The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,125
as politesse — although most people who met him would, if asked, comment on his courtly manner.
It is by night he has seen the very heart of human vice, and knows that it is his own. It is by night he moves through his warren of long-shadowed corridors and shabby rooms, bearing silent witness to assignations in cold basement chambers.
His name is Luther.
He first killed a man when he was twelve years old.
He has never stopped.
On this frigid morning in March, five days before the ground will tremble beneath the weight of the giant machines, he stands third in line at the Super Fresh Market on Frankford Avenue. The trade at this store is lively: young mothers shopping for the week; lonely single men lingering over the frozen dinner racks, each defined by the content of their carts.
The old woman stands in front of him. He considers her purchases: Five boxes of Jell-O, various flavors, a quart of Half and Half, angel hair pasta, a jar of smooth peanut butter. Cancer food, he thinks.
There is a small hole at the back of her cardigan, a starfish of threads peeking out. Through it he can see a tear in the fabric of her blouse. It is where she cut out the label, perhaps because it irritated her skin. Her shoes are sturdy, round at heel, tightly laced. Her fingernails are scrubbed and clipped short. She wears no jewelry.
He watches as she scrutinizes each entry on the cashier’s LCD monitor, oblivious — or, more likely ambivalent — to the fact that she is holding up the line. He remembers this about her, this obstinacy. Transaction completed, she takes her bagged groceries, walks a few steps toward the exit, scanning the register receipt, making sure she has not been cheated.
He had watched her over the years, watched as the lines furrowed deeper on her face, watched as spots blossomed on her hands, watched as her gait slowed to an arthritic shuffle. What had once passed for regal comportment, an imperious manner that shunned intimacy or acquaintance at any level, has now become a scowling, ill-mannered dotage.
As the woman walks to the door, she puts down her bags, buttons her coat. She is being observed, but not just by the tall man behind her.
There is a boy of seventeen or so standing near the Red Box video rental machine — loitering, witnessing, looking for some sort of opportunity. He is just a few feet away.
When the woman picks up her bags she drops her credit card onto the floor. She does not notice.
The boy does.
Träumen Sie?
Yes.
Where are you?
Tallinn. In the Old City.
What is the year?
It is 1948, nine years adrift from the first independence. It is five days before Christmas. Food is scarce, but there is still joy in the twinkling lights.
Where will you go?
To Lanamäe, in the eastern section of the city, to one of the Soviet hostels. I am to meet a man.
Who is this man?
A blind man, a Baltic German. He is a thief. He preys upon the elderly who have little to begin with. He stole something from a friend, and I will have it back this night.
How is this possible? How would a blind man be able to do this?
He does not yet know of his blindness.
Luther shadows the thief at a discrete distance, down Frankford Avenue to Mark Street, then east. Most of the buildings on this block are boarded up, abandoned.
Before they reach Eastland Avenue the thief ducks down an alley, shoulders open a door.
Luther follows. When his shadow darkens the wall opposite the splintered doorway the thief notices. He spins around, startled.
They are alone.
“You have something that does not belong to you,” Luther says.
The thief looks him up and down, assessing his size and strength, perhaps looking for a telltale bulge that might signal possession of a handgun. Seeing none, he is emboldened. “D’fuck are you?”
“Just a ragged stranger.”
The thief looks to the doorway, back. Recognition dawns. “I remember you. You was at the store.”
Luther does not correct the thief’s deplorable grammar. He remains silent. The thief takes a step back. Not a defensive move, but rather a gauging of range. He slowly drops his hands to his sides.
“What you want, man?” the thief asks. “I got business to tend.”
“What business would that be?”
“Not your business, motherfucker.” The thief begins to move his right hand toward his back pocket. “Maybe I take what you got. Maybe I cut you up, pendejo.”