In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

lying under his car. He saw Bernard jingling up a mountain in front of him, Lekorere lifting his beer bottle in salute, Hungry kneeling in Sehlalo’s blood.

He stood up. He exhaled. So much death. All these years he had dismissed those who mourned a corpse in a box, while he had been mourning something far less rational, and far more destructive. While the world around him grieved death, he had grieved life.

He hadn’t turned his back on death; he was living it, mourning every moment, chasing criminals to distract himself, grieving a light that could never be switched on again. “Mom,” he whispered. He knew that if he lay down on the bed now and closed his eyes, her red coat would appear. Her polished black shoes would walk by. He would call to her as he struggled with his shoelace, but she would not turn. In all these years, dreaming over and over again of that terrible day, she had never once paused to listen to him. She walked out of the living room, through the kitchen, and down the ramp to her death.

He lay back down on the bed. He closed his eyes.

He allowed himself to remember.

—

He was nine years old, standing beside his father on the Atlantic City boardwalk, watching a dollar-green Cadillac convertible roll toward them. His father wore a light gray suit and dark tie. He and Sean wore their navy-blue Easter suits. The car had its top down. The governor of New Jersey, Brendan Byrne, sat on the car’s shiny trunk, his shoes on the tan leather back seat, waving. People cheered.

“Hey, Jack, whaddaya think?” a man chewing a cigar asked Klay’s father. It had been like that all morning. Ever since they arrived, men had been greeting his father, peppering him with questions about what he thought, whether he was in. Klay was used to rough men like these. They came by the funeral home, knocked on the side door, then shuffled foot to foot, peering through the glass, never stepping inside unless invited, asking, “What horse looks good, Jack?” “Which jock you like?”—working their way around to the same question they always asked. “Jack, would you think I can borrow the box tickets, you’re not using them?”

Today they worked their way around to different questions. Was Resorts Casino going to get its license? If it didn’t have a 24-7 license, what good was investing? Was he in anyway?

“Are you, Jack?” they asked. “Are you in?”

His father answered each of them the same: “We’re all in anyway, aren’t we, boys?”

The green car pulled to a stop and Governor Byrne stepped out. Above, the sun was already hot. Seagulls flapped and cawed. He walked to a long table in front of Boardwalk Hall and took his seat. The table had blue and white bunting draped along the front, and a podium at one end with a microphone. Local politicians gave their speeches first. Bored, Tom watched a large man in a dark suit with a shaved head and dark sunglasses skim sweat off his head using a credit card. He was part of a group of Italian-looking men standing beside the boardwalk railing watching the politicians speak.

Finally, the governor got up. Byrne was handsome, with a strong jaw and blond hair that reminded Klay of Tarzan on television. He said tax revenues from Atlantic City’s gaming industry would go to help care for senior citizens and the disabled. He didn’t use the word “casino.” He said “gaming.” He said the gaming industry would stay on the island, but jobs would go to people all over the state. When he was done talking, he picked up a pen and signed the Casino Control Act, opening Atlantic City to gaming. Then he raised his right fist high above his head and shook it. “I’ve said it before and I will repeat it again,” he shouted. “To organized crime: Keep your filthy hands off Atlantic City. Keep the hell away!”

A brass band struck up “Happy Days Are Here Again.” The date was June 2, 1977.

•   •   •

The lights were off in most of the building when Nicky Scalise’s black Cadillac pulled up in front of Klay Funeral Home a few weeks later. Klay had his shoes off and had been shuffling over the carpeting, building up static energy through his socks, touching his fingertip to lamps and doorknobs and casket lids, seeing which gave off the best shock. He was testing the front door latch when Scalise’s car arrived out front. He paused and watched. A man got out of the front seat and stood beside the car with his hands folded in front of him. Then the driver got out—it was the big man with the shaved head from the boardwalk. He circled the car and opened the back door.

Scalise stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked in both directions as if checking for traffic; then he adjusted his cuffs and started up the funeral home steps.

“Who is it, Tom?” his father called from behind him.

Everybody in the neighborhood knew Little Nicky.

Klay heard his father’s footsteps increase—no doubt he had seen Scalise’s car out front. “I’ll get it, son,” his father said, just behind him now.

But Klay didn’t wait. He opened the door and let the boss of the Philadelphia–Atlantic City crime family into his family’s home. Klay’s first thought was that he had never seen such a tiny adult. Scalise removed his hat. He had silver hair combed straight back, the most perfectly cut hair Klay had ever seen. He wore a shiny silver suit with pointy lapels that fit him so perfectly it looked like the skin of an eel. He wore a white shirt, silver-gray tie, and dark sunglasses.

“Nice boy,” Scalise said, rumpling Klay’s hair.

“Good morning, Nick,” his father said, placing a hand gently on Klay’s shoulder. Scalise crossed their crimson carpet and disappeared into Jack Klay’s office.

“Go see what your mother needs,” his father said. Then he turned and walked into