“The phone call I received was threatening,” I said. “The person calling me threatened my life.”
She blinked several times as she looked at me, at first not believing what I told her. Then it dawned on her who I was. Her plastic smile faded fast from her face, leaving fear floating in her now liquid eyes. Watching the transformation that came over her made me just want to get the hell out of there.
“I don’t know who sold you the phone,” she said, lying to me, her voice weak, shaky. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. Like she wanted nothing more than to bolt from the store. “If you’d like I could exchange your phone so you would have a new number.”
I thought about it, but decided I’d rather keep the phone. If someone wanted to call me badly enough, let them. “That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ll keep this one.” I started towards the door. I wanted to get out of there before she passed out on me, which she looked like she was about to do. I could spend some mornings watching the store for when my salesman returned back to work, but it would probably be as big a waste of time as this was. I doubted whether he would’ve gotten a name for whoever it was he gave my number to. Even if he was able to describe the person to me, what good would it do? After fourteen years out of the game, odds were I wouldn’t know him, and even if it was someone from the old days, so what?
I did get one useful piece of information out of this. Someone must’ve followed me to the store when I first bought the phone, which meant someone was keeping track of me. At least on that day they were.
On my way back to my apartment I stopped off at the diner I’d had breakfast at my first morning out of prison and every day since. The same waitress from before was working – the one with the thick black mascara painted on to match her dye-job and lipstick. She’d been on the job every morning I’d been there. She still didn’t know who I was, but the last couple of days she had warmed up to me – at least enough where she had dropped the gag about only allowing me two refills with a cup of coffee. When she saw me walk in and take a table, her eyes sparkled like black polished glass and a thin smile twisted her lips.
She walked over to my table, leaned in close, and said softly enough so that only I could hear, “The old coot’s back again.”
“I’ve been called worse,” I said.
“I’m sure you have,” she said, her smile turning more playful. “I’d ask if you’d like your usual, but with senility and all, I doubt you’d remember what your usual was.”
I sat back in my seat and arched an eyebrow at her. “Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you so sure I’m senile?”
She looked around quickly to make sure no one could hear her. “This is your fourth straight day coming here. You obviously can’t remember what the food tastes like.”
I laughed at that, and the sound of it startled me. It was the first time I had laughed out loud in years. In my mind I’d imagined my laugh sounding completely different, not like the wheezing, crackling noise that ended up oozing out of me. I cut it off quickly.
“I’ve been eating a lot worse,” I said. “And yeah, I’ll have the usual.”
She gave me a funny look, but nodded. “Corned beef hash, poached eggs and pancakes it is. If you’re going to be coming here all the time, we might as well know each other’s names so that I can quit calling you the old coot, not that it’s not fitting. My name’s Lucinda.”
She offered me a small hand, her fingernails painted the same black as her lips, hair and eyes. I took it, felt the warmth of her skin. I almost gave her my real name, but I ended up telling her I was Larry.
“Larry, huh?” she said. “I guess we’re both a couple of Ls. Seems so fitting. I’ll get your breakfast order in.” She started to walk away but stopped to look over her shoulder at me. “You should laugh more,” she told me. “It sounds like you’re badly out of practice.”
I watched as she walked away, and fought against the impure thoughts I was having about a girl younger than my own daughter. Once I remembered how I now looked and how old I was, those thoughts went away as fast as if a switch had been thrown. As if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on my head.
Like every other time I’d been there I was sitting with my back to the window so that passersby wouldn’t be able to recognize me. I didn’t hear him walk into the diner, and it caught me by surprise when he sat across from me. He was the same man I’d seen earlier after I’d gotten that phone calclass="underline" the one who caught me looking in his direction and ended up staring back at me in response.
“Leonard March?” he said.
I didn’t say anything. Instinctively I reached for the knife laid out in front of me. He noticed this movement, and I caught myself and pulled my hand back. We both sat staring at each other. He was balding, a thick build, and sloppily dressed with his jacket collar partially up and a polo shirt hanging loosely out of his pants. I knew he wasn’t part of Lombard’s organization – he was too soft-looking for it to be that. Almost as if a deck of cards were flipping through my mind, I tried to picture the faces of the men I had killed. Some of them were nothing more than a blur, most, though, I could see clearly. If this man was related to any of them, I couldn’t figure it out.
“You have to be Leonard March,” he said, nodding, satisfied. His tongue was thick and looked almost purple as it pushed out of his mouth and wetted his lips. He leaned forward so that his arms rested on the table. They were thick, heavy arms, but more fat than muscle.
“My name’s Andy Baker,” he said, an eagerness shining in his eyes. “I have a proposition for you.”
He waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, he appeared stuck for a few seconds as if things weren’t going according to a carefully devised script. He wet his lips again, said, “I’m a writer. I want to write a book with you.”
That wasn’t what I was expecting. I gave him a hard look, trying to figure out if this was some line or if he was serious.
“How long have you been following me?” I asked.
“What? No, I haven’t been following you. When I heard on the news about you living in Waltham, I drove down here this morning hoping to spot you, but no, I haven’t been following you. Just serendipity, that’s all.”
“You didn’t call me on my cell phone this morning?”
He looked confused. “Call you on your cell phone? What are you talking about? How would I’ve gotten your number?” He edged closer, said, “But I do want to write a book with you. The two of us can make a lot of money doing this, Mr March. Maybe a hundred grand each for the advance, a lot more if the book does well.”
I sat quietly appraising him. He was serious, but he was also talking out of his ass. He didn’t have a book deal. Even if he did, though, I wouldn’t have had any interest. Even if I could’ve kept the money instead of paying it all out after the wrongful death suits went to court, I wouldn’t have had any interest.
“I have some advice for you,” I said.
“What?”
“Next time you want to talk business with someone, ask if you can sit at their table. Don’t just force your way in like an asshole.”
At first his expression was blank. Once he comprehended what I said, hurt showed on his mouth. He pushed himself a few inches from the table.
“I’m sorry if I was rude, but I’ve been talking to publishers, and the money I’m telling you about is real.”
“All I want is for you to get up from my table and walk away.”
It was like all the air had been let out of a tire the way he seemed to deflate right in front of me. He stood up, took a couple of aimless steps away from me, then fished a business card out of his pocket and spun on his heels like a drunk man so he could drop the card on the table in front of me.
“When you change your mind, call me,” he said. “There’s too much money in this for you not to change your mind.”
He stood silently staring at me, a shrewdness slowly taking over his expression. “I’ve read enough about you to know what your financial situation is,” he continued. “And besides, this would give you a chance to get your story out in your own words instead of how the media is portraying you.”