You married a dying 74-year-old woman for five thousand dollars cash, Julian, my dockworker friends laughed at the diner in Newark, shaking their heads. "You're a fake husband to an old lady just...
The weight of the duffel bag in my trunk felt like a ticking bomb. I couldn’t trust Brody, couldn’t trust Garra’s notary. I needed someone on my side, someone who knew the streets, someone who had nothing to gain from my downfall.
I drove to the familiar diner in Newark where my dockworker friends, Tommy, Sal, and Frankie, usually gathered for coffee before their shifts. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a harsh glow on their faces.
“Julian!” Tommy called out, a wide grin stretching across his face. “Still playing house with the old lady’s millions?”
Frankie elbowed Sal. “He’s gonna be a millionaire soon, boys! Champagne wishes and caviar dreams!” They all laughed, the sound echoing the mockery I’d grown used to.
I forced a smile, sitting down at their booth. “Just trying to figure things out.”
“Figuring out how to spend it all, eh?” Sal joked, sipping his coffee. “Don’t forget your old buddies when you’re buying yachts.”
I kept my expression neutral, watching them. Their easy banter felt different now, strained. I specifically remembered their earlier taunts, their insistence that the marriage was a joke.
Tommy got up from the booth to answer his buzzing burner phone, stepping just out of earshot, near the counter. He spoke in hushed tones, his back mostly to me.
“Yeah, he’s here,” Tommy mumbled into the phone. “Same time. Same spot. Nothing new. Just chewing on it. Said he’d think about it.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. *He’d think about it.* That was my line to Gable last night.
Tommy kept talking, his voice low. “Yeah, he still thinks we’re laughing *with* him. Playing it up. Don’t worry, boss. He’s isolated. Totally believes it’s all a big joke. No, he hasn’t talked to any lawyers. We’re keeping him away from any real help.”
My blood ran cold. *Boss.* *Isolated.* *Keeping him away from any real help.*
He turned slightly, and I saw a flash of fear in his eyes before he quickly turned back. He was talking to DeLuca, Garra’s enforcer.
When he hung up, Tommy walked back to the table, his face a mask of casual indifference. “Just the wife,” he said, shrugging. “Always nagging.”
“What were you talking about, Tommy?” I asked, my voice flat.
He stiffened slightly. “Just work stuff. You know how it is.”
“I know,” I said, my gaze fixed on his. “I know Garra paid you, didn’t he? To keep me laughing at myself. To keep me from taking Nora seriously.”
Tommy’s face drained of color. Sal and Frankie suddenly went quiet, their eyes wide.
“What are you talking about?” Tommy stammered, his voice losing its easy confidence.
“Two thousand dollars each,” I said, remembering Gable’s words, my own despair after Leo’s death. “That’s what Garra paid you, isn’t it? To make sure I thought Nora’s marriage was a charade. To make sure I dismissed any mention of her wealth as a fantasy.”
Tommy recoiled as if slapped. He looked at Sal and Frankie, who avoided his gaze, their faces grim. The silence in the diner stretched, thick with betrayal.
“He just needed eyes and ears,” Tommy whispered, defeated. “Said it was a simple job. Just keep him laughing. Make sure he doesn’t get smart.”
“You made sure I felt like a fool,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “You laughed at me when I needed help. When I was grieving for Leo. You made sure I believed the marriage was just for five thousand dollars, nothing more, while Nora was leaving me twenty-eight million.”
Frankie pushed his coffee cup away, his face etched with shame. “He threatened us, Julian. Said if we didn’t play along, he’d make sure we never saw another shift on the docks. Said he’d hurt our families.”
It was an excuse, a flimsy one. But the realization hit me hard. My “friends,” the men I’d shared beers and complaints with for years, had been selling me out, feeding Garra intel, and reinforcing the narrative that I was nothing more than a temporary, fake husband. They had kept me isolated, making sure I believed the marriage was a meaningless joke, preventing me from questioning Garra’s initial moves, all for a paltry two grand. The irony was bitter. Garra’s psychological game was far more elaborate than I’d imagined.
I stood up slowly, the duffel bag of money feeling heavier than ever in my trunk. The diner’s fluorescent lights seemed to mock me now. I walked out without another word, leaving my so-called friends in their ashamed silence. There was only one person left I could turn to now.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours