Saint Oswald Jay Bonansinga (uplifting books for women txt) đ
- Author: Jay Bonansinga
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The sad fact was, Oswald had never planned on killing the mother. He knew the Ferri family would require proof of death, and whacking her would certainly be a way to ensure the childâs safety. But Oswald still harbored feelings for the woman. He wasnât sure if it was love. He never truly loved anybody until Matilda. But the woman didnât deserve to die. And Oswald would have gladly whisked her off to a safe place at that point if she had simply kept her shit together.
But thatâs not what happened. Oswald had just begun to make arrangements for a safe house in Louisville, Kentucky, for the woman, when she up and had a nervous breakdown. She bailed on Oswald. Caught a train back to Chicago, and went straight to the police. The organized crime unit must have thought they had a star witness on their handsâthey kept the woman sequestered for a few days at the local Hyattâbut Oswald knew it was game over.
Disguised as a limo driver, he picked her up at the hotel, drove her out to Melrose Park, and shot her in the head. Blew her wig clean off. Put a starburst in the middle of the rear window. It was the coldest night of the yearâFebruaryâand thinking back on it, Oswald could have sworn his tears froze on his cheeks as he dug her shallow grave.
He ditched the car but took the wig with him. The Ferri family would have their proof of death. But what they didnât knowâwhat they would never knowâwas that Albertaâs assassination was postpartum.
At only eight weeks old, the skinny little baby girl had her motherâs eyes and robust constitution. On the birth certificate, Alberta had named the child Laura, but Oswald had always thought the little waif-like kid looked like a rodent, and his nickname for herâGerbilâcaught on by the time she had reached the emancipation age of eighteen.
Now the ghost of Alberta Goldstein burns her gaze into Oswald. âYou never told her, did ya?â
Oswald keeps looking at that shitty carpet. âShe knows plenty.â
âYou never told her.â
Oswald wipes his mouth. âShe knows enough... she knows her mom got whacked.â
âYes, but does she know who did the whacking?â
âIâll tell her when the time is right.â
âSure you will.â
âGerbil is doing fine, sheâs doing fine. Donât you worry about your little girl. Sheâs a trouper.â
This is followed by a moment of terse, dry silence. Oswald turns away from the ghosts, and he lets out a long, pained, exasperated sigh.
He gazes through the partially shuttered blinds, out beyond the flickering neon MOTEL sign, out beyond the vast darkness of the night. He can almost feel the phase of the moon turning like the hands of a cosmic doomsday clock: less than ten nights left, and seven lives to go.
Behind him, the voice of the Accountant sounds philosophical: âI guess it just goes to showâŠâ
Oswald keeps staring through the window. âI canât wait to hear this.â
The Accountant continues, his voice heavy with regret. â... just how easy it is to make somebody disappear nowadays, for very little money down, I might add.â
Oswald closes his eyes and speaks softly, more to himself than to anybody else. âYeah, well... keeping people from disappearing ainât so easy.â
Another comment from the Head-Wound Guy: âThatâs one thing about the mobâyou can always depend on âem âlike death and taxes.â
Oswald gets very still. An ideaâlike a bolt of lightningâcrackles across the back of his mind. He spins around and sees the ghosts fading, the channel losing its signal. He holds up his hands. âWait a minute, wait, hold on a second.â
The Accountant stares at him. âWhat now?â
Oswald points at the head-wound victim. âWhat did you just say?â
Head-Wound Guy shrugs. âWhat do you mean? Just now? About the mob?â
âThatâs right, thatâs right. Something about depending on them?â
A brief pause here as the gallery of dead people stare at Oswald.
Head-Wound Guy shrugs. âI said you can depend on them like death and taxes.â
âThatâs it!â Oswald snaps his fingers repeatedly. âThatâs it! Thatâs it! Thatâs it! Thatâs itâ!!â
Oswald jerks forward in his nest of blankets, making another ramshackle set of bedsprings squeak. He comes awake with a hacking cough, his eyes geeked open, the words caught in his throat, as he gazes around the empty dance floor of a room. The ghosts are gone. The lucid dream has dissolved with the abruptness of a soap bubble popping.
âThatâs it,â he utters in a strangled voice. His head is buzzing, his stitches itching, his ears ringing like a lunch bell.
âThatâs what?â The voice comes from over his shoulder to his left, from the shadows of the adjoining doorway.
Gerbil Goldstein is standing there in her underwear, looking at him with a wary expression, rubbing the sleep from her bloodshot eyes.
He looks at her. âHuh?â
âYou were grunting like a pig in your sleep. Saying âthatâs it, thatâs itââover and over again.â
âSorry about that.â
âSo whatâs âitâ?
He takes a deep breath and gives her a thousand-kilowatt smile. âThe way weâre gonna find seven more people to save by next Thursday.â
PART II:
The Big Wipe
âThe little black train is coming,
Get all your business right.
Better set your house in order,
Because that train may be here tonight.â
- Jay Farrar, âGob Ironâ
15.
Around 10 oâclock the next morning, Arthur âthe Candy Manâ Morrison, small-time purveyor of downscale sex workers and discount drugs, paces nervously across the deserted picnic area of the Albany Park Forest Preserve. The modest little pavilion sits
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