Killer by Dave Zeltserman Page A

good part of it up to Vincent DiGrassi.
    It’s three days later when I meet up with DiGrassi. We’re being careful at this point to keep my connection with him and Lombard hidden. For six months I’ve been on the books at a liquor store over on Lansing Street so it looks like I’m gainfully employed. DiGrassi eyes me carefully. He knows things went smoothly with the hit. No witnesses, no fuss, no problems. What he wants to know is how I’m taking the killing and he’s looking hard into my eyes to figure it out. There’s nothing in there for him to see. He asks me anyway how I’m feeling and I tell him I’m sleeping as well as ever and eating even better. He grunts, satisfied, and as he gets up I hand him an envelope. Inside is three grand. He arches an eyebrow, and I tell him it’s from the sixty-three hundred I took off Slagg. For a second I can see the calculating look in his eyes as he figures I should be handing over more than three grand – after all I’m being paid well for the hit, but the look fades and instead he nods and tells me he’ll be in touch when needed.
    My first official hit. As smooth as silk. And an extra thirty-three hundred to boot. Overall I’m feeling pretty good.

chapter 8
     
    present
    I had a restless night of it where I slept at most in five-minute stretches. I think the combination of the dank mustiness of the room and the smell of the mattress kept waking me. By morning I was tired but also alert with little chance of getting any more sleep. My back was stiffer than usual, and it took a while to maneuver myself off the bed, and then to simply straighten myself to the point where I could stand normally. I decided then I was going to buy a new bed. I wasn’t going to be left with much once I bought the things I needed.
    Without a blanket or sheets it had been too cold that night to sleep in my underwear so I’d worn my clothes to bed, and later ended up putting my jacket on. Now they felt gamey and oily on me, but they were all I had so I had to wear them again. In the morning light my apartment was even more of an eyesore – the walls cracked and stained, the plaster ceiling yellowed and crumbling in spots, the floors filthy. I stumbled to the bathroom to splash water on my face, this time being careful not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I wasn’t up to that, not in the brighter light. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something scurrying towards the kitchen area, probably a mouse. I didn’t bother looking for it, though. As soon as I was done in the bathroom I left the apartment.
    It wasn’t as cold as the day before with the sun out and the skies mostly clear, but still, I was shivering. I made my way back to Moody Street. The area was quiet with little traffic on the road and outside of myself, no one else on the sidewalks.
    A clock outside a bar showed it was only ten past six. I walked a few blocks, first one side of the street, then the other, and found several greasy-spoon diners advertising breakfast, but the earliest any of them opened was six-thirty. I stepped into a twenty-four-hour convenience store and bought a large black coffee, and while I drank it I picked up a newspaper. I was on page one. The story had broken that I had been released from prison and somehow they found out that I was relocated to Waltham. The article listed the names of each of the men I killed, and scattered throughout it were quotes from their families and state pols about what an outrage it was that I’d been released. The article used what had to have been the prison photo taken several months ago when I was transferred out of Cedar Junction to the medium security prison. I hadn’t seen that photo before, but Christ I looked ghoulish in it.
    I took the paper to the cashier and bought it also. I tried to cover up the photo on the front page, but it didn’t much matter. I could tell from the cashier’s eyes that she had already recognized me. She didn’t say anything