That’s How I Roll

wrong.

y court confessions were part of a deal—a patchwork quilt, big and warm enough to cover everyone who needed to climb under it. But I made sure to weave a pull-thread into that quilt. I put that part in about shooting Luther Semple because I did plead guilty to it, and anyone reading this needs to be able to separate which crimes I actually did from those I confessed to. So, if you’re reading this, and you wonder why a contract killer would do such a thing, you’ll know that confession was a real one.

There’s nothing noble about any of this—what I’m writing now, I mean. I didn’t write a word until I was sure that nothing I might put down could hurt the only people I ever cared about. You’ll know who those people are soon enough.

But I do want vengeance. And I don’t want anyone to think otherwise. Whether you speak a promise or a threat, it’s still giving your word. And I never broke mine.

tep Eleven was nearly the last. When I finally got enough to make a real big pot, I anted it up, every dime. When I slapped it down on the felt, it wasn’t to show off—it was to tell them to cut it right down the middle. All of it. I wasn’t there when that was done, but the boss of each outfit was.

It was a ton of money, but it came with one condition attached: if either of them spent so much as a dime on anything but what we’d agreed on, then the other side would get my records.

Those records weren’t going to send anyone to prison, but they would give the outfit that got them a big edge over the other one. Maybe even big enough to take over their territory.

That would be fine with me. If only one outfit failed me, I wanted the other one to be stronger, the better to keep Tory-boy safe. It didn’t matter to me which outfit did whatever had to be done.

And if they both failed, if they both cheated me, I couldn’t do anything about it. Except get even with them, and they knew I would do that.

Some people are born under misfortune, some travel a good distance to get there.

I was giving each boss a chance to choose his own fate. Not many get that opportunity.

They knew if the Law ever saw my records the State would have to build a whole new Death House—the one I’m in now is just about full up.

But which Law am I talking about? When I first came up with this idea to keep protection on Tory-boy, I wasn’t sure which agency should get my records if word wasn’t kept. But when I saw how just saying “RICO” got the FBI people so excited, that’s when I knew.

There’s a fairness to picking the FBI as well. If it hadn’t been for them, I never would have been caught.

If they do get this, how they use it, that’s up to them. I know they can’t just show it to a judge to get a bunch of warrants. They do that and later on some slick defense lawyer is going to get to look at all of it.

And if that were to happen, dozens of closed cases would suddenly get unclosed. Cold cases the FBI claimed it had solved would turn into even colder ones. Promotions would get rescinded. Reputations would get unmade. And every agent who reached a higher post from all that stuff I confessed to would turn into a leper overnight.

That’s why there’s a copy. Of everything. And other hands are already holding it. I don’t give a damn for anyone on the government’s side of the line. No matter what they call themselves, they’re still the government. And it was the government—every lousy part of it—that looked away from things that shouldn’t have happened at all. Not to me, not to anyone.

So, even if the FBI does end up with my records, I know what they’ll do with it. Same thing the government did with me. And my brother. And our sister, Rory-Anne—our mother. They’ll razor out the parts they don’t want known, and pay somebody to take care of the rest.

If that happens, the world will learn I was ready for it.

I don’t know who’ll be passing final judgment on any of the people in my story—I guess that depends on whether anyone ever gets to read this. “Final judgment” in a court, I mean. I don’t know if there’s a Heaven or a Hell or any of that.

I guess I’ll find out, soon enough.

Or maybe I already have.

ou’ll see Step Twelve by the time you get to the end of this. Then you’ll know that my “last word” wasn’t the kind you put in a will. It was a threat. And you’ll see I made good on it.

The back door I built years ago would always stay in place. If either boss failed to watch out for Tory-boy like each had sworn he would, I’d expect the other one to take over the job himself, even if that meant doing work in the other man’s territory.

That’s because it wouldn’t be the other man’s territory, not anymore. With the package the other one would be getting, he’d be taking over the whole town. Inside, he’d find all the other boss’s contacts, from cops to politicians to the judges they put on the bench. All the murders, bought and paid for. All the inside businesses, from taverns to gambling joints to whorehouses. All the street businesses, from drugs to numbers. Where they got their guns, and where they kept their arsenals.

With that knowledge, nobody would be able to stop the man who held it. Not anyone from around here, and not anyone who tried to move in.

Two separate packages, one for each boss. That way, only the boss who broke his word would be at risk. And the other one wouldn’t need to know anything about me or my life to do the job I left to him.

I believed that that boss, whoever he might turn out to be, would do exactly what was promised. He’d have to know there was another package, one I could still have delivered.

ut you’d have to be from around here to understand that there was something far more potent than any poison cloud of information hovering over the people I had worked for.

Folks around here know death isn’t always the end of the story. Some people come back. Good people, bad people—that piece of it doesn’t seem to matter.

When I say “come back,” I don’t mean coming back to life. That doesn’t happen. What comes back are spirits. You can’t see them or touch them, but you know they’re still around.

And nobody wants their attention.

Outsiders could never understand this, but if I died while still keeping certain names from coming out of my mouth, those I protected by doing so would owe me a debt—a debt of honor. If they didn’t do what they had promised, they could never be sure I wouldn’t come right out of my grave. If there’s a God, even He’d know I’d had good reason.

ou’ve come this far, why not go the rest of the way? Make your own judgments of me. I know you won’t all decide the same. And I truly don’t care.

But your God … He just might.

rom the beginning, anyone could take just one look at me and know I was born bad.

Spina bifida. You get born with it. That’s why they call it “congenital,” because it comes right along with your body as it leaves the womb. That whole network of nerves which branch out from the end of your spine never gets fully developed.

I never got told those words. Doctors don’t talk to children around here; they only speak to parents. To the Beast, it was just “that spine thing.”

It’s a sorry world when a child has to look up his own disease in a book. I read everything I could find about it. When I came across speculation that there might be a genetic component involved, I let my eyes slide over those words.

I even learned there’s ways you can help prevent it—the woman who’s carrying the fetus can, I mean. Folic acid is best. You can make sure you have it in your diet, or even buy pills in one of those vitamin stores.

Not much brings a smile to my face, but the thought of Rory-Anne changing her diet so she could make