With Help from Michael O Leary Pt 10
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With Help From Michael O’Leary Pt. 06 free porn video
Chapter 26 ‘Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella.’
They wheeled Shannon Kelly-O’Day out as Michael was leaving the bank. He held the door for the coroner and spotted Gabriella, as soon as he exited the bank. He had not seen her since the hardware store when she told him about accepting the job with the Post Office. The excitement of seeing her gave him tunnel vision and, even though she stood within a crowd of spectators, he saw no one else but her.
She ran to him. He did not move, could not move. She threw her arms around his neck and, pressing her body close to his, kissed him hard on the lips. Suddenly, he forgot about the bank robbery and Shannon Kelly. He returned her kiss with passion allowing his tongue to probe hers. Finally, he got his wish, she was his.
Michael surrendered standing with his arms slightly raised from his sides, immobilized by the sweetness of her lips. When he composed himself to put his arms around her waist and pull her closer hoping to prolong the kiss, she pulled back and whispered in his ear.
‘I’m so glad you are safe, Michael, my darling. I am so glad you are here. When I saw the coroner’s car, I thought the worst. Thank God you are okay. Thank God for you.’ She wiped her tears on his shoulder and held him tight in her hug. ‘Thank God.’
He held her close feeling all of her body without moving his hands. His brain screamed, she kissed me. She called me my darling. Her words echoed in his head, I am so glad you are safe, Michael, my darling.
‘Gabriella,’ was all that he could say. Still, he loved saying her name. Her name was music. He said it, again, ‘Gabriella.’
‘Oh, Michael, Michael, my darling,’ she said in response.
He swooned at the sound of his name coming from her voice and her lips followed with my darling emphasizing his place in her heart and in her mind.
‘Tonight, you come to my house,’ she whispered her sweet breath that tickled his ear with promises of things to come. ‘I’ll cook you dinner…we’ll have wine…’ she paused, ‘we’ll make love.’ She pulled away from him, folded a piece of paper, and placed it in his hand.
Her words, we’ll make love, endlessly echoed his excited anticipation of the thoughts of finally being with her. He threw back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and seemingly grew 2′. He unfolded the paper she put in his palm and stared through it. It read, Gabriella Pagliuca, 109 Charter Street, 617-227-5533.
‘No,’ he said not believing that he was saying no to her, ‘I can’t, not tonight.’ Again, he could not believe his ears that he was turning down the chance of a romantic evening with the woman he loved. ‘I’m sorry, Gabriella.’ He met her gaze and said, ‘I have thought of no one else but you and nothing else but making love to you, and I would love to come to your house for dinner…for wine…’ he paused, ‘for love, but I do not think that I can after…’ He watched as the coroner’s hearse drove off with Shannon Kelly-O’Day’s lifeless body, her black attire now covered with a black, plastic body bag. He made the sign of the cross, mumbled some words in Latin, said, ‘Amen,’ and crossed himself, again.
‘Of course, Michael, I understand…another time…I just thought…how awful this is and how terrible you must feel. I did not want you to go home alone.’ She dropped her arms from around his neck and took his arm, holding him tight.
‘I’ll call you tonight.’ Michael looked deep in her eyes, kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, ‘I love you.’ Finally, he said the words. Finally, he told her. ‘I have loved you since the first day I saw you at the hardware store. You left me speechless.’
‘That was just from the drain brammage,’ she rubbed her head, ‘when we bumped heads.’
‘I love you,’ he said, again, pulling her close and kissing her.
‘I love you,’ she said breaking away.
‘I’ll call you tonight.’ He kissed her, again.
‘Ciao,’ she waved her little hand and disappeared through the crowd.
Chapter 27 Charlestown
Michael decided not to go home from the bank. Instead, he walked across the bridge that separated the North End from Charlestown. Although he felt safe in Charlestown, he did not feel as comfortable roaming their neighborhood streets as he did as a boy. Much like all the neighborhoods of Boston, Charlestown did not escape the evolution of a metropolitan big city experiencing the sprawling land development growth of a booming northeastern economy. A city in transition from the biggest construction project in the history of the modern world, the Big Dig, the local politicians enjoyed the money that flowed in their economies from the construction of it.
Unfortunately, the people who lived in Charlestown for generations fell prey to those real estate developers and land speculators who realized early the value of the old neighborhoods that were so close to Boston’s booming businesses. These deep pocket people descended upon the neighborhoods waving their cash beneath the noses of people who had nothing, sometimes, not even a job, but their houses, houses that were passed down from generation to generation. Homes that the people who lived there, lived there their entire lives were homes that the elderly, not getting by on fixed incomes, hung on to long after they no longer could afford to pay the water bill, the taxes, and the repairs. Developers and speculators bought entire blocks of homes for fair market value or below fair market value, gutted them, remodeled them, and resold them as expensive condominiums or exclusive townhouses.
Young, affluent city residents replaced the elderly, poor neighbors. Cement sidewalks and asphalt streets replaced the old brick and cobblestone removing the charm with the modernization. New, black, iron fences replaced old, wooden, white ones. Foreign cars and SUV’s from Germany and Japan replaced American cars and station wagons. French restaurants and coffeehouses replaced ethnic sub shops and taverns. Robotic ATMs and self-service gas stations replaced friendly tellers and chatty mechanics that pumped your gas, checked your oil, and filled your tires while filling you in on the neighborhood gossip. The Wall Street Journal and the New York Times replaced the Record American and the Boston Globe. Convenience stores owned and operated by foreigners from India, Pakistan, and other Middle Eastern countries replaced Mom and Pop corner stores that had been there as long as the neighborhood. The neighborhood changed from a warm, friendly, and familiar environment to a cold, unfriendly, and unfamiliar place.
The changes made the few familiar faces that remained feel like outcasts in their own neighborhoods. Those undeveloped properties that remained, whose owners refused to sell and held out against the inevitable, homes that once were the neighborhood landscape, looked starkly out of place. Now, a two million dollar, three story, 4,500 square foot condominium stood alongside a dilapidated three-decker house. Eventually, through legal ramblings and money to grease hands, the city council declared those houses that remained unfit to live in and razed them, making more opportunities for developers to make more money and put more of their imprint on the neighborhoods.
The composition of the neighborhood population changed from a collection of lower, middle class ethnic segregationist to upper, middle class integrationist. Those unfamiliar faces that left early for work and returned late replaced those familiar faces that sat on their stoops or hung out their windows. By displacing the poorest residents of Boston in favor of developing the skyline to attract the more affluent segment of the world population, the grapevine that fed the neighborhood its gossip suffocated and died.
Yet, the politicians embraced the change. The Mayor and the Governor gave their speeches that Boston was changing for the better and moving along with the times. Only, no one took the time or had the interest to look at those lo
yal citizens who were no only left behind but who were banished from the neighborhoods that they had grown to love. For those who grew up there and who lived there, it was not a celebration but a funeral.
Chapter 28 The Cliffs of Dover
Michael sought a familiar place. The Cliffs of Dover Pub was the lone establishment left standing where the owner had refused the generous offers of developers to sell his land. They wanted to level his business to give the new breed of Bostonians moving into the neighborhood a skyscraping condominium complex with unobstructed and panoramic views of Boston Harbor. Spitefully, they squeezed two high-rise apartment buildings on either side of him and bridged the skyscrapers with an annex that hung low over his roof. The twin towers created a cyclonic wind tunnel around his building and cast such a shadowy gloom over the street that the pub looked like it concealed itself in a darkened doorway waiting to leap out at any passerby.
No longer could the pub owner illuminate his tavern with the same green, neon map of Ireland sign that had guided the neighborhood patrons to its door for over 30 years. The city council vetoed that advertising display voting that it no longer represented the new neighborhood. Now, the weathered, hand-painted signage over the door of the pub was the only indication that the establishment was a bar and not someone’s house. If you did not know that the pub was there, you would not see it until you walked by it. Business fell off drastically, but the owner riled against the unfairness that the developers had leveled upon his shoulders with the city’s politicians in its deep pockets and, so long as he had his liquor license, he swore to stay in business, even if it meant losing money.
Yet, because the sun no longer found its way to the Cliffs of Dover Pub, a musty odor permeated the outside of the establishment. No sunlight filtered through to warm the roof of the tavern and the sea breeze that blew in from the harbor played havoc with the front door and rattled the windows. Whatever trash lined the streets made its way to the pub’s front door, littering its sidewalk in a tornado of papers. The city’s inspectors, blaming the litter on him and his customers, wrote the owner trash violations daily.
The regulars hardly noticed the blustery disturbance out front but for those strangers who happened in for a drink, they feared after downing a couple of Irish brews that they might fall off the real Cliffs of Dover as soon as they exited the front door.
Michael entered the darkened tavern for a late lunch but an early supper, a chicken salad sandwich with a double shot of rye, straight up. Except for his two pints, which he nursed all Saturday night at O’Malley’s, Michael did not drink. Too small to hold his alcohol, he did not like the lost sense of control that he experienced when he drank too much. Today, however, he needed a drink.
He removed the white envelope from his pocket after the waitress left the table with his order and covered it with his hand when she returned with bread and water, and uncovered it, again, when she left. He reached inside the sealed envelope and pulled out a Massachusetts state lottery ticket back dated several months and remembered what Flaherty had said about Mrs. Enunzio cashing in stolen lottery tickets. He had no doubt that the ticket that he held in his hand was a winning ticket but for how much. He wondered about the payoff. He hoped the prize was enough to buy new tires of his Mustang. When he saw the waitress approaching the table with his order, he returned the ticket to the envelope and pocketed it, again. He downed the rye, wrapped the sandwich in a napkin and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, and placed $20.00 on the table and left.
Michael walked the five miles home, keeping one hand in his pant pocket the whole way with his fingers in constant contact with the envelop and with his other hand holding the sandwich and eating it as he walked. The double shot of rye that he downed at the tavern calmed his nerves and long walks always made him feel better. His mind seemed clearer, better able to focus on what he needed to do.
He thought about driving to lottery headquarters to cash the ticket, but worried about the FBI, the Massachusetts State Police or the Boston Police arresting him, as soon as he did. He looked to see if anyone followed him and, noting the cars around him, changed his route to see if any of those cars near him now were still there later. He noticed a car lingered, a dark blue, Ford Crown Victoria, the universal, undercover cop car. He dumped his half-eaten sandwich in a trash barrel, dashed down a one-way street, cut across an alleyway marked private, no trespassing, and hooked through a backyard and over a fence to remake his original route. He turned to see if he could spot the car. Gone, he had lost it. Reassured that he was alone again with his thoughts, anxious to develop a plan of action for cashing the stolen lottery ticket, he doubled back to continue the way he had come. Suddenly, the car pulled up in front of him and stopped.
He froze. He stood watching the rear door of the car slowly open. His fingers grabbed the envelope ready to pitch it away. His heart pounded. Sweat appeared at his hairline. He watched impatiently waiting for someone to exit the car. The seconds that passed to see who would exit the car were almost as excruciating as waiting for the bank robber to fire a bullet in the back of his head. He knew that this was not a normal reaction but, after what he had been through, panic was his only reaction.
An elderly woman with hair as blue and as puffy as cotton candy emerged from the back seat. ‘I’ll call you when I’m done,’ she said to the white haired gentleman behind the wheel, probably her husband. She passed in front of Michael, glared at him for staring at her, and disappeared in the beauty salon behind him.
Michael quickened his pace walking fast until he started running and did not stop running until he reached home. He thought about calling the police and surrendering the lottery ticket, but figured that they would arrest him for taking the envelope, for taking evidence from a dead woman’s hand, and for interfering with the ongoing police investigation of an armed bank robbery and a murder.
Home, finally, he stood by his kitchen phone unable to decide if he should call the police, surrender the lottery ticket and turn himself in or call the Massachusetts state lottery, ask how much was the prize, and cash the lottery ticket.
The image of Shannon’s dead body flashed across his mind. For so many years, the love he had for her had burned deep within his heart like molten lava rock within a volcano. New feelings smoldered for the anticipation of a long life with his true love, Gabriella. He erupted into action.
He removed the envelope from his pocket and the lottery ticket from the envelope. He sat on his sofa staring at the ticket, curious about the payoff. He picked up the telephone and dialed information for the number of the state lottery agency.
Chapter 29 The Lottery Ticket
‘Welcome to Verizon,’ said the familiar prerecorded voice of James Earl Jones.
‘What city and state?’ This time, it was the prerecorded voice of a woman.
‘Woburn, Massachusetts,’ he said.
‘What listing?’ Again, the same prerecorded voice.
‘Yes, may I have the telephone number for the Massachusetts State Lottery?’
‘One moment, please,’ said a live operator.
A fourth recording gave him his requested telephone number. He dialed the number.
‘Massachusetts State Lottery, how may I direct your call?’
‘May I speak with someone to verify a winning lottery ticket number?’
‘One moment, please.’
He listened as the telephone rang. A man’s voice answered on the third ring.
‘Mass state lottery, Bill speaking, may I help you?’
‘Hi, Bill, I think that I may have a winning ticket.’
‘
Which game, Sir?’
‘Mega Millions.’
‘What is the date of the drawing?’
‘June fourth of this year.’
‘Read the numbers that appear on the ticket, please.’
‘6, 7, 8, 14, 26 and with a bonus ball of 27.’
‘Please hold.’
‘Okay.’
The man’s voice disappeared and reappeared just as Michael was having second thoughts and was about to hang up.
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘Please read me those numbers one more time.’
‘6, 7, 8, 14, 26 and with a bonus ball of 27.’
‘And that was a Massachusetts Mega Millions ticket for June fourth of this year?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please hold.’
‘Okay.’
It was several long minutes before the man returned to the phone. The wait was excruciating.
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘Please read me those numbers one more time.’
‘6, 7, 8, 14, 26 and with a bonus ball of 27.’
‘And that was a Massachusetts Mega Millions ticket for June fourth of this year?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please hold.’
‘Okay.’
Again, it was several long minutes before the man returned to the telephone.
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘There are a long sequence of numbers that appear below the date of the drawing but just above the bar encoding information. Can you read those numbers to me, please?’
‘Two, one, double zero, six, one, double zero, two, seven, one, dash, zero, five, four, five, nine, double six, four, zero, dash, one, seven, nine, five, one, and zero.’
‘Please allow me to read that back. Two, one, zero, zero, six, one, zero, zero, two, seven, one, zero, five, four, five, nine, six, six, four, zero, one, seven, nine, five, one, zero.’
Michael followed the numbers with his finger.
‘Okay.’
‘Is those the numbers as it appears on your ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please hold while I confirm this information.’
‘Sure.’
The time that lapsed between the conversation and the confirmation took even longer.
‘I do show that ticket as the winning lottery ticket for the jackpot prize on that day for that drawing.’
‘That’s great.’ Michael suppressed his emotion. ‘And that is for the jackpot prize?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Now, when you say Jackpot, you mean like first prize, I mean, the biggest prize for that drawing.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Now what do I do?’
‘You can either mail it to us or come down to lottery headquarters to collect your check.’
‘I think I’ll come there instead of mailing it.’ Michael assimilated the information. ‘What are your hours?’
‘We are open Monday through Friday from 9am to 5pm.’
‘Oh, and can you tell me how much was the jackpot payoff for that ticket?’
‘Yes, Sir. Please hold.
‘Sure.’
Another few minutes passed before the man returned to the phone, only this time, Michael did not mind the wait because he was daydreaming about all the things that he could buy with his lottery winnings. Maybe, there’s enough to buy a new car, he hoped.
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘The amount of your payoff is three million, one hundred, forty-three thousand dollars.’
‘Three million, one hundred, forty-three thousand dollars? Wow!’ Michael sat and switched the telephone receive to his other ear. ‘Three million, one hundred, forty-three thousand dollars, and how much is that after taxes?’ Forget the tires, thought Michael, I can buy myself a brand new car.’
‘One moment, please.’ He heard an adding machine in the background. ‘Sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘Approximately, two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars after paying state and federal taxes due.’
‘Wow!’
‘It is a lot of money. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you. One more question, please.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘How much does that work out to per year over what is it, 25 years?’
‘That is the yearly payoff, Sir. Two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars after taxes, is your net amount that you will receive each year for 25 years.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The jackpot total is for seventy-eight million, five hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. The two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars is your yearly payout.’
Clover
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