Other Resort Cities Read Online Free PDF Page B

Marshals; that he wasn’t some dumb punk anymore who could just live his life in blindness while other people controlled his exterior life; and that, well, he missed his wife more and more with each passing moment.
    The Savone family had been good to him, he couldn’t deny that. They’d set him up in this life when they could have scattered him over the Midwest one tendon at a time—even had Rabbi Kales privately tutor him for two years before he started this long con, first as an assistant at the Temple’s Children’s Center (where he actually had responsibilities for the first time in his life), and then, steadily, they pushed him up through the Temple’s ranks until, when it became clear that Rabbi Kales’s old age and inability to shut the fuck up had become a liability, he ascended to the top spot.
    He had a beautiful home. A beautiful car. If he needed a woman, Bennie took care of that, too. The problem was that the world around him was changing. Locally, only Bennie knew he was a fake anymore, all the other players having gone down in a fit of meshugass over at the WildHorse strip club that left a tourist dead and another one without the ability
to speak. Eventually, Bennie would end up getting busted on some RICO shit (or, praise be, Bennie’s wife Rachel would get a fucking sliver of conscience and/or retrospect and would roll on that fat fuck), and then one morning David would wake up and the U.S. Marshals would shove a big hook in his mouth and dangle him all over the press, the big fish that got away finally on the line.
    And then there was the paralyzing issue of technology. When the Savone family moved him out of Chicago after the fuck-up, he had to leave everything behind, including his wife, Jennifer, and his infant son, William. At first, it was easy to keep them out of his mind—it was either forget them or get the death penalty, which would probably be meted out by about fifteen cops in a very small cell. But as time went on and his life became a mundane series of mornings spent holding babies’ bloody dicks, brunch meetings filled with whiny plasticized rich bitches who couldn’t decide which charity should get the glory of their attention, afternoons spent in pink and yellow polo shirts as he golfed with men who would have fucking spit on him in Chicago, and nights spent alone in his Ethan Allen-show room living room, flipping channels, jerking off to Cinemax, thinking about disappearing, just getting the fuck out, moving to Mexico, or Canada, or even Los Angeles, he began paving roads toward Jennifer and William.
    It was so easy: he just typed their names into Google and came up with William’s MySpace page. William was seventeen now and, if his pictures were any judge, was in desperate need of some guidance. Every single picture, his fucking pants were halfway down his ass, he was throwing some fucking gang sign that actually spelled out MOB, and he
had a Yankees cap—a fucking Yankees cap!—turned sideways on his head, which made him look like a fucking retard, though not unlike half the kids David saw Saturdays at the Temple. He only saw Jennifer in the background of a few photos, and it broke his heart to see how old she’d become, how her straight blond hair was now silver, how her body had grown frumpy. Time and pressure had turned her into an old woman while he was busy fucking strippers and running a goddamned Jewish empire in the middle of the desert.
    But she was there. He could see her. She existed. He checked the archives of the Tribune and Sun-Times to see if her name had been in any marriage announcements but came up empty. David knew that didn’t mean anything concrete, but he also thought that if she had remarried, William wouldn’t have turned into such a fucking putz.
    Over the last several months, he’d started looking at Google satellite photos of his old house (where, according to a simple public record search, Jennifer and William still lived). Though all he could