They’ve been going at it over an hour. My stomach’s knotting up more each minute as I sit there. I can’t help worrying that the room I’m camped out in will be rented and I’ll be forced to take out more victims than just Marzone. The smart play is to go in there now and take care of the situation, but I sit paralyzed thinking of how young the girl is and the sad, almost despair-ridden look I saw on her while she waited outside Marzone’s door.
It hits me that I’m not hearing bedsprings squeaking any more, and that I haven’t for a while now. There’s still grunting and moaning and occasional voices whispering through the wall, but none of the squealing that the bed was making earlier. My blood runs cold as I strain to hear more of the voices coming from the other room and realize that’s not Marzone in there – at least it’s not the same voice I heard earlier.
A sweat dampens the back of my neck as I run out of the room. I check to make sure no one’s watching, then while holding a. 40 caliber subcompact in one hand, use my burglar’s pick to unlock Marzone’s door. The room’s empty. The noises I’d been hearing are coming from the TV set. The sonofabitch had ordered up a porn movie and left it running while he took off.
I give the room a quick search. There was nothing personal left behind. Marzone’s not coming back. That paranoid fuck must’ve left that porn movie running as a precaution. He couldn’t have known anyone was next door listening in, because if it was anyone with half a brain they wouldn’t have given a shit about the teenage hooker he was pounding away on.
I use the one clean towel in the rat-trap of a bathroom to wipe the sweat off the back of my neck and forehead, and try to think of what I’m going to tell Lombard. I know he paid good money for the tip off of where Marzone was, and I know he’s not going to be happy when he finds out Marzone’s still alive.
I curse myself out as I leave the room, and just hope Lombard will buy the load of bullshit I’ll be giving him later.
chapter 24
present
Sunday was just one of those days to get through like all those days during my fourteen-year prison stretch. It was still raining hard, and I was sick of the wet and cold, but was feeling too antsy to stay caged inside my studio apartment. By noon I had to get out, and I made my way to Moody Street and found a cheap bar to camp out in. From one o’clock to ten in the evening football was on the TV, and I nursed a half dozen beers, had a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and stared vacantly at the TV. It wasn’t quite the same watching football without having any action on the games, but at least it killed the day. At times I noticed people staring at me, but I didn’t care whether they recognized me. They gave me a wide berth, and that was all I cared about.
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.