chaoticsoul

Did you give up on seeing this series redone? Perhaps you have, I’ve not updated in a long time. I’m not promising a complete revision in the next week of my vacation, but it is a start. Some items I kept, others I did not.

I’ve been addressing the whole passive voice issue, so if you come across it, grammatical fiends, please let me know.

Introduction:

Day 17, 13:40 – Lunch with Sara

While I am not, by nature, a stalker, I’ve often found that knowledge has always served to my advantage. Here I was, seventeen days into…my resolution of sorts. It wasn’t hard to find a table where I could observe in silence. Most of the business owners in the area knew me, and if they didn’t, the acrid whispering in my wake surely informed them.

I scribbled notes into the journal I kept of her activities after having found her here, of all places, my city. I didn’t know she’d returned. I didn’t think to find her here again, or otherwise, truthfully, after every card in my deck had been shown. My Annerire, here. It was a punch to the gut.

The green, fat leaves of a fruiting Ficus hid me from sight, by her, or her friend, whose name I came across one early morning as I riffled through her desk. Information, the key to every door, was not respected by someone so trusting as she was…is, evidently. It was easy to take advantage of her naiveté. Annerire. Her name rolled off my tongue before I could stop the soft whisper, and I almost bit my tongue in self-disgust.

Before this was all over, I’d put a bullet in my head. The cards, the secrets, they would no longer matter, and the name Marco wouldn’t be whispered in dark corners anymore. I wondered if I would miss that; if I’d have the nerve to finish this. I played idly with the ring on my finger, all the while keeping tabs on the two women across the room. Lunch would be over soon, and the intimacy of watching her, gone, as she disappeared into her cubicled world where I could not go.

I felt a weight settle across my chest. There were so many places I did not belong. I traced a brownish stain on the table cloth; nudged the mug around a fraction. A moment later, the owner filled it. He, like everyone else, likely laid the blame for every mob-related death at my feet. I wouldn’t have bothered with a denial, had he gathered the nerve to ask. They were, as the Dante used to say, a waste of time. I’d already been convicted in their heads.

I straightened in my chair as I watched the women stand up. Anne reapplied her lipstick. I watched until I could no longer see them from the corners of my eyes. I would not turn my head and risk drawing her attention. She’d remember me, the dark chapter, in what was going to later be, an idyllic life story.

What if she didn’t? The thought was like boiling acid dropped into my gut. She would remember me.

‘Sir?’

I glanced up at the owner, whose hands were twisting in the white folds of his apron. I realized I was frowning and erased my glare. I handed him a $50 and nodded.
‘Thanks for the coffee, Nemo.’

‘Anytime, Sir, anytime.’

I stood and walked out of the restaurant. It was clouding over, the sun and clouds casting shadows over everything. It was going to be a cool evening. I opened my cell phone and held down the 4 until it dialed. When he picked up I said, ‘Tonight, let’s see if she remembers me.’

___________________________________________________

He took a drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the street, exhaling in a cloud that felt deliciously good, even as a jogger let out a protesting noise. Sometimes a cigarette was worth overlooking the image lung cancer and ignoring the flavor it left in your mouth. He left what remained of the pack sitting on the roof of his car and moved closer to the curb.

‘Boss?’

He waived absently to the two men behind him who failed in any effort to blend into the scenery of New York. It was, he supposed, the reason it worked. This city was filled with oddities, people that don’t belong, things that don’t belong - like the glass pyramid some guy built in Paris. Weird.

He glanced impatiently at his watch and noted that she was late. This would be the one fucking day she decided to sit on her ass. He glanced at the sky. It was a fine fucking night to be out. He was out.

‘What’s wrong with tonight, princess?’ He mumbled, staring down the pretty street with its brownstone faces. He glanced back at the car and the two of them were playing red hands. ‘How fucking old are you two? Bunch of mooks! Get in the car!’

God help him, he was gonna kill that Tommy. He was dumber than a bag of hair. He listened to the doors shut; satisfied that he’d been obeyed.

His hand pushed against the fat cylinder of rolled bills that rested in his pocket. Marco was always a good tipper. Tipping, that’s what this was. They never paid within the family, and although Marco wasn’t blood, he was close enough. Lucio didn’t take care of everyone personally, but for Marco, he would. He owed him.

The door opened to her building and he stiffened. She emerged a moment later, an iPod clearly strapped to her arm. Didn’t she know this city wasn’t safe? As she ran down the street, he knocked on the hood of the car.

God they were stupid, he thought, as he turned and found them hitting each other on the arm. The door on the driver’s side opened and he pointed in the direction the woman had gone.
‘Follow her. Get her.’

He slid into the seat and watched them follow, hoping like hell they wouldn’t fuck this one up. He lit a cigarette, watching them follow down the street after her. He waited until they were closer, and started the car.

The phone rang just as he was about to place a call going out. He flipped it open. ‘Yea. We got her. Meet you there in about an hour.’