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Boss man

December 24th, 2018 Leave a comment Go to comments

I didn’t mean for anything like this to be the endgame, really. The plan was just to lay low for a few weeks and wait for some of the shitstorm to blow over, but of course that didn’t really go according to plan now, did it? All these ratfuckers and assholes actually LIKED that I was gone, and then the next thing you know there are these stories about me being buried in the concrete beneath Giants Stadium. The press loved it, those bastards, but even I could see that crap sold papers.

So after three weeks go by and it’s time for me to reemerge, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Jesus, look how much everyone hated me! Apparently no one had a good word to say about ol’ Jimmy at all, and I didn’t see the point in going back. Let them think I’m entombed under a fucking football field, whatever. Being out of the public eye was such a relief that my blood pressure dropped thirty points that first month away. I realized I just didn’t need all that bullshit anymore.

That’s not to say I found happiness right away. Far from it, in fact. I mean, the mob was still after me and god knows the reporters were thirsty for answers, so it wasn’t like I could just stroll out to the movies for the afternoon. In order to properly disappear, it was key for no one to know what had happened, including my wife and kids. Fuck the Teamsters, they had turned on me by then anyway, but I did feel sorry for Josephine. She had put up with a lot of shit over the years and even an old hardass like me couldn’t suppress the pangs of guilt of how she must have been feeling.

Still, I did get over it, and after about six months, managed to get out of the country through Mexico. From there, I made my way to the Gulf and eventually landed here. Who the fuck was ever going to look for me in Bonaire? By the time they had declared me dead in ’82, my little spit house on the beach was well established, selling cheap meats to the thousands of these shithead cruise passengers rolling through every week. As far as the locals were concerned, I was Mr. Neapolitane and all I needed was a Scotch and a cigar to make the world go ’round.

Only once did a tourist ever make a comment that I looked vaguely like a certain Mr. Hoffa. Just a wisecrack, even if it did take me three days to get past the panic his comment caused. But no one’s suspected a thing in three decades. Now that I’m at 96 and knocking on death’s door, it’s tempting to spill the beans and get in one last laugh, but honestly I don’t think I need it. The Caribbean’s been good to me and there’s something satisfying in the knowledge that no one else will ever recognize that.

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