The Hypothetical Hitman

"A bad man is shot in the head, stuffed in the trunk of a car and left for dead," Roxanne Salvitti said. “It’s a hypothetical story.”

Fourteen-year-old Lester Feldman eyeballed the dark-skinned girl uncomfortably. Roxanne was short with a hooked nose and black eyes. She had no chest to speak of - buds maybe but no formal breasts - and her hands were stubby. The Salvittis, who drove up from the Federal Hill section of Providence, had taken the penthouse two-bedroom suite with a porch fronting on the ocean at the Old Orchard Beach resort. The Feldman's apartment two floor below wasn't nearly as lavish, but a vacation was a vacation and guests learn to make do.

"Who shot the guy and for what reason?" They were sitting at the pool with their legs dangling in the water. A kindergarten-age girl with fluorescent orange water wings cannonballed into the pool directly in front of a sign suggesting that such behavior was strictly prohibited.

"He was a drug pusher, a low-level thug working the streets with another, knuckle-dragging chump. But he wasn't splitting the money evenly and they argued." Roxanne was sorting a bag of shells she collected earlier at the beach, separating out a convex slipper shell from the others. The shell was in mint condition – not a single, blemish, crack or chipped edge.

"But even the Mafia has a code of honor, so the big boys decided to teach mister smarty pants a lesson." Roxanne fingered a coffee-dappled periwinkle with five bulging rings. “Did I mention the part about the Persian rug?”

A befuddled Lester Feldman shook his head. “They wrapped the body in a Persian rug – not the expensive kind that cost a gazillion dollars, but one of those ‘elcheapo’ facsimiles you can pick up for a few lousy bucks at Walmart or the bargain outlets.”

"So they killed him," Lester interjected steering her back to the original topic.

"That was their intent, but five hours later, the police found the abandoned car and rushed the mobster to the hospital." Losing interest in the shells, Roxanne flung the bag aside. "Ever had carnal relations?"

“What's that?"

"Sex."

"No, not yet," Lester replied.

"My mother says nice girls always save themselves for the altar; only putans give it away." The girl had her father's pale olive colorings and Mediterranean good looks. Still, after three days running into her at the motel swimming pool, Roxanne Salvitti’s goofy pronouncements were beginning to wear thin. "Of course French kissing and the other stuff are okay just so long as things don't get totally out of hand." "You do know,” she whispered, “what the 'other stuff' is?"

"I'm not a moron!" Lester had bought a skim board at one of the outlets on the boardwalk and planned to take it down to the ocean. With the tide rising, conditions were ideal for breaking in the new board, but he was stuck making small talk with a fourteen year-old nymphomaniac. Lester rose to his feet. "I'm going down to the ocean."

Roxanne pulled her stumpy legs out of the water. "What a great idea! I'll join you, but we got to stop by the motel room to tell my parents. They're strict Catholics."

"Whatever." Lester wasn't quite sure what being Catholic had to do with much of anything. The public beach was directly across the street from the motel. It was ten o'clock in the morning. His intentions were pure.

"Give me a kiss." Before he could respond, the Italian girl grabbed Lester and kissed his mouth – a sloppy, thoroughly awkward gesture devoid of anything even remotely romantic. "We’ll continue this conversation later.” Brushing the sand from her thighs, she sashayed back to the motel.

* * * * *

At the beach, Roxanne wandered off collecting more shells while Lester refined his skim boarding technique. The key was to catch an inch or so of incoming surf on the fly. You slung the board with an underhand motion then ran alongside, leaping far forward to gain momentum. A good throw could carry the rider a solid hundred feet slithering across the moist sand.

Seabirds were everywhere. Along with the noisy gulls, an assortment of whimbrels and western willets were scattered about the shore. Additionally, half a hundred piping plovers raced about the waterline in an impromptu, choreographed ballet as the tide sent brackish water coursing over the sand. As they raced back and forth, the sunlight caught the birds’ tail feathers spraying mini-bursts of silvery sparkles across the shore. Half an hour later, Lester grew tired of the sport and flopped down on the pearly sand, and Roxanne, who was cradling a new collection of seashells sat down beside him. Slipping her arm around Lester’s waist, she leaned close. "You want to play doctor?" When there was no immediate response, she added, "You can be my gynecologist."

Lester pushed her arm away. "Why do you say such outrageous thing?"

"It's a test, stupid!" She stuck her jaw out defiantly. "If you said 'yes', I'd slap your putrid puss and send you packing, that's why." Roxanne seemed inordinately pleased with herself. "Actually, I haven't gotten around to sex yet either… been too busy with other stuff."

Lester grabbed her by the wrist, raised up and stuck his nose in the girl's face. "Is there more?"

"More what?"

"To that weird, hypothetical story you were telling me earlier."

"Yeah, of course there's more." Roxanne dug her toes in the moist sand. "The D.A. waits until the dope with the bullet in his brain leaves the hospital and promptly indicts him for murder."

"What good does that accomplish if he goes around talking gibberish and can hardly tie his own shoelaces?"

Roxanne shook her head vigorously from side to side. "The district attorney doesn't care about him. They're trying to get their hands on the goons who stuffed him in the trunk and left him for dead." She adjusted the halter on her bikini. “Did I mention that they used hollow point, dumdum bullets... removed the jacketing from the nose of the slug so the lead would flatten out and expand as it passed through flesh.”

“Brain tissue,” Lester corrected. The perverse tale was giving him heartburn. “But I still don't get it."

"The D.A. starts subpoenaing half the wise guys and wise guy wannabes on Federal Hill hoping somebody will sing like a canary… turn state's evidence and rat the whole freakin' mob out." "Every loan shark, fence, bookie, pimp and pickpocket in Providence is fair game, no matter that they never passed two freakin’ words with either the deceased or the nitwit that shot him."

Lester reached out and placed his fingers over her lips. "How come you tell the story in the present tense if -"

"Gimme me a kiss," Roxanne slipped her arms around his waist and pulled Lester up against her body. When the kiss was done, she said, "Marry me."

"I'm fourteen years-old."

"I can wait. Now kiss me again and get creative."

Lester kissed her a half dozen times for good measure then flopped down on the sand lying on his back. Roxanne sat down beside him, staring out at the placid water. Off in the distance a man was surf casting with a silvery lure. He arched the rod over his shoulder and flung the monofilament line far out over the water. Roxanne cupped his face in her hands and kissed Lester on the side of the mouth. "I got a hymen. It's a thin tissue that protects the vagina… sort of like a combination padlock on a safe full of valuables. If you're serious and not some gavonne looking to take advantage of a respectable girl, I’ll save myself for you."

Lester considered the request. A week wasn't nearly long enough. He needed at least another fifty or sixty years to get a handle on this erratic creature. "How’s the story end?"

Up ahead the fisherman was removing the metal lure in favor of a plastic plug. Wading up to his waist in the water, he hurled the line in a sweeping trajectory toward deeper water and immediately began reeling in, jerking the line every so often to affect the movements of an injured minnow. "Well, that's hard to say, because this make believe story is sort of like a soap opera served up in weekly installments."

"Okay." Lester felt past events colliding with present realities.

"In September,” Roxanne spoke soberly, “the case goes to trial and that's when things get messy."

The sun was gone. Mrs. Salvitti, the devout Catholic who, according to her daughter, attended church each Sunday and all holy days of obligation, was probably pestering her husband about their unsullied daughter's whereabouts. Lester rose to his feet. "We live in Brandenberg just over the state line. Last winter my father took me to a hockey game at the Civic Center in downtown Providence. We went by Amtrak train and got there in twenty minutes." He felt the girl curl up against him, her cheek resting on his chest. "How far is Federal Hill from the Providence train station?"

"Five minute."

"I could visit you on weekends during school." Lester cleared his throat. "Maybe we could even drop by the courthouse and sit in the back… watch proceedings."

"No, I don't think my parents would like that. The main thing is that we keep in touch." She nuzzled his chest with her chin. "Roxanne Feldman… it sort of has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"