Dave Zeltserman: Killer

I stood on the street corner thumbing through the papers Theo had given me, the cold from the wind numbing my face. When I found the apartment rental form, I squinted at it until my eyes adjusted enough for me to be able to read the address on it. Then I set off on foot.

The apartment Theo arranged for me was in the basement of a five-story brick tenement building which looked like it had been built in the sixties. When I first showed up there, the woman working in the office gave me an empty stare as if I were any other low-income elderly renter, and it was clear to me that she had no idea who I was. She was in her forties, heavy, with badly thinning red hair, and this dull look about her like she was someone who had little interest in anything, at least not enough to bother paying attention to what was in the news and in the papers. If she was the person Theo had dealt with, it explained why my application was accepted. Or maybe even if she knew that I was a confessed hit man, it still wouldn’t have mattered to her.

Theo had set it up for the state to pay my security deposit and first month’s rent as part of the DOC’s prisoner reintegration program. After that I’d be responsible for all future payments, although I’d be getting additional state assistance checks for my first six months.

After I signed the required paperwork, the woman gave me a key and warned me that in a week I’d have to make my apartment available to their pest maintenance person; which meant clearing the countertops and storing any plates, glasses and silverware in boxes so the kitchen could be sprayed. I didn’t bother telling her that that wasn’t going to be a problem.

The apartment was a one-room studio with the kitchen and the living area all in the same space. It was supposed to be furnished, but there wasn’t much in it. A small cot, about the same as what I’d slept on in prison, and a badly chipped dresser from the seventies whose three drawers all stuck. The kitchen area had a sink and enough counter space to maybe hold a few canisters and a toaster. Three cheaply built and falling apart cabinets were placed above a stove that was from the same era as the dresser, and an even older refrigerator sat wedged in the corner. The floor around the stove felt greasy, and the small amount of countertop also had a thin layer of grease and other dirt covering it. When I moved closer, I noticed the small pellets scattered about. Mouse droppings. A quick look showed the bathroom was in worse shape, and even dirtier. Not much more than a tiny cubbyhole that barely fit the toilet, sink and shower stall crammed into it.

The place had a dank, unhealthy smell to it. Given the old-style industrial tiles used in the flooring, it was clear that the basement had never been intended for habitation and must have been meant for storage and converted later to apartments. I knew from experience that the tiles were made with asbestos, and I noticed a few of them were crumbling which made them health hazards. It would probably cost a small fortune to dig them all out so they had chosen to ignore it. Later when I had time I’d buy some cheap carpeting to cover them and hope that that would save me from lung cancer. Yeah, I know, wishful thinking.

I stood still for a moment, taking in what five hundred and sixty dollars a month bought these days. A dirty, musty, pest-infested space of maybe four hundred square feet, which made it both spacious and luxurious compared to where I was coming from. I’d make do. First thing I’d have to do was clean the place and get a few items – a lamp, a radio, and a card table and folding chair so I’d have someplace to eat. That would have to be later, though. It was three o’clock and I had to report at eight for work, and the bone weariness I’d been feeling earlier was now more as if my bone marrow had been replaced with lead. Christ, I couldn’t remember being this worn out. I moved over to the cot. The mattress had a brownish-yellowish stain running over it. I flipped it over and the other side wasn’t much better. Fuck it. I took off my jacket and lay on my back on the mattress. The damn thing smelled heavily of perspiration and body odor, maybe even worse than what I’d had in prison, but I was out within seconds.

I know he’s dead. I think it happened when I cracked his head against the door. It wasn’t that hard a blow, but he must’ve had something already wrong with him. Shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I sneak a quick peek over at Charlie and Hank. They haven’t caught on yet, so I keep up the act pretending the fucker’s still breathing. This was only supposed to be a shakedown, and I don’t want to let on yet that I’ve fucked up. My first kill, and it’s a damn accident.

“You miserable cocksucking prick,” I say, lifting the dead fucker by his collar, his head lolling limply to the side, “where the fuck’s our money?” While holding him up with my left hand, I start hitting his dead face with my right fist.

Hank and Charlie are swapping jokes. They stop. The only sound is me punching that dead face. It doesn’t sound much different than if I’d been pounding a cold slab of beef. Charlie tells me to relax, that there’s no reason to work up such a sweat. I sense Hank moving closer so he can get a better look.

“Shit, Lenny, I think he’s dead,” Hank says.

“Fucker’s just playing possum,” I say. I’m breathing hard now from my exertion. I reach back to throw one last punch, but Hank grabs my arm and stops me.

“He’s not playing. He’s dead.”

I make a face as if I still don’t believe it. “In that case, I better fucking make sure, huh?” I pull my arm free from Hank’s grip, grab a lead sap that I keep under my waistband, and hit the dead man hard enough in the skull to leave a three inch dent. I let go of the body and it drops with a thud to the floor.

“Fucking vicious sonofabitch,” Charlie says, but he’s laughing softly, maybe even with a little admiration. The two of them are taking it better than I would’ve thought.

Because it was only supposed to be a shakedown, none of us bothered wearing gloves. Hank and Charlie have been in the game longer than me, and they start walking around the room wiping off fingerprints. I bend down over the dead man, wipe my sap clean using his shirt, and pull out his wallet. There’s three hundred dollars in it. He was on the books for five grand, but at least this is something. I tell Hank and Charlie about the money. “I knew the cocksucker was holding out on us,” I say. I kick the body a couple of times in the chest, hard enough to have killed him if he wasn’t already dead. I’d rather have Hank and Charlie think I’m a psycho then give them any hint about me worrying how Vincent DiGrassi is going to take this. And I am worried.

Hank and Charlie have worked their way to a back entrance. Hank tilts his head to one side, signaling for me to join them. I kick the dead body once last time and, as nonchalantly as I can, leave with them.

We walk quickly down an alley, then once we’re a block away, at a more normal pace to a side street where we left the car. It’s late, the streets are empty. Charlie’s laughing softly, puts an arm around my shoulder and comments how I’ve got antifreeze running in my veins. Hank looks deep in thought. After Charlie pulls away, Hank moves close to me and tells me softly enough so only I can hear that DiGrassi isn’t going to be happy. As if he’s telling me something I don’t know.

We still have some time before last call. I’m driving so I stop off at the Broken Drum. Since I’m the one who fucked up, I buy us each a half a dozen rounds, beating last call by minutes. The bartender’s not happy pouring out so many rounds that late knowing how much longer he’s going to have to keep the bar open, but he knows who we work for so he doesn’t say anything. While we’re drinking I notice for the first time how swollen and cut up my knuckles are. None of us talk much, it’s almost as if we’re at a wake. It’s not as if the fucker didn’t deserve a beating, but I don’t think he’s what any of us are thinking about – at least he’s not who I’m thinking about. When we’re done with our drinks, I drive Charlie and Hank back to Revere where we hooked up earlier, then I drive across the bridge to Chelsea and to my apartment.