The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [119]
NO SPECIAL FAREWELLS AWAITED ART the morning he left the halfway house. The setting’s transient nature discouraged close friendships, and he’d had little interest in socializing. He simply packed up his bags, signed a few papers, and walked out the front door. It was February 25, 2004, a date he’d anticipated so much over the last few months that he’d awoken that morning charged up like a kid on Christmas.
He had the day planned down to the hour. Wendz would pick him up out front and take him to see his old limo driver friend, Mr. U., who had arranged for Art to borrow a black Crown Vic free of charge for the next month. Once he had his own wheels, he’d drive over to Wensdae’s, relax, and call some friends. Then he’d pick his son up from school and spend a couple hours knocking around the city. His celebratory plan for the evening was to drive up to Lincoln Park, where one of his old friends from Bridgeport, Ned Cunningham, was starting up a Mediterranean restaurant. The launch party was that night, and Art couldn’t think of a better culmination to his first day of freedom than a restaurant full of merrymakers and good food.
Art had just picked up the car and was driving down Twenty-fourth Street, on his way to Wendz’s, when his cell phone rang. Checking the number, he was happily surprised to see that it was Chrissy calling from Alaska. They had written each other frequently over the past two years, and he was impressed that she had recalled the exact day that his freedom was final.
“I’m free! You remembered!” he answered cheerily, expecting to hear congratulatory whoops on the other end. Instead, it sounded like she was crying.
“Arty, I’ve got some bad news,” she stammered. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Just go ahead and tell me,” he replied. “I’m free, nothing can bring me down today.” By now he was convinced that she was playing a joke on him.
Chrissy began speaking again, and as she fought to deliver the words with precision it dawned on him that she was not playing a joke. She explained that earlier that morning she had received a phone call from the warden at FCI Sheridan. That morning, Senior’s cell mate had been unable to wake him for the first count. Medics had rushed to the cell, and it was later determined that he had suffered a massive coronary attack. He had passed away in his bunk.
Art hung up the phone and pulled over at the corner of Loomis. He expected to break down, but he didn’t. Other than telling his sister the bad news, he would continue with his day as he had planned. But that evening, when he attended the opening of his friend’s restaurant, he didn’t talk much. He didn’t rush over to meet the people he had not seen in years, but waited for them to approach him, and when they did he greeted them politely and contritely. He was on autopilot. He listened to the waves of the party and watched it as if it were a genuinely beautiful miracle of denial. And then when it came time for speeches, he watched his friend’s father climb onto a table to deliver his blessing. The old man was classic Chicago Irish, red-faced and white-haired, a face that could have passed in Bridgeport a hundred and thirty years ago. He held up a glass of whiskey and told the crowd how proud he was of his boy and how lucky he was