Chapter 8 - Twenty-Two Months
Arthur served twenty-two months.
Good behavior.
Cooperation.
No miracle.
No secret pardon.
No judge bought.
For the first time in his adult life, money could not open every door.
Norah did not wait.
She lived.
Important difference.
She left the Costello estate three weeks after Arthur surrendered.
Not because anyone forced her.
Because she was done living in a basement.
She rented a small apartment with huge windows.
The refrigerator hummed.
The radiator knocked.
Nobody carried guns through the hallway.
Perfect.
Maria cried when she left.
Frankie pretended not to.
Gabriel helped restructure Costello Holdings.
Only legitimate operations survived.
Restaurants.
Warehouses.
Trucking.
Commercial real estate.
The clubs were sold.
Cash collection crews dissolved.
Port criminal operations turned over to investigators.
Some men went to prison.
Some retired.
Some discovered being frightening was not a marketable résumé skill.
Norah returned to school.
Not nursing.
Hospital administration.
Years of medical-debt paperwork had taught her more about broken healthcare billing than she ever wanted to know.
She took evening classes while managing housekeeping at a small rehabilitation hotel.
The work was less glamorous.
She preferred it.
Arthur wrote letters.
His handwriting was awful.
The first said:
THE FOOD IS BAD.
Norah wrote:
GOOD.
The second:
FRANKIE SAYS YOU BOUGHT A COUCH.
She answered:
STOP ASKING FRANKIE ABOUT MY FURNITURE.
The third:
I DIDN’T ASK. HE VOLUNTEERED.
She wrote:
LIAR.
Months passed.
Arthur began therapy.
Real therapy.
Not Norah.
Good.
He wrote once:
I SPENT FORTY MINUTES EXPLAINING WHY MY FATHER WAS THE REASON I COULD NEVER TRUST ANYONE.
MY THERAPIST ASKED WHY I WAS STILL LETTING A DEAD MAN MAKE MY DECISIONS.
I DISLIKE HER.
Norah answered:
SOUNDS EXPENSIVE. KEEP GOING.
He did.
At month eleven, Norah visited.
One time.
The federal visiting room was painfully ordinary.
Arthur wore prison clothes.
No gold watch.
No tailored suit.
No men standing when he entered.
Norah expected him to look smaller.
He didn’t.
Different.
His beard shorter.
More gray at the temples.
His eyes quieter.
They sat across from each other.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To check whether prison improved your personality.”
“Results?”
“Inconclusive.”
He smiled.
Then:
“Are you seeing a dentist?”
Norah stared.
“You remembered that?”
“I’ve hated a fictional dentist for a year.”
She laughed.
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“Arthur.”
“Right.”
He looked embarrassed.
Good.
“No.”
His face tried not to show relief.
Failed.
Norah liked that.
They talked for two hours.
No promises.
Before leaving, Arthur said:
“I don’t want the old house.”
“Good.”
“I sold it.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“The estate.”
“The basement?”
“Especially.”
Something tightened in her chest.
“Why?”
Arthur looked down.
“I spent my whole life believing that house was proof my family survived.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was proof we never left.”
Norah understood.
“Where will you live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Imagine that.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“I’m told uncertainty is healthy.”
“Who told you?”
“My extremely irritating therapist.”
“Smart woman.”
At twenty-two months, Arthur walked out.
No photographers.
No convoy.
Frankie drove one car.
Norah drove herself.
She had not planned to go.
Then she did.
Arthur emerged carrying one small bag.
He saw Frankie.
Then Norah.
Stopped.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
She walked toward him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You look sober.”
“Twenty-two months.”
“Good start.”
Arthur smiled.
Then his expression became uncertain.
“Can I hug you?”
Norah’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
He wrapped his arms around her.
No desperation.
No blood.
No basement.
Just warmth.
When they separated, Arthur looked at her.
“I have nowhere to go.”
Norah raised an eyebrow.
“You’re worth several hundred million dollars.”
“Yes.”
“You have nowhere to go?”
“Not nowhere geographically.”
She understood.
Then smiled.
“Come have coffee.”
Arthur’s entire face softened.
“That sounds almost like mercy.”
“It’s coffee.”
“Right.”
“And Arthur?”
“Yes?”
May you like
“You pay.”
“Finally, something I’m qualified for.”
