I Never Did Make It Back Home by William Lobb

Author:William Lobb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime fiction, drug cartel, cia assassin, mob crime, cia black ops
Publisher: William Lobb

Free Sample from The Three Lives of Richie O’Malley:

Chapter Four

Returning to the past. It was mid-summer, New York 1978…

The sun was setting, my eyes squinting to see the street through its orange glare. Pictures of this street tell me it used to be alive: shiny cars and young women, some pushing babies in carriages, shopping bags around their arms. The trees were full of leaves framing the life that lined the sidewalks, hugging the view of a bright, young sky. The buildings were painted, as if by design, in subtle palettes of warm, earth tones.

Then we came to this town, this street, like a virus-invisible, deadly. Unnoticed, we attached ourselves to its life, and over time we sucked the life out of this street. The young women took their babies away, and the cars grew dull and started to rust. Paint peeled from buildings, and trees filled with rot until they toppled over onto the pavement. Even the concrete of the street began to bubble then crumble. The death of this world, its metamorphosis to gray and lifelessness, was our work, our masterpiece.

I looked to the west. I liked this street. It fit me. My eyes lingered on a storefront with huge glass windows and big signs announcing some crap, or another was on sale. Out in the front were rows of fruits and vegetables, but even they lacked the luster of years past. I made my way inside and walked navigating worn, pine planks and breathing in the aroma of a bygone era. Scents of hot ground coffee, ripe oranges, freshly baked bread, newspaper, and cooked hams and sausages filled my nose. The store was a refuge from the ugly, gray street.

Mr. J. stood guard at the cash register like a lonely sentinel. The only way to get to the back was through him. He glanced both ways as if to say, "the coast is clear," before allowing me passage to the dimly lit back room. A few pictures, a faded couch that somehow survived from the fifties, and a small wooden desk and chair were its only decorations.

In the chair sat Vinny.

Vinny was always straight up, letter-fucking-perfect. He never wore a hair out of place and always dressed up in a suit with a tie. Nice suits too, not the shit I got for funerals at J.C. Penny’s for twenty bucks. Even out on a job at night, even in leather or jeans, Vinny never settled for Levi’s and Wranglers, only designer. My style was old, greasy motorcycle jackets like vintage Brando in The Wild One. Vinny’s style was a grand or more of handcrafted, Italian leather out of some store up on Fifth Avenue.

The only time I ever went to Fifth Avenue was to steal shit.

Vinny had jet black hair that looked slicked back but was never oily. Not that he’d let me touch it, but I just knew. We all knew. He got it styled at some salon along with his fingernails. They were always manicured and clean.

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