“I guess that’s it,” Theo said.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Maybe after these legal issues are settled you can think about relocation.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, although we both knew it wouldn’t much matter by then. By that time, one way or another, it would be over. I’d be either dead or forgotten.
“We might as well finish processing you,” Theo said with a tired smile.
He brought out a small stack of paperwork for me to sign, and while I did that he left the office. When he returned he had my personal effects – belt, wallet, watch and wedding ring. I was surprised no one had stolen the watch. It must’ve been tempting, especially with the thought of me dying in prison and no one ever finding out about it.
I slipped the belt on. It was too big for me, my pants still dragging down. I was going to have to carve out a few more holes in it. I almost asked Theo if he had a pocket knife, but he didn’t seem the type and I had the thought that he’d panic and start thinking there were other reasons for me asking for one.
“Do you want me to arrange a taxi to take you to the commuter rail?” Theo asked after waiting for me to slip my wallet and wedding ring into my pants pocket. I did the same with my watch.
I shook my head. I had a hundred and seventy-two dollars on me, forty of which I had when I was arrested, the rest from my prison account and what Theo had been able to arrange as an advance on my monthly public assistance payments. I needed to conserve the little I had. The station was four and a half miles away. A taxi probably wouldn’t cost more than a few bucks, but still, I’d walk it. The fresh air would do me good after all these years. Maybe it would help with my headache.
“Do the reporters know I’m being released today?”
Theo made a face. “They shouldn’t. I’ve gotten a few calls, and have been practicing the art of misinformation by giving them Wednesday as your release date.”
The door opened and a guard came in. He nodded at Theo, then fixed his gaze past me, making sure to avoid eye contact. I stood up and thanked Theo for his decency.
Fortunately I didn’t embarrass myself any further by gushing about how it was the only decency I’d been treated to over the past fourteen years, because I could clearly see the thoughts that passed through his eyes – that he was just doing his job and it wasn’t his place to pass judgment on people, that he would leave that to God. He didn’t say any of that. Instead he must’ve decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “Good luck to you, Mr March,” he said. There was no hand offered, not that I expected one. I gathered up the paperwork he had given me, and left with the guard who was waiting to escort me out.
This guard was not the same one who had brought me to Theo’s office. At least twenty years older, short-cropped gray hair, thick folds creasing his bulldog-shaped face. He didn’t say a word to me while he led me to the front gate. I stepped outside, blinking, the sun big and bright overhead. The gate to the prison closed quietly behind me. There was no one out there waiting for me, no one in the prison had dropped a dime to the media about me being released today. I could understand that. I was an embarrassment to them. If they could’ve they would have thrown away the key and never let me out, but they didn’t have that option. Not that there hadn’t been guards trying to bait me over the years in the hope of extending my sentence, but it was always done half-heartedly, and always with some fear. They knew what I was capable of, and they had to be worried that I’d ignore the bait – which I always did – and get out someday. Now that they had to release me, they wanted it done as quietly as possible. I couldn’t much blame them.
It was the middle of October, and it was cold out, maybe in the low forties, and with the wind whipping about, it felt colder. Within seconds I was feeling a chill deep in my bones. These days I got cold so damn easily. I zipped up my jacket and grabbed the open collar, trying to hold it closed as much as I could around the neck area. Then, after looking around to see if there were any cars idling nearby and seeing that there weren’t, I set out on foot to catch a train.
chapter 3
1965
Word’s out about Ernie Arlosi hitting a Trifecta at Suffolk Downs the other day, and we figure he should be happy to spread the wealth and kick some of his winnings over to us to keep him and his store in one piece. The dumb bastard ends up trying to put up a fight and I have to rap him a few times in the mouth with a piece of pipe while Steve and Joey smash up one of his freezers before he pays up. It was so fucking unnecessary, but some guys are just stupid that way. So we leave him with his mouth a bloody mess, and his store not much better. It all could’ve just gone down so easily, but he made his choice. Not that I care one way or the other.
The next day I’m by myself walking down Centennial Avenue when a silver Caddy rolls up next to me. Even before the window slides down I have a good idea whose car it is, and who’s going to be sitting in the passenger seat. Sure enough it’s Vincent DiGrassi. I don’t recognize the muscle behind the wheel or the other wiseguy sitting in the backseat, but DiGrassi I recognize. Everyone knows he’s Salvatore Lombard’s right-hand man.
With his eyes DiGrassi motions for me to get in. I don’t have a choice in the matter, but even if I did, I still would’ve gotten in there. The wiseguy in back gives me a cold stare as I join him. Neither DiGrassi nor the driver bother looking at me. The car takes off, driving straight down Centennial Avenue until it reaches Revere Beach Boulevard, then takes a right, goes through the rotary and on to Winthrop Parkway. The car keeps driving until it reaches a small battered-looking Colonial a few blocks from the ocean. We’re on a dead-end street, no neighbors in sight, and close enough to one of the runways at Logan Airport where the noise of the planes taking off is deafening. We all get out of the car. As isolated as the place is, I doubt anybody sees us. The two wiseguys crowd me and hustle me into the house. DiGrassi tails behind.
They take me into the basement. Nobody’s talking. The house shakes for a half a minute with the rumbling of a plane taking off. One of the wiseguys picks up a sword – the type a samurai might use – and unsheathes it. While he runs his thumb over the blade, he grins at me. It’s a nasty grin, kind of like he’s telling me how much he hopes he gets to hack me up with that sword. I don’t pay him any attention. I don’t pay any of them any attention.
DiGrassi speaks to me for the first time. He has a tenor’s voice. Smooth, melodic, it makes me think of my pop’s old records, the ones he used to play every Sunday. The voice doesn’t fit DiGrassi’s thick body and craggy, badly scarred face. He calls me punk, asks me how old I am. I tell him my name’s Lenny March, not punk.
The wiseguy holding the sword hits me with its hilt in the stomach. I don’t show any reaction to it. I think I surprise DiGrassi by not doubling over. At least, his right eyebrow arches for a second.
“I didn’t ask you for your name, asshole,” he says. “I know your fucking name. Ernie Arlosi knows your fucking name. How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“How the fuck d’you get so shitbrained dumb in only twenty years?” he asks.
I can’t help smiling. The words coming out of his mouth just don’t match his high tenor’s voice. The other wiseguy hits me in the mouth hard enough to loosen teeth. I taste blood, but I don’t show any reaction other than that little smile of mine.
DiGrassi moves his face so it’s inches from mine, so when he yells a spray of spit hits me. “You know who the fuck I am?”