Page 8 of Sighs By the Sea

“Hey, Grayson. How’s it going?”

“Good,” I say, my tone clipped. No need to stretch out the conversation. I smooth my hair, nearly forgetting for the umpteenth time today that it's no longer a scraggly mess. I was finally able to get it cut by a professional two days ago. To say I feel like a new man is an understatement. Trading in my faded, too-big coveralls and shoulder-length hair was absolutely necessary. The new cut is perfect, thanks in part to the barber Tommy insisted I use. The man certainly knows how to style hair. And having him bring everything to my house and include my son in the process was well worth the $300 price tag. Of course, I didn't pay it. Nope. Tommy gifted the experience to me, claiming that it was a 'get out of jail free' cut.

He's got a strange sense of humor but is a truly nice guy in some odd twist. Pairing the cut with slacks and a polo makes me feel like the professional I aim to be instead of the convicted criminal I actually am. The only thing I kept was my beard. I have learned to like the hair along my chin. But it was trimmed up.

“There’s an office in the back. Just kick Greg out,” she says, already focusing down at the paper on the counter.

I walk the hall and slip into the office. But once I get a peek, I'm not sure if that’s what it should be called. The room is dimly lit by a single fluorescent light flickering above. The walls are adorned with faded surf posters and old memorabilia, curling at the edges. Boxes are scattered around, some open with contents spilling out. Greg is strumming a guitar in an old chair, some duct tape on the back. Even the aging computer seems exhausted and run down. It's whirring loudly, like a man's rasping last breaths.

"Sup," Greg says with a nod, then strums an out-of-tune chord, the sound reverberating in the cramped space.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This is a million-dollar shop, right?”

“As of last summer, yeah.”

I don’t comment any further on the dilapidated conditions. “Sam needs you in the front. Tommy’s about to be mobbed.”

Greg sets his guitar aside and rises to his feet. I almost laugh. The man is getting a little pooch where once a six-pack resided. The effects of being married. I remember them fondly. Gaining weight while my wife was pregnant, enjoying lots of nights at home with ice cream or popcorn. It feels like a distant memory, almost a dream. How perfect my life had been in those moments.

As Greg passes by, he slaps my back. “We’re ordering lunch from an Italian place. You like spaghetti?”

“Salad,” is all I manage to say. The emotions have flooded into me, and I don’t want Greg to know. The man is nice enough, but I haven’t spent much time with him. Or anyone, for that matter.

Being the accountant for the mob tends to isolate a person.

I sit in the chair and reach into my shoulder bag for the laptop. Before long, I’m pulling up my spreadsheets and updating counts. Every so often, I go to the stockroom to check boxes. If I thought the office was out of order, the storeroom should require a hazmat suit. Everything is spread out, no dedicated spots. How the hell do they find anything in here?

This won't do. If I can call meetings, this will certainly be on the docket for the first one. But eventually, I find a rhythm. While counting shirts, I fold them and put them in size order on the shelf. Sunscreen gets the same treatment, organized by strength.

Hours pass without even realizing it. But damn, it feels good to be working. Prison was full of long, boring days. Working with numbers, organizing what I see as part of my new dynasty, it's everything I knew I needed. Once the storeroom is put together, I take my clipboard back to the office and start inputting figures.

Half an hour later, there’s a knock on the doorframe. I turn my chair to see Sam standing at the threshold with a takeout box in hand. “Can I come in?”

I nod and spin my chair back to the desk. She flicks some hair behind her shoulder, and I study the takeout box. “Is that a salad?”

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound that fills the room. “No. Greg insisted on pasta for you. I think he’s a little jealous,” she admits.

I take my reading glasses off and fold my hands together. “Of?”

She sets the box down in front of me and sits on the corner of the desk with a shy smile. “Uh, I might have commented on your frame and maybe poked fun at his belly."

I remain stoic. I’m proud of the weight I’ve lost in prison, though it was more a lack of proper food than hard work. “Greg’s a handsome man.” Though inwardly, I’m puffing my chest out a little more.

“I agree. I’m totally infatuated with my husband, dad-bod or not.”

Not sure what to say to that, I flip open the lid to the food. “That’s nice.”

Sam laughs again. “Scale from one to ten; how uncomfortable are you right now?”

That causes the corner of my lip to twitch, but I refrain from actually smiling at her. “Do you know what a pivot table is?” Sam shakes her head. “It’s a little graph that adds up at the bottom, basically. But when the numbers don’t make sense anywhere along the way, the total column will have a number symbol and read ‘incalculable.’”

That earns a throaty laugh from Sam. “Your discomfort is incalculable. Got it. Well, I’ll just leave your pasta and let you get back to it, then.” She saunters out of the room, but I don't watch her go. Cousin Sam is not to be ogled.

Once she's gone, I dig into the food. It's a good enough sauce, but hardly up to the standard I was used to before prison. $36 million. That's how much money the government took from me. This is not the pasta of someone with $36 million. But it's edible. As I eat, I get back to work, trying not to think about how much I've lost. When I admitted I was guilty and signed my deal, I knew the money would be taken. But a part of me is still upset. I earned that money. Being an involuntary prisoner of my family and the Chernobog Brotherhood was not easy work.

But, alas, it was dirty money they paid me with. I am a criminal. Maybe it wasn't entirely by choice, but the police took that into account. Two years is not nearly what I could have gotten.

An hour later, my pasta is gone, and I'm finishing up for the day when the phone rings on the desk. I pick it up. “Hello?”

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