The wind swirls in big arcs, indecisive
as to where it comes from. It seizes a discarded Chicago Tribune
from an uncovered trash bin near the intersection of Broadway and Adams
and like a kite set free by an unexpected gust of untamed wind flattens
the pages against the steel grating that seals shut an abandoned Ben Franklin,
next to Pete’s Greek Coffeehouse which is also abandoned. It flattens
the sport page waist-high, the front page half on the pavement and the
other half boot-high, but the obituary page eye-high, making certain it
is easily noticed. It is the Friday evening late edition.
To
survive, a Hit Man possesses certain traits, or more precisely, the
lack of. I’m blessed, for I look like anyone
you might pass on a busy street
and pay no attention to. In other words, I am
the typical average guy—a
person you wouldn’t remember even if your life depends
on it: pleasantly
overweight with a matching round face, innocent old-man
brown eyes with a
hint of that grayness around the pupils, and lips
too thin and rough to invite kissing.
And my clothes, they make no statement
at all. But there is one trait that sets me apart, no only from the ordinary
person, but from peers as well. It’s my attitude, that something
special that’s not readily appreciated. Something you can’t see even if
you visually dissect me from head to toe. Something you can’t smell
to tell where I’ve been, or can’t hear even if you strain hard. It’s
a grittiness you can’t easily express or run your fingers through.
Take for example my last contract, right
here, outside of Pete’s Coffeehouse on a rainy Friday night just before
midnight. The fog sweeps in from the lake like a wet shroud and the
street light overhead hazes a halo of amber like an electrical angel.
And Jimmy, the gambler, Graziano stumbles onto the pavement, his senses
dulled by overeating and drinking. He nearly falls as a leg give out, but
grabs on to someone nearby…that someone being me.
And then a six inch serrated blade
shoves deep into the belly, a clean cut so it shears and not shreds.
The Greek pastry floats free in the abdomen and the transected aorta pours
blood like a garden hose accidentally cut through. And I walk away.
I feel nothing…for it’s just another contract, just another night’s work.
But there are drawbacks:
no one to tell or brag to and none of that casual pillow talk with whispers
that want to shout, wow, are you really a hit man? None of that nonsense.
And it’s an easy matter if you have no family, no wife, no close friends…just
acquaintances that know you by your name, Nickolas Lyriano, the butcher
at Tito’s Meat Market, the guy who trims the New York Strip just right,
who gives a thigh bone for your dog without you even asking, and who always
wears an impeccably clean white butcher’s coat without a trace of
blood tainting it.
But times change. The Sentry
down the street sells meat for less and offers double coupons every Thursday.
And Tito always complains that he is losing money and a Palm Beach condo
looks better than ever. And my legs ache and have this grayish-blue
color that seems to be getting worse. The doctor labels it “claudication,”
an insufficiency of blood to the legs and for that matter, other body parts,
even the brain. But the brain part he calls by another name and that, I
can’t remember at the present time. The “present time”, that’s the problem.
Where are the house keys? They should be in my pocket. And
take that guy with the Walter Cronkite mustache, he looks familiar, the
guy walking by, but I just can’t place his face, yet alone is name.
The doctor says don’t worry
Nick, take the white pill and the pink
capsule twice a day, and stay out of the cold and
don’t walk unless it’s necessary. I take the pill and capsule
and walk. I walk to the old places, on the corner of Broadway and
Adams where Pete’s Coffeehouse is and where
Jimmy Graziano stumbles last week, or was it last
month? Damn, I’m not
certain any more. For Pete’s place looks different
now…the windows are
dirty and kind of painted over and it’s hard to see
anyone inside. It’s hard
to see Pete scurrying back and forth, hard to see
Gus, Angelo, and Billy, my
second cousins sitting in the back playing cards.
It’s hard to hear their fists
banging on the tabletop when they only get a pair.
Things are now different
I tell myself, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I know my name, Nick Lyriano. The name is on
my driver’s license, along
with a picture. I’m not a bad-looking type of
guy, all six foot and one
hundred and eighty pounds of me. But why this
picture ID around my neck:
Nick Lyriano, Regency Nursing Home, call 795-2000
if assistance required.
What does that mean, “if assistance required?”
And that place I’m staying
at, for just a while mind you, full of old hag women
shuffling along with
at us men through glass jar thick bifocals.
And the men, all pricks. Pricks who can't remember their names,
or even the day it is, and shit and dribble in their pants.
“Old man, what are you doing out on a night like this?”
the cops asks me,
and at the same time winks at his partner slouching
in the front seat of a nearby squad car.
The partner rolls down the
window and checks me out. He smiles and winks back, a sickening type
of smile that sends a chill.
“Always on a Friday night,” he replies to his partner.
“And always at the corner of Broadway and Adams, in front of where Pete’s
Coffeehouse used to be. And always away from the street light, like he
doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Come along Nick, we’ll take
you back to the Regency,” the one with
the sick smile says.
I return the
sick smile. It’s best they don’t know who or what I am.
After all, an old hit man has to maintain a low profile
and blend right in so
he’s not too noticeable.
The street sign above
quivers
to the chill of the Friday night and the
street light again casts an electric amber halo.
And the obituary page stays
eye high, and hums a hymn to the beat of the wind,
as not to be missed.