Keys and Polaroids

Giuseppe went by Gus, and Gus was dead. He was on the last job of his life, freezing in an icy car, waiting for his client to appear. It was wintertime in Chicago, and Gus was blasting the heat. As the sun set from his view, over the edge of a five-story car park, he drifted to sleep.

A bundled-up, shivering stranger happened to walk by, pausing for a moment to make sure that whoever was in the car was safe. “Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, “The Taxi Man.” He recognized the grizzled, spectacled face of Giuseppe Galanti. If he killed Galanti, he would rise up to a “made man”, he was certain. The stranger pulled a handgun from his jacket, the cold of the metal stinging his palm. He screwed a long cylindrical silencer into the tip, angled the barrel against the glass. He pulled the trigger, and the bill of Gus’ sins came due.

Jean David was Giuseppe’s first grandson, not his first grandchild.

Gus was old-fashioned, and deigned that Jean David would have priority of the old man’s inheritance — Jean David believed it was merely because he was male, but Gus had other reasons to give him this chore. A manila envelope had arrived with four items: a large packet of legalese, two keys, one nickel-plated and the other brass; the last item was an olive-green envelope that read, “For Davey’s Eyes Only.” Jean David went by David; he felt it was more professional and decidedly less French. The man was the outcome of two generations of French and Italian copulation — what a ridiculous name, Jean David Galanti.

He held the letter tenderly in his fingers. While Giuseppe went by Gus, to David, he was Grampy. The letter became an anchor; it hit him, the letter pulled his heart into his gut. For a moment he struggled to breathe as tears came to his eyes, then he stood up straight, snapped them away, and the composure returned.

He prodded the two metal pieces in his other hand. The gray key was very likely a house, but the brass was shorter, sharper. “Maybe a storage facility?” he mumbled to himself.

David’s drive from Nashville to Chicago was slow; snow whipped across the highway; what should have taken about eight hours took twelve. He had lost count of the coffees he’d ordered along the way, and he had gorged himself on cosmic brownies and Mike and Ikes — Grampy would sneak those to him when he would visit if he mowed the lawn or brought groceries in.

Arriving at his grandfather’s home, another tear came, but it froze to David’s cheek. It was gray and old, and the kid who shoveled the yard must’ve forgot to do his job; David was forced to dig a twenty-yard trench through the snow with a cheap car shovel to protect his shoes.

His suspicions were correct; the silver key snapped the lock open, and he went inside.

The house was alien to David now; rooms were cold and quiet, but for the sound of the cold pushing in at him through the tempered glass of the windows. He could see dust floating in the air amidst the little rays of light from the setting sun.

A knock at the door.

A man had trod through the snow; he wore a three-piece suit and carried a briefcase. The man was, in a word — dorky. His mousy brown hair was combed over, and he had glasses that could go toe to toe with the size of his briefcase. He stood smiling just outside the screen door.

“Jean David? Mr. Galanti?” the man said.

“Yes?”

“I am one of the interns over at Spade and Sons. Well, I’m actually the Sons part of Spade and Sons, Mark Spade at your service. Wanted to make sure you got everything you needed. Your grandfather was quite the man!” He entered the home and shook David’s hand.

In a moment of unnatural fragility, David hit Mark with a bomb, “I don’t remember the last thing I said to him.” he frowned as he held the lawyer’s hand in a lingering, uncomfortable grasp.

“I’m sorry, sir…” he pulled away. “He spoke all about you, all the time. You and your sisters, and your parents, hoping to have great-grandbabies. He was mighty proud of you folks.” Spade returned.

Spade had a pale, European look. Irish.

“Well, I would like to walk through the place before we get started.”

“It's your place now. Mr. Galanti left you the house, and the taxi, though I doubt you’ll want it.” He said something cryptic the last time I spoke with him. ‘Davey’ll have the stomach for it’. Not sure what that meant.” Mark smiled awkwardly, adjusted his glasses, and zhuzhed his hair in a dusty mirror.

David gave him a pseudo tour, he had spent most of his time at the house in the summer. It was filled with light, and music, and the smell of food. He had spent a few Christmases there as a child.

The two walked up the stairs, the hardwood creaking eerily under their boots. There were four rooms. To the right was a small office, straight ahead was a small bathroom, to the left was the master bedroom. Taking a right, and continuing on the landing past the office was a guest room. All of these spaces, despite the dust, were clean and orderly. His grandfather was always very particular about the location of items. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

Mark and David went into the office, pulling the string that hung from the ceiling light, they took seats in ancient hardwood swivel chairs. A large desk with a light blue leather writing pad, books, a mug filled with pens and pencils. Black leather gloves on the left-hand side. An intricate, ivory-handled letter opener on the right edge of the pad. The desk was sat beneath a south-facing window, above the trees you could see chimney’s spilling smoke into eerie pale blue skies of winter.

On either side of the desk were large, green lockers. The right one was first.

“Do you mind if I stay?”

“You kidding man? I’m too curious to mind, he fumbled for the second key that had come in the mail.” David gave Mark one of those smiles that attempts to hide grief, but fails miserably.

“Fair enough.” Mark waved him on.

The two were expecting a large collection of nudey mags, or money. When he was a kid, David believed that his grandfather was hiding gold. It was much less exciting, albeit more confounding. In the locker were a number of clothes all hung on hangers, and wrinkle-free. There was a cop’s uniform, a beautiful Italian suit, a yellow polo and khakis, “Its as if he is planning to impersonate Jack Nicklaus,” the two chuckled before flipping through the rest. There were different styles of hats, scarves, everything one might need to adapt to different scenarios; there was even a tuxedo.

“Fascinating,” said Mark, “Let’s do the other one.”

David left the first one open. He inspected the keyhole. There were little scratches all around the slot, “Mr. Galanti’s hands tremored there at the end.” added Mark.

David slid the key in, “Maybe this one will have all the Playboys,” he joked with Mark. The door swung open, their mouths dropped.

Inside was a sawed-off shotgun, two handguns hanging from a double-sided chest holster, a common switchblade, and hanging from the back hooks, a garrote.

“What the hell?” Mark leaned forward in his swivel chair, his arms wrapped around his briefcase like a pillow.

“Yeah… I’ve never seen these. He would hardly let me into this room.

“What about those?” Mark motioned to the walls of the locker, which were, at first, much less interesting than the weaponry. The entirety of the locker was covered with Polaroids, taped or held by little black magnets.

He ripped one out.

There was a young man, with a goofy smile stretched across a decidedly intimidating face. David flipped it over; on the back, in world-class cursive:

Jeremiah McMahon

Irish Gang

$1,000 for X

Spring 1970

#1

Another read:

Alphonse Canetti

Serial Rapist. Abuser. Beat the hell out of his wife, Betsy. Belted his boys.

$3,000 for X

Summer 1983

#37

One said, “500,000 for X”, but the name was scratched out, and the picture was foggy.

David and Mark continued to look through the pictures; notably, there was a family photo with no writing on it — two twin boys, a younger sister, and a good-looking set of parents. It wasn’t his family. The two twin boys were crossed out with large, red ‘X’s.

The photos that had numbers, David arranged in order on the desk.

It was at this moment David remembered the little letter that had come in the envelope. He pulled out his phone calling Maggie, his wife. “Darling? Yes I am here my love,” she spake on the other end, inaudible to Mark, “Yes love, I’ll be back soon. Hey, a quick favor. There is a letter on my desk… Mhmm, yes, unopened with Jean David on it… Uh huh, can you snap a photo for me. Yes my love. Hey, when I get back…” he said something and he smiled despite what he had just discovered in the locker, “I’m going to be better. I think we should go away and try again.”

Mark could hear a “Really?”, then there was a squeal on the other end, and then an “Okay, honey!”

David grinned — he had the uncanny ability, like most partners, to hear when his wife was smiling. He figured it might take a few minutes for her to find it, he looked to Mark. “What do we do?”

“Call the cops?”

“Yeah… probably. Do you mind if we wait until she sends the picture?”

“I mean, this stuff isn’t going anywhere. I’m game.” the lawyer replied.

The two continued to look through the materials; the pictures, rounds for the handguns were strewn around the bottom of the locker. “Oh my God,” Mark said with his mouth agape. He held two of the thin strips of plastic.

“What?”

“He is… was, the Taxi Man.”

“Who?”

DING

David looked down at his phone, the letter was typed out with the old-fashioned typewriter print. He read it aloud:

Davey,

I want you to know that I did what I thought was best with the time that I had. I did many bad things, as I am sure you will discover. I did these bad things first out of necessity - money for my widowed mother and baby sister. You need status, you need money. No one fucked with me, and in Chicago, that’s priceless.

It turned into a real job. I drove a taxi and I was given assignments to rid the city of bad men. Working for those who would pay, but all the people were bad people. Serial murderers (pot calling the kettle black, I suppose), happy to say I don’t fall into the following categories — I killed rapists, abusers, torturers, and others. I figured that you would take the news the best son; likely, you’ve already figured out how I died.

I would like a funeral if that is alright.

In the locker at the top of the stairs, you will find everything you need to show to you who I really was. There are other nooks and crannies in that house that have other secrets - do not seek them out. Better yet, burn the house. If you go to the press about who I was, I wouldn’t care, not that it would matter since I am deceased. Figured you would want to know that I’d condone it.

Davey, I want you to know that, unlike those whom I sought out, I never enjoyed the work. Never.

I love you, and I am proud of the family I managed to raise despite my shortcomings. Please forgive me.

-Gramps

The light from the phone lit up David and Mark’s faces; the room had gone dark. The winter months' daylight hours were done.

“Can I call the cops now?” asked Mark.

“Now is the time.”