Feelers by Brian M Wiprud Read Free Book Online Page A

just like at the bump and thump. At times Danny could not be sure he was not still in Sing Sing and would reach out to touch the pizza box, just to be sure. One program after the other flashed on the TV, and Danny was happy just to have the companionship. A TV can be a companion to someone who is isolated. Popular culture is sitting there talking to you, including you.
    The early years in prison, his family of course came to visit—but eventually his mother died, his father became frail, and gradually, like the sun setting lower and lower each autumn day, winter set in and they stopped coming entirely. They stopped responding to his mail. It was almost better that way. There was no reminder that there was any existence other than the daily routine at Sing Sing. And if you are to survive the ordeal of prison, you must embrace the routine and ride it out.
    The motel room windows brightened, and the morning shows came on. The hosts on these shows were very friendly and inclusive, and he enjoyed them more than he ever expected he could. Danny had forgotten about these shows—the prisoners only got to watch TV in the evenings in Sing Sing.
    Switching off the TV, Danny felt refreshed, more human, less like a prisoner and criminal, and he patted the cell phone in his pocket for reassurance.
    Then, of course, he also felt the missing ice pick and was reminded of what he’d done to the man at 901 East 109th Street. Rude Man.
    He left the motel at around nine and found himself standing in front of Uncle Cuddy’s house. It was empty, with a Realtor’s FOR SALE sign out front.
    That’s the exact moment I drove by, after dropping Fanny at Tangles.
    Tall, in his dark suit and turtleneck, Danny stood staring at the house and sign, hands down at his sides. I took note of him because he looked out of place, and I wondered then if he was somehow thinking of buying the house on Vanderhoosen Drive.

CHAPTER
NINE
     
     
     
     
    THEN I DROVE ON WITHOUT another thought about the tall, out-of-place man on Vanderhoosen Drive. My thoughts were still on my good fortune, both in money and in love. Truly, the fates were shining favorably upon me, and I was intent on seeing how these new fortunes would develop and what my next move would be.
    First, I had a few bits of business to take care of. The carting company was first, and I had to pay them in cash.
    New York’s solid waste removal industry has had a somewhat unsavory history. The legacy of the Mafia years was that the carting companies still liked being paid in cash and gave a discount for doing so. Either that or they charged twenty percent more for not paying in cash, depending on how you looked at it.
    Carting companies are the ones who make commercial refuse vanish. They come by and place large Dumpsters for me and my men to fill with all the crappy furniture, appliances, and belongings I am asked to clear out. Then they come with a large truck, upload the Dumpster, and drive it to a disposal site, usually somewhere out of state. I do not ask; I do not care. So I dropped by their offices, handed over the envelope, and got my receipt—whichhad the twenty percent larger figure for me to use to inflate my business expenses come April 14.
    Next, I stopped by my post office box that I use for business, and then on to the real estate agent office that had brokered the house cleaning. The owner pays the agent, they take seven and a half percent, and I get mine—it is that simple, and it is how I scooped the other feelers to win the bid. Perhaps “broker” is too nice a word for it. I paid the real estate agent an extra two and a half percent to let me win, is what I did. They do not like Pete the Prick any more than I do—he is too pushy, and often unreliable. Frog is too naive to think to bribe them the extra two and a half percent. Not all real estate offices will play this game, but Mary knows how to butter her bread.
    I parked in front of the Upscale Realty storefront off the