A Lapse of Memory
by
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Trying to separate himself from the gaggle of businessmen deplaning at La Guardia, Randall followed the signs leading to the taxis. The only problem was everyone else was heading in the same direction like a herd of cattle urged on by the whip, most of them armed with identical leather briefcases held against grey or blue suits. An occasional politically correct young woman marched along with them attired in a business suit and tie. You had to really wonder about women who wore ties, he thought.
Randall descended the escalator and noted the ten or twelve men holding signs, some in uniform, half of them Arabs or Hispanics, probably incapable of reading the signs they carried, he thought. Halfway back in the pack a rail-thin man, maybe forty, dressed in Dockers, a sweatshirt, and leather jacket held high the sign welcoming him to the Big Apple.
“I’m Mr. Johnson,” Randall announced to the man with the droopy eyes.
“Richard Johnson?” the guy inquired in disbelief. “You’re Richard Johnson?” he repeated, chewing on the words.
“I said I was, didn’t I?” Randall said, placing his duffel bag on the ground.
The man stared some more. “Well, this is a crazy town, y’know? Lots of clowns around here are lookin’ for a free ride into town. They might say they’re Richard Johnson when they ain’t. Besides which, you don’t look like the guy I’m lookin’ for.”
Randall stared the guy down. “Is that right? Then why are you holding the placard?”
“The what?”
Randall waved a dismissive hand at Droopy Eyes. “Never mind,” he said, bending for the duffel, starting to walk.
“You’re just older than I thought,” the guy said.
“Ain’t we all.”
“If you’re really Richard Johnson…”
“Where’s the car?” Randall interrupted.
The deadbeat set his jaw. “Out there. If you’re Richard Johnson, you should know where we’re heading. Right?”
“
--
“Word’s out you’re ready to retire,” Andrew Marabito said, as soon as Randall approached him, sitting there, or slouching there, on the bench along Central Park West. He was a short, squat man, maybe fifty-five, with a shock of silver gray hair combed over to hang down long on the right side and trimmed tight on the left. It gave him kind of an off-balance look, his head always tilted. His chest was broad, in keeping with the stereotype of a Mafia capo, which Marabito decidedly was. In his open-necked Polo short-sleeve shirt, his shoulders appeared like small, pointy knobs of advanced age bone. The shirt looked as though it had been pulled over his body, designed by Omar the Tentmaker, the breadth of it accentuating the pointy shoulders.
Randall stood there in the mid-morning light, deciding how to answer while Droopy Eyes, silent on the long run-in from La Guardia, now stood sentinel behind him.
“You heard incorrectly,” he finally said.
“Come sit down beside me,” Marabito said, beckoning gently. “How old are you?” the capo asked, as Randall sat.
Randall gave him his cold stare. “Old enough for what you’ve got in mind,” he said.
The old Italian laughed. “No offense intended, Mr. Johnson. You do come highly recommended. You’re just a little long in the tooth is all. You’re up to this?”
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About the Book
When the mafia wants a mark eliminated, they turn to contract killer James Randall, a.k.a. Richard Johnson, and he usually delivers in spades. But Randall is aging and has developed the early stages of Alzheimer’s. When a hit goes horribly wrong, he finds himself on the run, pursued by his former employers.
Gritty, mesmerizing, A Lapse of Memory excites us with the chase, while also providing a back-story of a time long gone by. Himself in search of a lost past, the emotionally complex Randall is determined to evade his pursuers. But can he any longer differentiate friend from foe? Can he search out the secrets of his past as the present slips away?
The novella is ripe with inventive incidents, is evocative of the present as well as the physical atmosphere of the 1950’s, and offers a number of interesting characters. As usual in Curry’s work, the presence of the sea and the city is keenly felt and connected to the psychological action of the story.
About the Author
Dr. John A. Curry is Chancellor of Northeastern University. A 1956 graduate of that university, he later earned his doctorate from
Dr. Curry has written four novels – Loyalty, Two and Out, The Irish Corsicans, and Bless Me Father – as well as three collections of short stories – Some Shorts in the Dark, More Shorts in the Dark, and Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue – all available through Author House,
A Lapse of Memory is his first novella.