Two windows facing the road, a fireplace, a well in the yard. Greg walked around it, inspecting. The roof leaked, the floors creaked, but the walls were stout. I’ll fix it, he decided. The first month was spent on repairs. Greg patched the roof, replaced floorboards, painted the walls.
He worked with his hands in a way he hadn’t in 20 years. The prison taboo didn’t apply to his own home. This wasn’t working for the ‘man.’ This was labor for himself. By autumn, the house was livable. Greg started a garden. He planted potatoes, onions, carrots.
He went into the woods for mushrooms, to the river for fish. Life became simple, rhythmic. He rose with the sun and slept when it set. No chaos. Silence. The neighbors watched him for the first six months. Greg didn’t push, but he didn’t hide. He’d nod if he saw them on the road.
He helped old Mr. Henderson split some wood. He fixed a fence for Mrs. Gable. They accepted him. To them, he was just Greg, a guy from the city who’d moved out for some peace and quiet. He never talked about his past. He kept his tattoos covered. The years in Oak Ridge passed slowly.
2006, 2007, 2008. Greg lived alone. No women. The code didn’t forbid relationships, but Greg didn’t look for one. He was used to solitude. It was more honest than company. Sometimes Monty would call. Ask how he was doing, if he needed help.
Greg would answer briefly: everything’s fine. Monty would give him news from the city. Who got pinched, who was out, what beefs were brewing. Greg listened, but he didn’t get involved. His world was Oak Ridge, the garden, the woods. 2009, 2010 passed just as quietly.
His health was failing more often. His back throbbed in the mornings; in winter, his joints stiffened. Greg didn’t complain. He went to the county clinic every six months for meds. The doctor told him to take it easy. Greg would nod and go back to his life.
By 2011, he’d lived in the town for six years. To the locals, he was one of them. Greg the gardener, the quiet man who didn’t bother anyone. No one knew that beneath that quiet exterior lived a man of high status. That his body bore ink that, to those in the know, read like an open book.
That one word from him could mobilize half the city. July 2011 was a scorcher. Greg had been in the garden since morning, weeding the rows. By lunch, he went inside, made some coffee, and sat by the window. That’s when he saw them. Three strangers at the gate, a black sedan on the shoulder.
Gym clothes, tattoos on their arms. Prison ink. Greg knew immediately. The past had found him. They walked into the house, looking around slowly. Vinnie first. Then Zip, then Slim. Greg closed the door and went into the kitchen.
He got the kettle, put it on the stove. Silently. They stood in the entryway, shifting around. “Sit down.” Greg nodded toward the table. Vinnie sat first, sprawling out, hands on the table. Zip and Slim flanked him.
Greg poured hot water into mugs, put out sugar and a pack of cookies. He sat opposite them. He watched. “Where from?” he asked shortly. “Stateville.” Vinnie smirked. “Got out in May. We’re running things in this county now.” “What kind of things?” “Our things.”
Vinnie took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Look, Pops, let’s get to it. We’re the new management. Anyone living in this area pays a fee. Two thousand a month per house. It’s not much.” Greg was silent. He looked at Zip.
The guy was fidgety, couldn’t sit still. Then at Slim. He was looking out the window, twitching. Nervous. Vinnie was the only one who looked confident. That meant he was the leader. The others were just following. “And if I don’t pay?” Greg asked calmly.
Vinnie laughed. “Then your house burns down. Or you burn down with it. Your choice.” Zip giggled. Slim swallowed hard. Slim twitched again. Greg kept watching. Assessing. Vinnie was arrogant, but not smart.
He was used to people being afraid. Zip was a sycophant; he wouldn’t do anything without Vinnie. Slim was the weak link—nervous, likely to fold first. “Do you know who I am?” Greg asked quietly. Vinnie frowned. “An old man with a garden. Who else would you be?”
Greg didn’t answer. He stood up and walked to the window. He looked at their car. Dirty, dented. “Probably stolen. There’s probably bats or rebar in the trunk. Standard kit for a shakedown crew.” “I’ve done time,” Greg said, not turning around.
“Twenty years. Maximum security.” Vinnie snorted. “So what? We’ve all done time. That doesn’t make you special.” “I was at Stateville,” Greg continued. “From ’86 to 2005. You ever hear of that era?”
Zip froze. Slim turned his head. Vinnie’s frown deepened. “Yeah, I heard of it. So?” “So, the rules were strict back then. It was an Old School block. I lived by the code.” Vinnie stood up, leaning his hands on the table.
“Listen, Pops, enough talk. We don’t care where you were. We came for the money. You got it or not?” Greg turned around. He looked Vinnie in the eye. For a long time. Vinnie held the gaze, but Greg saw it. Something flickered. Doubt.
Small, but there. “I don’t have money,” Greg said. “Social security is small. I live off the garden.” “Then find it.” Vinnie stepped closer. “Sell something. Borrow it. You’ve got a week. We’ll be back.”
Greg didn’t move. “And if I don’t?” Vinnie shoved the table. The mugs rattled. One tipped over. Coffee spilled across the wood. “Then you’ll regret it. We aren’t joking, Pops. Inside, we broke guys like you. You think we’re scared out here? You’re nothing to us.”
Zip stood next to Vinnie and pulled a folding knife from his pocket. He flicked it open. Greg looked at the knife, then at Zip. The kid was trying to look tough, but his hands were shaking. It was clear this was his first time doing a real shakedown. “Put it away,” Greg said.
“Or what?” Zip stepped closer. Greg didn’t answer. He just stood there. Hands at his sides, back straight. He looked Zip in the eye with such intensity that the kid froze. A second. Two. Zip blinked first and tucked the knife away. Vinnie grunted and turned toward the door.
“One week, Pops. Two grand. Or we come back and explain it differently.” They left. Greg stood by the window, watching them get in the car, turn around, and drive off. The dust settled. Silence returned. Greg sat at the table and wiped up the spilled coffee with a rag.
His thoughts were clear. This wasn’t a random hit. They were picking houses on the outskirts where seniors lived alone. Easy prey. They came here thinking they could scare an old man, get some cash, and move on. They had no idea who they were dealing with. He pulled the old flip phone from his pocket.
He scrolled through the contacts. Monty. He hit dial. Ringing. Three. Four. “Ghost!” Monty’s voice sounded surprised. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s up?”…
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