Manny breathed in the warm summer air, puffed out his chest, and curled the smile of a free man. Behind him the gates to the prison swung shut without a word of farewell. No one waved him goodbye or wished him a safe journey, and his travels were to begin with only a few coins in his pocket. The clothes they’d dressed him in were ridiculous: baggy pants and a hoody that was designed for winter, not high summer. Lousy, he thought. Every goddamn asshole will know I’ve been in the slammer just by the look of me. Well, stuff them. He was more than glad to be out of prison and away from its bunch of ass-wipe employees and inmates. Apart from Harry, Manny had no time for any of those dudes. Not Marlin, or Silas, or Cooper or the kid Elmore. Manny grimaced, remembering. Elmore was more unhinged than anyone Manny had ever met. What a mixed-up son-of-a-bitch that boy was. There was some serious trouble brewing there. Manny knew a couple of the gumps coveted the boy’s ass, guys like Flower and Silas the Mange. But God alone knew what would happen to them if they tried anything. Elmore would spill blood. Manny knew it. Anyway, the petty politics inside the prison was no longer his problem. Elmore was free to lash out at anyone he chose. It wouldn’t be Manny, and that was all that mattered. Manny had real world things to deal with, at last. He’d gone inside an innocent man strung up by circumstance and had come out wiser and stronger and, because of Harry’s prompting, with a plan.
Manny strolled across the road and tried to suppress his anger as he reflected on what had happened. It hurt that he’d been imprisoned for the death of Padraig Smail. Okay, so he’d gone a bit too hard on the cop, kicked him too fiercely on parts of the body that didn’t take to being struck, and the old fool was more fragile than Manny had suspected. Surely, he was allowed one miscalculation in his career, one misdemeanour? After all, he’d only intended to injure the sergeant, to hurt him enough that Smail backed off and left him alone. He was fed up carrying out Smail’s dirty work. It was bad enough taking jobs from low-level scum, but it was another thing entirely carrying out tasks for crooked police officers.
That night had gotten out of hand. Seeing Smail all over Taylor… imagining the two of them screwing… that had wound Manny up so badly his temper flared.
Smail’s death put the cop beyond reach, but there was still a way for Manny to salvage some respect. He’d make Taylor pay for her part in his incarceration. After all, how dare she prefer Smail to him? Smail? For Christ’s sake. Manny suppressed an image of the couple in bed together, where Smail’s attentions transformed her mutterings about how she hated cops into sighs of pleasure that punched Manny in his gut.
He shook his head. He’d a plan for Taylor. He’d kept to Harry’s advice and worked at it until he was satisfied with what he was going to do. It was a plan that would sort out that stupid bitch woman and bring her to heel. Because that was what he wanted: to return her to his side, to have her as his woman. Yes, that was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Only, there was that itch; that desire to make her pay for what she’d done to him. Maybe making her pay was the more satisfying thing to do? After all, she’d hurt her real bad if he wanted her to scream, and there would be justice in that. He closed his eyes and pictured her writhing on the ground while he applied pressure to various parts of her body. The image made him smile. There would be fun in doing that, right enough. Then, the bitch would realise how much pain she’d caused him with her testimony in court; how much grief she’d forced upon him.
Manny walked a hundred yards down the street to an ancient payphone once installed by a thoughtful employee of the local telecoms company. It had been there a long time, stuck beneath the wide bough of an ancient oak that offered shade from the glare of the sun, and had once been a popular stopping-off point for ex-cons before the advent of cell phones. Its Perspex booth was daubed with the idle graffiti of the newly-free as they hung around until transport arrived to escort them from the prison gates.
Manny picked up the phone’s mouthpiece and wiped it with a dirty handkerchief. The pay phone was exactly what he wanted. Cell phones were useless for hiding where you were calling from, unless you possessed a throw away. Manny didn’t have one of those, only a decrepit old brick of a device he’d owned when he was sent down.
He rooted inside the small bag he was carrying and produced a yellowed notepad he’d pilfered from prison supplies. The pages were stuck together with age and Manny had difficulty accessing what he was after. He stabbed at the words on the page with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, here’s them bastards…’ He dialled a number.
Manny smiled as an elderly voice answered, ‘Hello, who’s there?’
It was Taylor’s mother. He recognised the crinkly old bat’s voice immediately and his mind flashed to the last time he’d visited her. It was shortly before his court case after the incident with Sergeant Smail. Taylor had scurried off her parents’ house with the kids and he’d followed in a bid to make her see sense, to get the charges against him dropped, and to insist that she return home. Taylor’s mom had held the door against him, secure behind a flimsy door-chain. He’d been tempted to bash through, and in truth, he didn’t know why he hadn’t. It wouldn’t have taken much effort.
Concentrate! a voice in his head said. You need to be on this, Manny. No pissing around… He took a deep breath, focused, and said in a voice he hoped was professional, ‘Hello, ma’am, I’m calling from State Delivery Services. We’ve a parcel for Miss Taylor Friedman and we’re having difficulty tracking her down.’ He kept going, not willing to give his listener time to respond until he was done. ‘The parcel’s addressed to twenty-four Upper Main Street, Port Jefferson, but the occupant said Miss Friedman didn’t live there no more. There was no forwarding address, either. They gave us your number as a contact, instead. Perhaps you may be able to give us a location to deliver to? The package has Urgent written on it, and we don’t want Ms Friedman to miss out.
‘Can you oblige ma’am?’
‘A package for Taylor… Oh my…’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘Why, yes, I have her address here. Let me get it for you.’
There was a brief silence before Taylor’s mother returned. ‘Here you go, sir,’ she said. She was as courteous as she’d always been. Manny pictured her fretting over the misplaced parcel. It made him chuckle inwardly.
He repeated the words back as she said them. ‘Thirty-three A, One Hundred and Twenty-Fourth Street, Williamsburg. Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been most helpful. Have a good day now.’
‘No problem, sir. I hope Taylor gets her delivery.’
‘Oh, we’ll make sure she gets it alright, ma’am. Goodbye now.’ He hung up and swung his bag over his shoulder, smiling. He’d planned and planned, right enough: worked out all the eventualities. Plans go wrong, Harry had advised. Well, Manny had analysed and considered and meditated on this plan until his head hurt, but it appeared to have been worth it.
The only snag was that Manny didn’t yet have a clear goal, something Harry had cautioned was essential. One minute he was determined to forgive Taylor for what she’d done and was willing to take her back, the next he’d flip-flopped to the point where all he wanted was to make her hurt. He shrugged unconsciously. He’d work it out in the end. Feeling determined, he sauntered back to the bus stop, enjoying the sun on his face. It wouldn’t be long before he made that decision.
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