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Chubs was Marcus Wiley. The third face in the photo. |
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Jerry Mars wondered what the jungle would look like in his eyes. |
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He had studied Wiley's movements for several days. The man lived on Boston's Mount Vernon Street, a quaint and elegant road that climbed Beacon Hill. Unlike the others, he was retired. His wife was dead and he lived with his daughter, Margaret, a cripple. Jerry had watched him push her in a wheelchair through the Public Garden and Common. |
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As with the other assignments, this was to be an accident. According to Roman, Wiley was a smoker, even though he was being treated for emphysema. Jerry's plan was a nice, innocent house fire. In his briefcase he had duct tape, handcutts, a half dozen dead C-batteries, cotton and chloroform. It wouldn't bring him the predatory thrill of a one-on-one kill, but it would earn him another $35,000. |
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The night was warm and starry. Around seven-thirty, just as the sun had declined over the Charles River, Jerry strolled up Charles Street past the fancy cafes and antique shops. It was a neighborhood that could have been designed by Charles Dickensred-brick structures, big windows with ripply glass, quaint little shops, glass lampposts and brick sidewalks where people strolled arm in arm. The place made him think of Christmas. |
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At the old meeting house he turned up Mount Vernon Street to number sixty-seven. The lace of the basement window blocked the view of the daughter in her apartment, but he could hear her at the piano. |
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In the glass side panel Jerry smoothed down his hair and adjusted |
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