Crime

My dad died last week. He was fifty-three. He died alone. My mom left him in 1992, when I was fourteen. I think she left him because he was too interested in his work, which was in insurance, and he didn’t pay enough attention to her. After February Twelfth, 1992 I never saw her again. From then, I sort of had to learn to take care of myself because, by god, my dad was too interested in his work. He needed to put work before family, and he didn’t.
I was born on September Nineteenth, 1979. Now, in 2005, I’m twenty-six. I got a good education, went to college and majored in theoretical science. I had had a steady job until a few months ago, I got fired because I accidently blew up a building at the SciTech compound. It was an accident, it could have happened to anyone, but they still fired me. Since then, I’ve sort of been picking up odd jobs here and there, just enough to keep me going.
The funeral was held on Long Island, NY, where my dad was born. He had always said he wanted to be buried there. My brother James, who I hadn’t seen in years came, and a couple aunts and uncles. The only people I didn’t know were three italian men, dressed in black suits. They hung around at the back, talking quietly and whispering to each other. For some, reason they unnerved me, but I couldn’t tell why.
After the funeral was over, I said my goodbyes and drove back to my apartment. Charles was waiting for me there. Charles is the family lawyer. He’s been in my family for fifty years, ever since he graduated from law school. Charles is tall and he always has a dark look on his face, as if he was always going through something depressing. When I was small, he used to scare me, and I have to admit, he still does a little.
His voice was soft and controlled, a low monotone that never wavered. “I heard about your father. I’m very sorry. Let him rest in peace,”
“Thank You,” I replied, unsure of saying anything else.
“Now, why I am here. Your father’s will. One minute, I think I have it somewhere,” he paused, rummaging in his briefcase. He pulled a piece of paper out and looked at it, “Oh, yes, here we go. Your father left your brother all his possessions, except his house and money. Here’s the deed and the bank account number along with the PIN. I really have to go now, I have to see your brother. Here, Good-day,”
He shoved a pile of papers into my hand and walked away. I glanced at the bank statement and was astonished at the number. One-point-six million dollars. I never even imagined that he had that much. While his job had been profitable, I never guessed that he had ever been this rich. He must of been holding out on us! At first I was angry. And then I realized what this meant. I was a millionaire.
It was three months later. I was a different man, used to the pampering and care that I came with being rich. I had a new house, a new car, and a girlfriend. I was content. But life doesn’t just let you win, and then leave you be for the rest of your life. I was lying on a pool chair, when they came. Three black limousines drove up to my house. They parked behind my fancy Ferrari. Three men came out of the first car. I recognized them instantly. They were the men from the funeral.
They came up to me. They just stood there, staring at me. I stared back, unsure of what to say. They saved me the trouble.
“Hello,” he spoke with a thick italian accent, “We are business associates of your late father,”
“Oh, so you’re in accounting?” When I said this, I instantly knew I was wrong, as the man’s brow moved together, his eyebrows meeting like two black caterpillars.
“No, Um—” he coughed,”his other business,”
“What?”
“Your father was the Godfather. Of the Mafia. Not a mafia, the Mafia. He was our boss. Our leader. And we’re looking to you to take over the family business, so to speak,”
“Oh. Wow. Um, can I think about this?”
“Yeah. Just call us. Here’s the card,” he tossed me a orange business card. I looked down at it. Carlton and Son Construction. When I looked back, the men were gone.
I thought about it for days. Twisting the card between my fingers, looking at the number. Wondering what I should do. And I decided.
The phone was cordless and silver. I dialed the number. I didn’t need the card, I had long since memorized it. The other end picked up after one ring.
“Yeah?” said a voice at the other end.
“It’s Thomas. I’m in,”
“Excellent. Meet me at two ‘o clock at Hyder Park. You know where that is?”
“Yeah,”
“Good. Meet me there for your, um..training,” the phone clicked as he hung up.
Hyder Park was lonely. It wasn’t much of a park, just some trees and a play-structure. I stared at the swings for a moment, and something came back to me. A memory, of me swinging on a swing, six years old, having the time of my life.
A hand on my shoulder cut into my thoughts.
“Hey, Tommy,”
“Hey, Um—-?”
“Louis. You ready?”
“For what?” Without a reply, he took a small pistol from his pocket and placed it in my hand. “See that man across the street? Brown suit, green briefcase. You’re going to kill him. Got it? Good. You see that man, over in the shadow? He’s picking up the briefcase and getting in that car. No, the red one. As soon as you kill him, we’re going to go for that car. The black one. Ready when you are,”
I took a deep breath, and thought about what I was going to do. I felt some guilt, but I needed to focus. I lifted the gun and fired once. It was a perfect shot, straight into his heart. And he died.
One month later. Tokyo. I stepped into a warehouse, the soles of my shoes clinking against the metal floor. Two men, unseen by anyone, slipped in behind me. In the room, there were seven people. All of them were dressed smartly, in expensive suits, and all of them were men.
“Have you got the money?” I asked, my voice echoing in the empty warehouse.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Slide it over,” One of the men bent down and placed a suitcase on the floor. He pushed it, and it slid smoothly across the metal surface. I picked it up and opened it, checking the contents. All the bills were secure, perfect in the little bands that held them together. I quickly counted them.
“Perfect,” I said.
“Now, where are the drugs? It’s time you held your side of the bargain,”
“Oh, about that. I think there’s been an error with the shipment. Too bad,” I turned to leave, expecting gunshots. I was not disappointed.
“Another clean job, Tommy, I think we made the right choice with you. Here, I want you to have this,” Louis lifted a Rolex out of his pocket and handed it to me. I took it and examined it. And then it hit me. Recognition. My mother’s birthday. 1989, she was thirty years old.
“Where did you get this?” I said, struggling to keep my voice under control.
“Um, I don’t know, can’t remember. Why do you ask?”
“This was my mother’s. You killed her, didn’t you?”
“Um—-no, of course not, we wouldn’t do something like that! She was our bosses wife! Of course we didn’t kill her!” His voice was steady, but one look in his eyes told me he was lying.
“Stop the car!” I shouted, and the black limousine screeched to a halt on an empty street,”Get out! All of you!”
The night air was cool and crisp. I had a bitter taste in my mouth. The three men were standing silently in front of me, staring with blank looks. I raised the small black pistol that was in my hand. Three shots rang out, clear and loud, but I doubt anyone had heard.
I looked down at myself. My suit was covered in blood and fine gunpowder dust. The stainless steel rolex was still in my hand. I let it drop, metal clanging against stone. What had I become?
I raised the pistol to my head. The barrel was cold against my temple, metal to skin. I felt an immense feeling of relaxation and relief. And I pulled the trigger.