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Authors: Greg F. Gifune
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rate, I recognized many of the tenants on sight. But this woman was definitely new; I hadn’t seen her before. Dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, her sunken eyes blinked at me slowly, like a cat. “You here about the plumbing?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“You here about the plumbing?” a high-pitched voice echoed.
I glanced down to see a small boy peeking at me from behind the woman’s frail legs. I offered a restrained smile and winked at the boy, who immediately hid behind his mother. The woman sighed, stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.
A battered staircase eventually led to Rick’s third-floor apartment. I hesitated to listen for a moment then knocked lightly.
Rick answered quickly, his expression tense as he stepped away from the door and ushered me in. The apartment itself was small, decorated modestly and bore the clutter of a man used to living alone. Beyond the main den were a kitchen and a hallway that led to the bedroom. Since his former girlfriend moved out, the apartment had taken on an impersonal, somewhat transient feel. The only items that revealed Rick’s specific presence was one wall covered with framed photographs and newspaper articles chronicling his high school athletic career, and a table beneath showcasing several trophies and faded ribbons. It was a shrine that had always seemed to me nothing more than a constant unpleasant reminder of distant glory and opportunities lost. Most teenagers with the athletic prowess Rick had possessed went on to college with full scholarships. Some eventually made it to the professional ranks. Instead, Rick went to prison after nearly beating a man to death during a brawl over a parking space at a local restaurant. Even though several witnesses testified that the man had swung first, many also testified that Rick had continued to beat the man long after he had clearly lost consciousness. The brutality of his retaliation, along with the massive medical injuries the man sustained, gave the judge ample reason to make an example of Rick. And that’s exactly what he did, sentencing him to twelve months in Walpole State Prison, a maximum-security institution that housed some of the worst criminals in Massachusetts. He served the full term, and that year behind bars effectively destroyed any chance at college or a career as a professional athlete. It also changed him forever. Rick had always possessed a volatile, violent temper, but the time served made him harsher, and in many ways potentially even more violent. Memories of visiting him in that horrible place blinked through my mind. “Aren’t you usually asleep this time of day?” I asked casually.
“Yup.” He tried to appear unconcerned. “You want something to drink? I got Cokes in the fridge.”
“I’m good. What’s this shit about a note?”
A toilet flushed and a moment later Donald appeared from the hallway looking horribly hung-over. He gave a less than enthusiastic wave and lowered himself onto a worn couch. “The plot thickens.”
I wondered if he remembered I’d been at his cottage the day before. “I’m listening.”
Rick sat on the arm of the couch, grabbed a padded manila envelope from the cushion and tossed it to me. “That came in the mail yesterday. I didn’t check my mail until this morning.”
I caught the package; it was nearly weightless. Rick’s name and address had been written across the front in black marker, and a label advertising a private mailbox and mailing service served as the return address. “ Mailbox Universe ? That’s here in town. If Bernard’s been dead almost a week why did you just get this yesterday?”
“Listen to the tape.”
“Bernard must have left them instructions not to mail the package until a specific date,” Donald said. “You can pay them to do that.”
I nodded. “But why wait so long?” When no one answered I reached inside the
“No, ma’am.”
“You here about the plumbing?” a high-pitched voice echoed.
I glanced down to see a small boy peeking at me from behind the woman’s frail legs. I offered a restrained smile and winked at the boy, who immediately hid behind his mother. The woman sighed, stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.
A battered staircase eventually led to Rick’s third-floor apartment. I hesitated to listen for a moment then knocked lightly.
Rick answered quickly, his expression tense as he stepped away from the door and ushered me in. The apartment itself was small, decorated modestly and bore the clutter of a man used to living alone. Beyond the main den were a kitchen and a hallway that led to the bedroom. Since his former girlfriend moved out, the apartment had taken on an impersonal, somewhat transient feel. The only items that revealed Rick’s specific presence was one wall covered with framed photographs and newspaper articles chronicling his high school athletic career, and a table beneath showcasing several trophies and faded ribbons. It was a shrine that had always seemed to me nothing more than a constant unpleasant reminder of distant glory and opportunities lost. Most teenagers with the athletic prowess Rick had possessed went on to college with full scholarships. Some eventually made it to the professional ranks. Instead, Rick went to prison after nearly beating a man to death during a brawl over a parking space at a local restaurant. Even though several witnesses testified that the man had swung first, many also testified that Rick had continued to beat the man long after he had clearly lost consciousness. The brutality of his retaliation, along with the massive medical injuries the man sustained, gave the judge ample reason to make an example of Rick. And that’s exactly what he did, sentencing him to twelve months in Walpole State Prison, a maximum-security institution that housed some of the worst criminals in Massachusetts. He served the full term, and that year behind bars effectively destroyed any chance at college or a career as a professional athlete. It also changed him forever. Rick had always possessed a volatile, violent temper, but the time served made him harsher, and in many ways potentially even more violent. Memories of visiting him in that horrible place blinked through my mind. “Aren’t you usually asleep this time of day?” I asked casually.
“Yup.” He tried to appear unconcerned. “You want something to drink? I got Cokes in the fridge.”
“I’m good. What’s this shit about a note?”
A toilet flushed and a moment later Donald appeared from the hallway looking horribly hung-over. He gave a less than enthusiastic wave and lowered himself onto a worn couch. “The plot thickens.”
I wondered if he remembered I’d been at his cottage the day before. “I’m listening.”
Rick sat on the arm of the couch, grabbed a padded manila envelope from the cushion and tossed it to me. “That came in the mail yesterday. I didn’t check my mail until this morning.”
I caught the package; it was nearly weightless. Rick’s name and address had been written across the front in black marker, and a label advertising a private mailbox and mailing service served as the return address. “ Mailbox Universe ? That’s here in town. If Bernard’s been dead almost a week why did you just get this yesterday?”
“Listen to the tape.”
“Bernard must have left them instructions not to mail the package until a specific date,” Donald said. “You can pay them to do that.”
I nodded. “But why wait so long?” When no one answered I reached inside the
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