He fumbled in his pocket for a domino. Two dots. It was an easy one. He picked up another…four…no five. The middle dot. Always the middle dot gave him trouble, just like her. She was going to be the death of him. If only she would come out of the Government Building, then he could really find out what she knew about the night on the couch. He turned to the vendor and ordered a hot chocolate with twelve sugars and whipped cream. The geezer with the tinted glasses didn’t have whipped cream and that made him angry. He was certain the old man was a Nazi, who killed the innocent for fun by dumping hot liquid down their creases, and now he sold hot chocolate on the streets of Boston like nobody knew. Well he knew. He could tell. Cursing the leathery old man, he skulked away. How could anyone sell hot chocolate without whipped cream? Later, when the cold came and his knuckles cracked in the wind, he thought about the hot chocolate with twelve sugars. He adjusted his hoodie so the Gestapo wouldn’t recognize him from hours before, and ordered a plain hot chocolate with eleven sugars and definitely no whipped cream, just to confuse the guy. It worked. The Jew Killer didn’t say a word. He sipped the drink until it was gone and pulled another dollar twenty-five from his jeans pocket—three quarters, four dimes and two nickels, and went back over to the vendor with tinted glasses and one warm glove and purchased himself another hot chocolate with eleven sugars and no whipped cream. The old man grunted at the strange wiry boy and handed him the hot water in a cup with the closed packet of hot chocolate and the sugar packets, and took his money. The young man stirred his favorite concoction and commented how much he hated whipped cream. The old timer, an Irish-born Bostonian, smiled in spite of himself, displaying a set of gold-plated dentures. The boy walked back over to a bench by an old tree with a big knot, and sipped the drink while rubbing his dominos, guessing the dots as he watched the building. It was getting late and his mother was going to be mad, but if he wanted to take a crack at her this would be his only chance. She never went home. She lived in a hotel and he was having a hard time trying to meet her. The ugly Russian with the shaved head and hairy hands, that smoked those nasty brown cigarettes, was always around. Damn security! Damn the Russians! To stretch his aching limbs, he circled the bench and the tree with a big knot. He counted the laps…one…two…three…four… as he rubbed another domino. Searching his senses for the middle dot, he concentrated….No! No middle dot! Satisfied, he opened his eyes and peered at the domino. Thank God he did! She was racing down the front steps of the Government Building. As if destiny itself was finally on his side, she walked alone. He smiled and waited for her to pass, pulling in several steps behind, casually strolling as if he had not a care in the world. He watched as she dipped into a small coffee shop, resurfacing moments later clutching a magazine. Better Homes and Gardens...interesting choice for a woman who lived in a hotel. It was close to five. Professionals wearing suits and overcoats were clogging the streets and moving in swarms toward the trains. He followed closer, empowered by the masses, afraid of losing her. He shrunk into his hoodie and whistled a tune, but his heart pounded furiously. He could see the beating beneath his sweater but quickly rubbed at another domino to shift his thoughts. For a split second he doubted himself. Maybe he should wait and come back tomorrow? But then I’ll have to deal with the Russian! No…it had to be today. Tonight! Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on the back of her head and followed her into the train station. * ….The coffee table was cluttered with Coke cans and cigarette packs, overflowing ashtrays and solitaire in the making. Old pizza boxes towered in the corner and moldy take-out containers littered the floor. Shit piled up when you were forced to sit in front of the television set day and night, night and day, surfing the seventeen news channels waiting for a murder. It had to be perfect. Believable. She needed to be young and beautiful. A heart stopper. Anthony Pedonti’s type. It would take time. Months! Maybe even years to find the right victim. But certain things were inevitable…like death for instance. Beautiful people died every day. * It sounded impossible, yet, as he sat in the crowded courtroom waiting on the final witness it had proved quite possible indeed. Anthony Pedonti was on trial for the murder of a woman he’d never met. He wanted to take the stand, tell the jury his side of the story, but his lawyer refused. Seven out of twelve jurors were women he said. For all they cared, he was just some lying-piece-of-shit woman killer.
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