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bother telling her that that wasn’t going to be a problem.
    The apartment was a one-room studio with the kitchen and the living area all in the same space. It was supposed to be furnished, but there wasn’t much in it. A small cot, about the same as what I’d slept on in prison, and a badly chipped dresser from the seventies whose three drawers all stuck. The kitchen area had a sink and enough counter space to maybe hold a few canisters and a toaster. Three cheaply built and falling apart cabinets were placed above a stove that was from the same era as the dresser, and an even older refrigerator sat wedged in the corner. The floor around the stove felt greasy, and the small amount of countertop also had a thin layer of grease and other dirt covering it. When I moved closer, I noticed the small pellets scattered about. Mouse droppings. A quick look showed the bathroom was in worse shape, and even dirtier. Not much more than a tiny cubbyhole that barely fit the toilet, sink and shower stall crammed into it.
    The place had a dank, unhealthy smell to it. Given the old-style industrial tiles used in the flooring, it was clear that the basement had never been intended for habitation and must have been meant for storage and converted later to apartments. I knew from experience that the tiles were made with asbestos, and I noticed a few of them were crumbling which made them health hazards. It would probably cost a small fortune to dig them all out so they had chosen to ignore it. Later when I had time I’d buy some cheap carpeting to cover them and hope that that would save me from lung cancer. Yeah, I know, wishful thinking.
    I stood still for a moment, taking in what five hundred and sixty dollars a month bought these days. A dirty, musty, pest-infested space of maybe four hundred square feet, which made it both spacious and luxurious compared to where I was coming from. I’d make do. First thing I’d have to do was clean the place and get a few items – a lamp, a radio, and a card table and folding chair so I’d have someplace to eat. That would have to be later, though. It was three o’clock and I had to report at eight for work, and the bone weariness I’d been feeling earlier was now more as if my bone marrow had been replaced with lead. Christ, I couldn’t remember being this worn out. I moved over to the cot. The mattress had a brownish-yellowish stain running over it. I flipped it over and the other side wasn’t much better. Fuck it. I took off my jacket and lay on my back on the mattress. The damn thing smelled heavily of perspiration and body odor, maybe even worse than what I’d had in prison, but I was out within seconds.

chapter 5
     
    1969
    I know he’s dead. I think it happened when I cracked his head against the door. It wasn’t that hard a blow, but he must’ve had something already wrong with him. Shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I sneak a quick peek over at Charlie and Hank. They haven’t caught on yet, so I keep up the act pretending the fucker’s still breathing. This was only supposed to be a shakedown, and I don’t want to let on yet that I’ve fucked up. My first kill, and it’s a damn accident.
    “You miserable cocksucking prick,” I say, lifting the dead fucker by his collar, his head lolling limply to the side, “where the fuck’s our money?” While holding him up with my left hand, I start hitting his dead face with my right fist.
    Hank and Charlie are swapping jokes. They stop. The only sound is me punching that dead face. It doesn’t sound much different than if I’d been pounding a cold slab of beef. Charlie tells me to relax, that there’s no reason to work up such a sweat. I sense Hank moving closer so he can get a better look.
    “Shit, Lenny, I think he’s dead,” Hank says.
    “Fucker’s just playing possum,” I say. I’m breathing hard now from my exertion. I reach back to throw one last punch, but Hank grabs my arm and stops me.
    “He’s not playing.