Seventy-Two

The hard plastic of the zip tie cut into the flesh of my wrist as I slouched on the floor of the Town Car. It was rush hour, and we were stuck in traffic heading out of Boston. Talevi, not wanting us to attract attention with our taped mouths, had told Mr. Machine Gun to force us to the floor.

Lucy looked at me and then looked away. Her eyes were distant and slack. She had given up hope. She struggled to get comfortable, inching away from me. I tested my ties and wondered how long she had been trapped like this.

Sal had lurched the car through traffic and, judging by the signs I could see from the floor, was now bumping along Storrow Drive. Talevi was not happy. “Why are you going this way?”

“It’s the fucking rush hour, Talevi. What did you expect?”

“Why are you leaving the city?”

“Because I don’t shit where I eat.”

Don’t shit where you eat. I shifted my shoulder against the car door and remembered when Sal had given me that advice. We were at Auntie Rosa’s for Christmas Eve dinner. Steam rose off of lobsters in a pot in the middle of the table. We had laid into the arthropods with nutcrackers and melted butter.

I told Sal, “Hey, I met this hot girl. I think she likes me.”

Sal pushed a finger through his lobster’s tail, expelling the meat from the other end. “Yeah? What’s her name?”

“Carol.”

“How did you meet her?”

“We work together.”

Sal dunked his lobster meat into the butter and pointed it at me. “Don’t shit where you eat.” He took a bite of the green tomalley-laden flesh, and the conversation had moved to the Bruins.

I moved my shoulders to relieve the pressure and looked up through the back window of the car. The yellow tiles of the Callahan Tunnel sped past. We were heading to the North Shore.

Lucy was scrunched into the side of the Town Car. Her eyes were closed, and her head rocked back and forth. She was gone. Lost in whatever comfort she could find in oblivion.

God reached into my mind and took his customary place in a doomed man’s thoughts. I had completely rejected the Catholicism that Sal celebrated on Easter and Christmas, weddings and funerals. I imagine Sal would never confess to a priest that he had killed his cousin, or helped spies from Iran steal his country’s secrets. For the sin of treason and murder, I give you 50,000 Our Fathers and 28,000 Hail Marys. I had bailed on Catholicism. What good was it when it would let your cousin shoot you in the head? I hoped I was right about there being no Jesus, because if I was wrong I was going to spend a long time in Hell.

I stretched my legs and waited, watching the darkening sky through the windows. Sal made a series of turns and then the car started bumping along an unpaved road. There were no trees in the windows and I saw a seagull fly overhead. It was probably going to get a tasty brain treat in a few minutes.

Sal stopped the car and said, “Let’s do it here.”