MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 36

Donnie Amato

Brooklyn—Current Day

When he found Donnie Amato, his heart raced. He couldn’t wait to keep this promise. It’s not that he liked killing people, but if it had to be done—and this did—then killing Donnie Amato would not keep him up at nights. Rushing these things was never good, though, so he settled in and did it right. 

He sat in a booth at the diner—a red booth with tears in the seat and white fluff poking out—and sipped coffee and mopped up egg yolks with the last bite of a garlic bagel. The sausage links and fried potatoes were long gone, the plates disappearing with the first ritual cleansing by the very obtrusive and not-so-quiet waitress. As he contemplated dessert, his eyes shifted to the building across the street, a ramshackle, two-story house converted into half a dozen office spaces. 

“More coffee?” the waitress asked. 

He always seemed to end up in diners, perhaps because they were as anonymous as any place can get. He knew he was breaking rule number three, but at diners rule number four kicked in automatically—no one noticed anyone in a diner. He set his cup down, nodded as he looked up at her. Not a typical diner waitress, this one was both young and pretty with a pleasant demeanor. 

“Thank you,” he said, and made a mental note to tip her more. Not so much she’d remember him, but enough to let her know he appreciated the service. Silently, he chided himself. He shouldn’t have stared. 

Like clockwork, the door across the street opened, and out stepped Donnie Amato, sporting a three-quarter-length leather coat. As he checked both ways on the street his head bounced about like a hockey puck at a Ranger’s game. He went a few steps, checked the street again, then walked toward his car. He’d be going home now, but not before stopping at Grant’s fruit stand. After all, this was Wednesday. Donnie walked down the concrete pavement, eyes shifting one way, then another. 

The man in the diner signaled the waitress, who hurried over with a check. He paid the bill, then left, climbing into an older model blue Chevy. Common car. Common color. Nothing anyone would take note of. He waited until Donnie started his car, then followed him the eight blocks to the fruit stand. He took it slow, never exceeding the speed limit. When he got to Donnie’s house, he drove half a block past it, parking behind a donut shop on the next street. Walking back at a quick pace, he entered through the back door and waited. He had come earlier in the day to prepare, but he made a final check to ensure things were ready. The holes were drilled in the wall. He had the rope. Bag on the counter in the kitchen. He nodded, pulled out his bat and the three-pronged fork, then the gag and the lighter fluid. After that he went to the living room to wait.  

#

Donnie Amato rode home from the fruit stand with a huge smile on his face. They didn’t have Jersey tomatoes—they weren’t out yet—but he got some great looking melons from down South. Wasn’t much better than prosciutto and melons. He also got enough mangos to last till next week. 

He took a right onto a narrow street then one more right turn before pulling into his driveway. He walked the few steps to the house, stepped into the living room and shut the door behind him.

The first things Donnie noticed were the holes in the wall. They looked to be about two inches round and about two feet apart, chest high. 

“What the hell?” he said, just before the bat smashed his ribs. He gasped for breath, and, as his head hit the floor, he noticed two more holes, ankle-high. The next hit knocked him out.