“Officially, an inmate dispute. In reality, it was a judgment. The elders gave the green light, and it was done. Fast, quiet.” Greg was silent. Monty asked, “You okay? Yeah. He earned it, Ghost. You did the right thing. I know.”
Greg hung up, stood up, and went into the yard. He looked at the woods. Vinnie was dead. Justice was served. The code was upheld. But Greg didn’t feel satisfied. Only tired. He remembered the words he’d told himself six years ago when he arrived.
Here, I’ll just be Greg. Not a Chairman. Not a boss. Just a man. That dream died the day Vinnie knocked on the door. October, November. The town prepared for winter. Greg split wood, winterized the house. He lived as before, but not really.
Everything had changed. The neighbors avoided him. Mr. Henderson stopped coming by. Mrs. Gable didn’t ask for help with her chores anymore. Greg had become an outsider. In December, he realized: he had to leave. Staying here meant living in a bubble. The town knew who he was.
The rumors had spread through the county. Sooner or later, someone else would come. Maybe not for money. Maybe just to see if it was true that a syndicate boss lived here. And then it would all start again. Greg called Monty. “Monty, I’m moving.”
“Where to?” “South. Maybe the coast. Somewhere no one knows me.” “Good idea, Ghost. You won’t find peace here anymore.” “I’ll sell the house. I’ll put the money back in the Fund.” “Don’t. Keep it. You earned your retirement.” Greg was silent. “Alright.” In January 2012, Greg sold the house for $25,000.
He packed his things and got on a bus. He left early in the morning while the town was still asleep. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone. He just left. The bus pulled out. Greg looked out the window. The town faded away. The woods, the fields, the road. He was heading south. To the ocean, to a new life.
But he knew the past was coming with him. You don’t just take off the crown. It stays with you forever. The South met Greg with warmth. January, and it was 45 degrees. A damp wind from the sea, seagulls. He rented a room in a small coastal town in South Carolina.
A small apartment in an old building with a view of the marsh. The landlady, an elderly woman named Susan, didn’t ask questions. She took three months’ rent in advance and gave him the keys. She just said, “Live in peace, neighbor.” Greg settled in within a week.
He bought the bare essentials. A bed, a table, a chair, an old TV. He didn’t need more. He was used to living simply. 20 years inside had taught him that. A man needs very little. Mainly, a roof and some peace. For the first month, he just walked the beach. Getting used to the new place.
The sand, the old piers, the local market. No one knew him here. No one looked at him with suspicion. He was just Greg again. An ordinary older man who’d moved to the coast to retire. In February, he found a job. Night watchman at a private construction site for a resort.
Night shifts, $2,000 a month. Not much, but enough to live on. The taboo against working only applied to government jobs. A private site was different. Greg worked quietly, without stress. At night, he sat in the guard shack, drank coffee, read old newspapers, and watched the stars.
Silence. Finally. Life was quiet and rhythmic again. Greg woke up in the afternoon after his shift, had breakfast, and went to the market. He cooked his own meals—oatmeal, soup, potatoes. He spent his weekends on the shore, watching the waves.
Sometimes he’d go to a local diner, have some tea, and listen to the fishermen talk. But Greg knew it was temporary; the past doesn’t let go. Sooner or later, someone would find out who he was, and it would start all over. In the spring of 2012, Monty called. “Ghost, how’s the coast?”
“It’s good. Living quiet.” “Listen, I got an update on Zip and Slim.” “Go ahead.” “Zip got back with a local crew in Ohio, started doing the same old stuff—shakedowns, beefs. A month ago, he crossed some real heavy hitters. They beat him down, gave him a warning…”
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