Life Sentence by David Ellis

Author:David Ellis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-10-17T10:50:00+00:00

33

ANOTHER WORLD, LESS than ten miles from where I live. On the south side of West Stanton Avenue is a brick wall, the boundary of a cemetery that runs the entire block, complete with barbed wire along the top of the masonry and tree branches overhanging. Leaves have fallen onto the sidewalk and street, but most have been blown against the curb due to the daily car traffic, or are stamped by the evening drizzle onto the broken pavement of the thoroughfare. To the north is a hulking pile of faded brick, an apartment complex in theory, more like a fortress after the battle. The single working streetlight casts a reflection off the sheen on the wet road. There is a sickening decay about this forgotten neighborhood, a smell of garbage, an emptiness. An industrial block after the industry left.

I’ve parallel-parked between two cars that might have one undented door between them. I button my trench coat, grab my briefcase, and move with my head up—always with the head up in a neighborhood like this—but eyes straight forward. I pass a young man on a bench, asleep, sitting up, chin buried in his jacket, two days of growth on his face and matted hair that peeks from his ski cap. A couple of middle-age men are huddled outside the entryway of 4210 West Stanton Avenue. They disperse when they see me. No accident I’m wearing a trench coat. A long coat and a suit means government, either a cop or a welfare worker. I keep my hands in my pockets to maintain another false impression—that I have a weapon. I give the two men a hard look, nothing threatening but to show I’m in charge. No clue what these guys are up to, if anything, but doesn’t hurt to make an impression.

I pass through the doorway and find a guy at a small counter. He’s an old African-American man with glasses at the bridge of his nose, a button-down sweater vest over a rust long-sleeved shirt. He’s reading a paperback and takes his sweet time looking up at me.

“DOC,” I say. I open my wallet and let the badge, such as it is, dangle. Every year the Department of Corrections puts on a tour of a penitentiary for the people in the state capitol. I went about four years ago. They gave us temporary badges, which I managed to find in a stack of memorabilia I’ve accumulated for a scrapbook or something down the road. I whited out the VISITOR logo and taped on a photograph of me for this guy’s perusal. Upon close examination, the story won’t pass muster, and I’ll have to hustle my way out.

But he doesn’t even look at my display. “Name,” he says, setting down the book and turning back toward the board full of keys.

“Cosgrove,” I say. “Two-D.”

He hands me the key and I head to the second floor, heartbeat at full flutter. Lyle Cosgrove is at work tonight, at a pharmacy about two miles from here.

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