I waved my gun at him, dismissing the idea. “For now they’ll keep where they are.”

He had a red Mercedes sports coupe convertible parked off to the side. I took the passenger seat while he got behind the wheel. It was a shame it was too cold to put the top down. When we drove past the Cadillac, I could see the worried glance he gave it.

Sal Lombard pours both of us glasses of Dewar’s. While I’m sipping my scotch, he takes a couple of Montecristos from a box and offers me one. I decline and he cuts the end off his and lights up. After several puffs, the room’s clouding up with the pungent smell of tobacco. I was never one for cigars. Not much for scotch either.

Sal and I are alone, although he’s got several of his boys in the room next door. The two of us both went through a lot of trouble to make sure we weren’t followed to this hotel suite. It’s important that we keep our association hidden from the authorities, which is why we rarely meet face to face. When we do, it’s usually at a suite like this one. Lombard has several of them rented anonymously throughout the city, and he takes the necessary precautions to make sure the Feds don’t have a clue about them.

“Lenny, what’s so fucking urgent?” he asks, his eyes bugging out to show his impatience.

I can’t help feeling that he already knows what I’m going to tell him, and I remember the other hit man in his employ that I took out years ago. I know he’s not going to let me retire. I know why his boys are sitting in the room next door. Still, Sal’s smart enough to know that before they’d get to me I’d have his jugular sliced open.

I drain my scotch and start to tell him how screwed up things went with Marzone.

“Don’t worry about it, Lenny,” he says. “Marzone was always a slippery fucker, but you finished the job. That’s all that matters.”

I shake my head. “This job was cursed from the beginning,” I say. “When I finally catch up to him my piece of shit Luger jams on me. Then the sonofabitch takes off and runs me a good mile through the streets of East Boston before I catch up with him for the second time. How the fuck I wasn’t spotted that night, I still don’t know. Sal, I think this was a sign for me to quit this shit.”

I sit quietly after that with my hangdog expression. I don’t tell him about the girl in the bulky green parka, or what I had to do to her. I don’t tell him how young and innocent she looked or how I’m haunted every night now by the memory of what I had to do to dispose of her body. Or how hard it is for me now to close my eyes without seeing her. If I told him any of that I’d be dead. We’d both be dead.

Sal’s appraising me quietly. All at once he breaks out laughing. It’s a quiet laugh, his body convulsing with it. It’s a while before his body stops shaking like jelly. Once that happens, he wipes a few tears from his eye and smiles broadly at me.

“You telling me because of a couple of bad breaks you want to quit?” he says. “I don’t believe it, Lenny. I know you, I know what’s in your blood. You can’t quit this. You’d be fucking miserable.”

“It’s a sign, Sal-” I try telling him.

“Fuck that. It was a few tough breaks, but you nailed the motherfucker in the end. Right now you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You’ll snap out of it. Take your wife and kids to Florida for a few weeks. You’ll be as good as new when you come back.”

I shake my head. “I can’t do this any more. I’m sorry.”

He grows very quiet, his eyes nearly lifeless as he studies me. Finally, he says, “I can’t let you quit, Lenny. I know you’re smart enough to know that.”

I nod, but don’t bother saying anything. We’re both staring at each other now. He knows what I’m thinking just as I know what he is. He knows what will happen if he calls out for his boys in the next room.

“Where does this leave us?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it only the hits you don’t want to do? What about still working for me?”

“It depends. What do you have in mind?”

Sal pours himself a fresh glass of Dewar’s. He takes his time drinking it, all the while giving me a hard look.

“I’m starting up a new business by the docks,” he says. “It needs a smart guy in charge, which you fucking are even if you’re going to give me this bullshit about you not being a killer any more. You still up to some rough stuff if necessary?”

“If necessary.”

“Okay then.”

He fills up my glass and we drink a toast to our new venture. Whatever moment of danger that had existed between us has passed.

present

Sophie had an ancient-looking Volvo parked outside the coffee shop Saturday morning. I threw an overnight bag into the back seat, then joined her up front. She handed me a large coffee and a muffin that she had bought earlier at the shop, which I gladly took from her. The weather had turned colder – the type of cold where you can see your breath – and I held the coffee with both hands to warm them.

“Thanks for this,” I said, acknowledging the food and coffee. I looked hesitantly at the interior of the car, adding, “You sure this tin can can drive? This car has got to be at least thirty years old.”

Sophie smiled at that. It was a nice smile. With no makeup on, her thick hair pulled back into a pony tail, and wearing a ratty sweatshirt and a torn pair of jeans, she still looked more gorgeous than most women would look dolled-up and dressed to the nines.

“Not to worry,” she said. “My friend promised me it will get us there and back. I also rented us a laptop computer. As long as we can figure out how to use it we’ll be playing writer this weekend. Excited?”

“Sure.”

She put her hand on my arm and gave me a slight squeeze. “You don’t look too excited. Come on, Leonard, cheer up, this is going to be fun. An adventure.”

“I am glad we’re doing this,” I said.

“So am I,” she said. She handed me a piece of paper with hand-written directions scrawled on it. “The first few hours we’re just going straight up Route 93, then the directions get a little complicated and I’ll need your help… Leonard, darling, what’s so amusing?”

I waved it off. “Nothing,” I said. “Just some random thought.”

She gave me a funny look. “Save those for the book,” she said. “A little humor won’t hurt.”

She had a small stack of cassette tapes, and smiled as she told me they came with the car. She asked me what I wanted to listen to and I told her to choose, and she plugged in The Grateful Dead. For most of the trip I sat back deep in thought over what had happened during the past few days and what was going to be happening in the near future, and was barely aware of the music Sophie was playing or the scenery we were passing. Every once in a while I’d look over at Sophie. The excitement burning on her was palpable, and I don’t think she had ever looked more beautiful.

After we got off Route 93, the directions did get a little tricky, but we were able to navigate to the cabin, which really was in the middle of nowhere. I ignored Sophie’s protests, and loaded myself up with the laptop and all the other baggage and food that she had brought, leaving her to carry only her handbag.