Keeplock: A Novel of Crime (38 page)

“Then you must to kill me.”

“It’s a funny thing, Avi, but I don’t see it that way. What I see is a dead cop and a trapped murderer. I see a murder weapon with your fingerprints all over it. I see a sentence of fifty years to life.”

“This is against everything you are believing,” he replied. “I would prefer you show courage and kill me now.”

I stood up and walked over to the fire escape. On the way, my leg brushed something warm and moving. I nearly pissed my pants before I realized it was the goddamned cat.

Mrowwwwwr.

“He likes winners,” I said to Avi as I stepped through the open window. “Live long and prosper.”

I
’M SITTING ON A
beach in a South American country finishing up these last few pages. Ginny is standing at the edge of the surf looking out to sea. She bought a new bikini the other day. It has a single strip of fabric that disappears altogether as it runs between her cheeks. Joan Rivers claims these bathing suits make a woman look like she’s flossing her ass. If that’s the case, may I die and be reborn as a mass-market aid to proper dental hygiene.

I suppose the top comes next. Then Ginny can brag that she’s truly gone native, that there’s so many jiggling breasts and buttocks on the beach, she blends right in. Which, I have to admit, is all to our advantage, considering the fact that we’re fugitives and likely to remain fugitives for the rest of our lives. Or until we get caught.

When Ginny first got the suit—when she held up its several square inches for my inspection—I confess to having felt a twinge of jealousy. Those were
my
buttocks,
my
breasts. I didn’t want anyone else caressing them, not even with their eyes. But, as it turns out, I can sit here and watch her stroll across the sand without wanting to wrap her in a blanket.

I understand that Ginny, like many women, needs to be sexually admired by men, even if she herself has no sexual interest in them. But the real point is that I’m not afraid of losing her. The two of us are welded together like the steel plates of a ship. The only flame hot enough to cut that bond issues from the acetylene torch of the American criminal justice system.

As I watch, Ginny turns and comes back to the blanket. She kneels and gives the cat a quick rub. The cat, curled up in the shade of a beach umbrella, arches its back and lifts its tail. I think I said the cat’s former life was an expression of the will to live and to reproduce. Now it consists of little more than the will to sleep and to eat. The damn thing looks like a furry balloon.

“How you doing?” Ginny asks.

“I’m writing it down and feeling stupid. As usual.”

Telling the story was Ginny’s idea. She’s convinced that its publication, along with Condon’s confession, will galvanize political opinion. That the American criminal justice system will be forced to set me free. I have my doubts.

In the first place I’m still a parole violator. I may never be charged with any of the crimes related to the Chapman robbery, but I still owe New York State five years. In the second place, even if I convince the American public that I came out of the Institution with every intention of keeping my nose clean, the system isn’t based on fairness or justice. It’s based on politics and the ordinary citizen’s need for revenge. In the third place, instead of going directly to the District Attorney, I was party to the killing of a cop.

“Writing this last part is the hardest,” I continue. “I’m supposed to explain everything, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what it means or why I did what I did.”

“You didn’t have any choice, Pete. I don’t know why you torture yourself with it.” She leans forward, letting the bikini top slip down. It hadn’t been covering much to begin with. “I’m going back to the room, take a shower, then get into bed. I’m gonna try to think of a way to take your mind off your troubles. Maybe several ways.”

I reach out to stroke her arm. Despite what I said about the two of us being welded together, I’m always touching her, always making sure she’s still there.

“I’ll be along in half an hour. Meantime I’ll work myself into an aroused state by observing the fashion habits of South American females.”

She walks away and I achieve the desired state of arousal by watching
her
. The cat groans and stretches. He sticks his head out into the sunlight, then blinks and pulls back. His name, by the way, is Lazarus. I wanted to call him Lucky, but Ginny thought Lucky was too much of an understatement. And maybe Lazarus wasn’t so lucky, either. When he first came to us, he announced his approval of the accommodations by spraying every inch of Ginny’s sister’s living room. Now he has another scar where a vet in Chattanooga made an incision before removing his testicles.

My basic problem is that I don’t know who’s after me. If the parole board is my biggest (or only) problem, I can probably slide through with my false identification. I’ve crossed enough borders in the last few years to have complete confidence in my passport.

But suppose a trapped Avi Stern decided to get revenge by claiming the man (namely myself) who handcuffed him to that pipe was actually a co-conspirator? I don’t think Avi would rat me out, but I can’t be sure. Or suppose the detectives investigating the Chapman robbery or Simon’s murder were sharp enough to nail Rico. There was an awful lot of evidence floating around, including Morasso’s body, the blood-soaked money bags in the van, and whatever entries Simon made in my file. Recording the fact that I no longer had to report every week and the reason I’d been relieved of that obligation would have been standard operating procedure.

If the cops had Rico, they’d have me, too. Rico would give me up in a second, for revenge if for no other reason. Of course, even if the NYPD has the name “Pete Frangello,” that doesn’t mean they’ll find the person I am now. Not if I don’t come within a thousand miles of the United States. But suppose the cops also have Eddie Conte’s name.

If Rico started naming names, would he stop with me? Not likely. And it’s also not likely that Eddie Conte is as cautious as I am. I’ll bet my left arm against a nickel that he and Annie pissed away every penny a long time ago, that he went back to the United States, that he’s in custody right now. If the cops have Eddie, then the cops have the name I’m currently using.

But even if the cops don’t have my new identity, Eddie does and Eddie, if he’s free, will seek revenge. I don’t know exactly how he’ll find me, but I do know that Eddie’s mob-connected and that I’ve left a paper trail a mile wide. I’ve been trying to get another passport for the last six months, but so far without success. I can’t devise a way to approach a professional forger without revealing that I’m a fugitive. What’s the motto, boys and girls? Can you recite your lessons?

D.T.A. Don’t Trust Anyone.

I sit for a moment, watching the edge of the surf break the sun into a million tiny fragments. A child, maybe five years old, stands at the edge of the water, chasing the waves back into the sea, then fleeing before the next onslaught. Her sunburned parents hover in the background.

I’ve been possessed by jealousy for as long as I can remember. I saw myself as pieces of a human being and I thought that ordinary family life was the only glue that could hold me together. Why should everybody else have it and not me? Why should that kid walking down the street, holding his mama’s hand, feel safe and protected while I had to fight every single day in order to survive?

Now I know that we’re all in the same boat. We’ve all died so many times that nothing can make us whole. No matter how many times we go to church on Sunday. Or war on Monday.

Still, I continue to hope for it, to believe the answer is right around some unturned corner, to get up each morning and plan my life.

“What are you going to do today, dear?”

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll drop by the bank and take out a thirty-year mortgage. Or maybe I’ll jump off a cliff. I can’t seem to make up my mind.”

I’m tempted to describe myself as a reformed addict taking it one day at a time, but I feel more like a man recovering from a bad heart attack. I want breakfasts to last forever, walks along the beach to end in China, orgasms to go on for thirty seconds.

I said earlier that Ginny was demanding in bed, that she wanted to pull my whole body inside her. Now it’s the other way around. She’s become inventive and playful, while I can’t seem to go deep enough. Our sex, when I get my way, is slow and grinding. I wrap her in my arms, press my chest and belly against hers, drag it out until the sheets are soaked with sweat. It takes a long time, but Ginny, ever understanding, refuses to complain.

I don’t want to give the impression that I live my life surrounded by doom and gloom. I’ve been to places far outside the fantasies of Institutional children. And my dreams are no longer painful, either. The only time I wake in the night is when Ginny pounds my back to stop my snoring. I have occasional nightmares, like everyone else, but they don’t involve me. Terrentini is the superstar of my nightmares. Terrentini on fire. Terrentini crashing from wall to wall. Terrentini screaming as the C.O. sprays him with foam.

I don’t expect the money to last more than six months. The fugitive life is filled with bills, just as it is with apprehension. In fact, I have a sense that as long as I manage to pay the bills, I’ll remain free. Like going to church once a month to light a candle.

I don’t work, of course. I can’t. I enter each nation as a tourist. If I should apply for a work visa, I’ll be asked for a social security number. I have no idea if the number on the card in my wallet belongs to anyone, but, either way, whether it comes into the IRS as a duplicate or an unissued number, its use is bound to attract attention.

Ginny sometimes talks about finding a job. She’s virtually mastered Spanish, picking up new words with every breath, while I struggle along with a few
Loisaida
phrases.
Chinga tu madre, maricón.
But Ginny’s talent for languages doesn’t translate into a thorough knowledge of South American real estate, the only field in which she has any serious training.

I suppose she could find some bullshit p.r. job in one of the big hotels, but I don’t see how her salary could pay the bills. We’re not talking about a cottage, a television set, and a Toyota. We’re talking about hotel suites, room service breakfasts, and airline tickets.
Lots
of airline tickets.

So the problem remains. How will I pay for a new passport when my own has been stamped so many times that even the dullest customs officer becomes suspicious? How will I pay for a private plane or a fast boat on that inevitable day when I have to get out of town in a hurry? How will I bribe the
policía
when they finally drag me into an interrogation room?

I suppose I could always steal.

Death Before Dishonor.

B
ECAUSE I ALWAYS DO
a fair amount of research before beginning work on a manuscript, I have, over the course of time, built up an impressive (to me, anyway) list of law enforcement contacts. But the defense lawyers, prosecutors, and cops who helped me in the past were unable to provide me with the kind of detail necessary to write a novel centered on the lives, in prison and out, of criminal offenders.

For a time, I was at a loss. I went into several homeless shelters, looking for ex-offenders who spent time in the Clinton Correctional Facility (often referred to as Dannemora), then considered the toughest prison in New York State. Although my efforts were not entirely unsuccessful, my progress, needless to say, was slow indeed, and I was on the verge of abandoning the project when I wandered into the Fortune Society on West 19th Street. The Fortune Society is dedicated to salvaging ex-convicts, accepting any offender, no matter how hardened by prison life, who walks through the door. The question, of course, from my narrow (and admittedly selfish) point of view, was whether they’d accept
me
.

I’ve had to contact any number of city agencies over the years (the NYPD, naturally, but also the Transit Authority, Fire Department, Department of Corrections, Human Resources Administration, Division of Housing and Community Renewal, etc.), usually with frustrating results. Obstacles were inevitably put in my way, so many and so uniformly that I began to view overcoming them as a ritual test of my worthiness to be a novelist in the first place.

This was not the case at the Fortune Society. I came through the door a complete stranger and found people who actually listened to what I had to say, who, in fact, welcomed me. Now it’s time for payback.

The simple truth is that I could not have written this book without the help of the Fortune Society.

Thank you Joanne; thank you Alan; thank you Bryan.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1995 by Stephen Solomita

cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons

978-1-4532-9468-0

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