A Lapse of Memory

Trying to separate himself from the gaggle of businessmen deplaning at La Guardia, Randall followed the signs leading to the taxis.  The only problem was everyone else was heading in the same direction like a herd of cattle urged on by the whip, most of them armed with identical leather briefcases held against grey or blue suits.  An occasional politically correct young woman marched along with them attired in a business suit and tie.  You had to really wonder about women who wore ties, he thought.

Randall descended the escalator and noted the ten or twelve men holding signs, some in uniform, half of them Arabs or Hispanics, probably incapable of reading the signs they carried, he thought.  Halfway back in the pack a rail-thin man, maybe forty, dressed in Dockers, a sweatshirt, and leather jacket held high the sign welcoming him to the Big Apple.

“I’m Mr. Johnson,” Randall announced to the man with the droopy eyes. 

“Richard Johnson?”  the guy inquired in disbelief.  “You’re Richard Johnson?”  he repeated, chewing on the words.

“I said I was, didn’t I?”  Randall said, placing his duffel bag on the ground.

The man stared some more.  “Well, this is a crazy town, y’know?  Lots of clowns around here are lookin’ for a free ride into town.  They might say they’re Richard Johnson when they ain’t.  Besides which, you don’t look like the guy I’m lookin’ for.”

Randall stared the guy down.  “Is that right?  Then why are you holding the placard?”
            “The what?”

Randall waved a dismissive hand at Droopy Eyes.  “Never mind,” he said, bending for the duffel, starting to walk.

“You’re just older than I thought,” the guy said.

“Ain’t we all.”

“If you’re really Richard Johnson…”

“Where’s the car?”  Randall interrupted.

The deadbeat set his jaw.  “Out there.  If you’re Richard Johnson, you should know where we’re heading.  Right?”

“Central Park,”  Randall replied, squinting at the sun as they exited through the automatic doors.

--

“Word’s out you’re ready to retire,” Andrew Marabito said, as soon as Randall approached him, sitting there, or slouching there, on the bench along Central Park West.  He was a short, squat man, maybe fifty-five, with a shock of silver gray hair combed over to hang down long on the right side and trimmed tight on the left.  It gave him kind of an off-balance look, his head always tilted.  His chest was broad, in keeping with the stereotype of a Mafia capo, which Marabito decidedly was.  In his open-necked Polo short-sleeve shirt, his shoulders appeared like small, pointy knobs of advanced age bone.  The shirt looked as though it had been pulled over his body, designed by Omar the Tentmaker, the breadth of it accentuating the pointy shoulders.

Randall stood there in the mid-morning light, deciding how to answer while Droopy Eyes, silent on the long run-in from La Guardia, now stood sentinel behind him.

“You heard incorrectly,” he finally said.

“Come sit down beside me,” Marabito said, beckoning gently.  “How old are you?” the capo asked, as Randall sat.

Randall gave him his cold stare.  “Old enough for what you’ve got in mind,” he said.

The old Italian laughed.  “No offense intended, Mr. Johnson.  You do come highly recommended.  You’re just a little long in the tooth is all.  You’re up to this?”