by Rick R. Reed
Pat Young had risen at 7:00 a.m., and even though the clock read only eleven-thirty the day stretched endlessly before her. Nothing was happening on the soaps, and the snow had canceled the local schools. She had heard the disgusting squeals of the little monsters outside, already more than she could bear.
She looked out the window. Oak Park Avenue looked the same as it always did. Boring. Row after row of brick two-flats. Unchanging.
Pat almost wished for another murder. At least it livened things up a little.
She groped for the remote control and upped the volume to drown out the voices of the children outside.
They were building snowmen, making angels.
"Attention, passengers. This delayed southbound train will make Austin the next stop. Austin will be the next stop. Other trains are following immediately behind."
Joe grimaced and looked down at his watch. Noon already. And he hadn't even gotten near
Berwyn yet. He grabbed onto the stainless steel pole in front of him and got off the train, along with a few grumbling passengers. He watched the subway train as it pulled away. It was now almost empty. Good work, CTA, he thought.
He looked around the station and saw he was at Clinton Street. At least the announcer on the train had said there were other trains immediately following.
Joe peered down the empty subway tunnel and wondered what "immediately" meant. He went over and took a seat.
Five minutes passed. Ten. No train.
After fifteen minutes Joe got up to look into the darkness of the subway tunnel. A cold wind blew, bringing up a scent of mildew. Otherwise, there was silence. The platform was getting crowded with people. Joe felt many of them were staring at him, staring at his clothes.
Paranoid.
Twenty minutes later a train arrived. Joe shut his eyes when he saw the passengers crammed against the doors. The train stopped. No one got off. Joe ran from car to car, trying to find an inch of room near the doors where he could squeeze on.
Maybe if he pushed a little. Joe tried to get his foot in the subway car. There was a chorus of groans, cries of "C'mon, man!" and "There'll be another train."
Reluctantly he stepped back. He looked behind the train and could see the headlights of another, waiting. Well, thank God for that.
The next train whizzed through the station, horn blaring, not stopping.
"Fu-uck," Joe whispered, and returned to his seat. The bench was full. Five minutes passed before another train came through. Joe saw right away it, too, was jammed, but like it or not they were going to make room for him.
The doors of the train opened right in front of where Joe was standing. Three teenage girls got out, giggling and looking him up and down. Later, girls, Joe thought, and hurried onto the train.
After a stop of University of Illinois-Chicago Circle, this train ran express to Cicero, which couldn't have suited Joe's needs more perfectly. He got off the train and made his way down the decaying, weed-covered Cicero Avenue to Roosevelt Road, noticing the abandoned warehouse of a place called Muldeen's. The whole area looked abandoned.
At the corner Joe caught a westbound bus he hoped would go as far as Oak Park Avenue.
The bus's run didn't extend that far. "Naturally," Joe whispered, and got off. The walk wouldn't be that long, he thought. Already it was one in the afternoon.
As he made his way south on Oak Park Avenue, Joe began to feel an aching nausea growing. This was crazy, he told himself, was this really worth the risk?
But it wasn't the worry of being caught that overcame him when he saw the yellow-brick two-flat in front of him. A memory of what had gone on upstairs flashed before him with all the clarity and definition of a movie, and Joe's erection was swift. Swift, too, was the revulsion that rose up in him. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to stop the vomit that was forthcoming.
Joe ran between two of the closely spaced buildings and retched up the breakfast Anne had so carefully prepared for him.
He sat down for a moment on the cold concrete. He had never before returned to the scene of one of his crimes and was certain he couldn't bring himself to actually enter the Mazurskys' apartment and search, not with the vivid memory of that pregnant girl before him.
Another scenario: "Chicago Police Department, ma'am. Is your husband in? We'd like to speak with him. "Joe peeks out from the living room and sees two middle-aged men wearing overcoats and hats.
"What is it?" Anne asks.
Joe sees a flash of silver. The lighter.
"Does this look familiar, ma'am?"
"Yes, I gave that to my husband for Christmas." Anne's voice is questioning. "Why? What are you doing with it? Was it stolen or something?"
"Really, Mrs. MacAree, hadn't we better talk to your husband? That's what we're here for. Please, ma'am, step aside."
Anne steps back from the doorway. Zoom into her face: the mixture of pain and confusion evident there.
Joe stands frozen as the detectives come closer.
One holds a pair of handcuffs.
The dizziness ebbed and Joe stood, holding on to the brick wall for support. He had to get the lighter.
Suddenly he noticed the voices of children. They were all around. Snowball battles. Joe ducked as a snowball whizzed by him. He saw a laughing boy of about ten, his cheeks red from the cold, staring at him.
"Sorry, mister, I wasn't aimin' at you."
"That's okay," Joe said, and started down the street toward the Mazurskys' side door.
If it hadn't been for the damned snowball hitting her window and cracking the glass, Pat Young might never havfe seen him.
"Goddamn kids!" Pat shrieked. She switched off the TV and wheeled herself to the window, ready to throw it open and already practicing a few choice words for their innocent ears.
Hands on the windowsill, Pat stopped abruptly. She grew calm, her eyes narrowed. The man walking down the street (looking around him every few seconds) certainly looked familiar. Very.
A smile spread across her face. "Oh, baby," she said to herself, "what they say is true: They always return to the scene of the crime."
Pat laughed out loud. Laughed in spite of the cold air blowing in through her cracked window. Even laughed in spite of the pile of snow already rising on her windowsill.
She spoke to the handsome man. "Go ahead and take care of business, sweetheart. I can wait.
And then you and I, we'll take care of a little business of our own."
All these kids, Joe thought, I can't get in the house with all these kids around. Joe looked at them one more time. He had slowed down in front of the Mazurskys' place, but didn't dare stop. He kept walking, finally turning the corner at a cross street. He thought perhaps if he went in through the alley behind the house, he wouldn't be detected.
It took him a few moments to make sure he had the right building, and he hurried to the back entrance. He tried the door.
Of course. He cursed himself. Of course it's locked. He pulled hard on the door.
The woman's face jarred him. She was standing right next to him, smiling. Joe noticed the bright teal of her down coat.
"Meter reader," Joe blurted out, his face hot.
"Door used to be open."
"Huh?"
"The door," she said. "It used to be open before the murder."
Joe stiffened, his face seemed to be burning hotter with each passing moment. "What murder?" he asked in a voice much too soft.
"Maggie Mazursky, upstairs. It was in all the papers. Didn't you see it?" The woman eyed him.
"No, I must have missed that. Big news?"
"Well, around here it was."
Joe stared at the woman for a few minutes more, hoping she'd go away. When she didn't, Joe turned from her, saying, "I guess I'll have to come back another day." He started walking away.
"Hey!" the woman called, "ain't you gonna leave one of them tags?"
"What?" Joe stopped, hating the woman. What did it matter to her anyway?
&nbs
p; "You know, one of them tags they put on the door when you ain't in."
"All out," Joe said, and kept walking. He could have kicked himself: The woman had had a good, long look at him. She would be able to identify him easily if it ever came to that.
Joe turned out of the alley and continued south on Oak Park Avenue.
a.
Pat couldn't imagine what he was up to. She had seen him disappear into the alley, could even see him between the houses, talking to that busybody Margaret Harris. But now he was leaving, and Pat was certain he had never gone inside.
What was the point then? What was the point?
Pat headed toward the closet to get her coat.
Joe walked three blocks and turned around. This time he would move quickly and without hesitation. He couldn't afford to arouse any more suspicions. It was already two o'clock and it would take him at least an hour to get home.
Anne would be disappointed. Perhaps she had even called the Nature Snack people.
Joe quickened his pace.
He stood at the back of the Mazurskys' apartment building. Looking around only once, he hurried to the back door and put his gloved fist through the glass. There was a moment when it seemed that all activity ceased, listening. But of course that was his imagination. Everything was quiet, but probably because the children had gotten too tired and too cold and had gone inside to watch the TV shows they missed while they were in school.
No one emerged to see what had been broken.
Joe reached inside and turned the door handle. He made his way up the back stairs. Surprisingly (and in spite of the crime-scene banner across the door), someone had not done his job. The door was not locked. Joe could even see the marks in the wood where he assumed the police had installed an additional lock. This was too easy, Joe thought, turning the knob and letting himself in.
The kitchen looked normal; that was what was so surprising to Joe. He didn't know how he expected it to look, but felt it should be changed. He remembered Maggie Mazursky, remembered the warmth of her body, the rich, hot, metallic taste of her blood.
"May I help you?" Her face seemed small, reddening from the chill wind.
"I'm with the Fuller Brush Company, ma'am. Before you say anything, let me say that I am positive that I have something here in my sample case that will make your life easier." He smiled and her face softened a little.
"I'm sorry, but I really don't need anything right now." She started to close the door.
He held out his palm to block the door. "Just a minute, please. It won't take ten minutes. Ill be in and out."
The line of her mouth became more set. "I really think you'd be wasting your time. Bye."
He put on his most desperate face. "Please, ma 'am. I have a family. I need the money. Just look."Pleading: "Okay?"
She hesitated, but said, "I really only have a minute."
"Understood." Smiling, he followed her up the stairs.
All at once Joe was dizzy and he sat down on the floor. For a time he could think of nothing but her flesh and the taste of her hot blood as it pumped slowly into his rpouth. As much as logic fought it, Joe found a furious desire welling up in him. He wanted to do it again, and soon.
He must be more careful next time. No more coming into women's homes. Get someone safe. No one would miss a hooker, a runaway. Maybe tomorrow; he was sure Anne was working.
But now he needed relief. He looked down at the way the baggy work pants had tented out.
He heard the sound as he was unzipping his pants.
Joe tensed. The sound of a key in a lock below him was clear. He stood and moved quietly into the living room, where he peered out from behind a sheer curtain at Oak Park Avenue. He recognized at once (and with horror) the brown Chevette he knew belonged to Randy Mazursky. (He remembered Maggie's look of embarrassment when she explained their only car was a brown Chevette.)
There was the sound of a footstep on a stair. Followed by another. And another.
Joe looked frantically around the room. Good God, what was he going to do? The man could be staying at home the rest of the day.
Give yourself up, he thought, have it over once and for all. An image of Anne, naked, flashed before his eyes. No.
Joe hurried into the bedroom and, with a total lack of imagination, slid under the bed. He felt safe there anyway, in the dark, among the dust balls. Maggie might have done a lot of things well, but she didn't clean thoroughly, Joe thought, and then chastised himself.
He heard the front door open. Randy Ma-zursky was now inside, and Joe could tell by the solitary footsteps he was alone. He seemed to be making a tour of the apartment.
Then Randy was in the room with him. Joe saw the worn leather of his cowboy boots. He was wearing jeans. A drawer opened. Joe watched as Randy slid a suitcase out from a closet and started throwing in sweaters, jeans, and underwear.
There was a pause. All Joe heard was the sound of his own breathing. Then something dropped to the floor. Joe positioned himself so he could see what it was. A teddy bear.
The bed creaked as Randy threw himself on it. And then Joe heard him weeping.
Never again, Joe thought. Please God, allow me to get away this one time and it will never happen again. The nausea Joe felt returned as he listened to Randy's sobs. The sob a man would let out only when he thought he was totally alone.
The crying went on, uncontrolled, for what must have been a half hour. Joe wondered if this was the first time Randy had really let himself go. By degrees the sobs quieted, ebbing away with small sighs.
The bed creaked again and Randy opened another drawer. A few more articles of clothing went into the bag. Joe watched the boots move in the direction of the bathroom off the Mazurskys' bedroom (Joe had washed up in there). Randy returned to the bedroom. A can of Noxema shaving cream, a razor, a tube of Colgate, Right Guard, and a toothbrush went into the bag.
Finally Randy bent to zipper the bag shut. Joe slid further back into the shadows and watched as Randy's hands outlined the suitcase with the zipper.
Joe held his breath until he heard the door close. He counted each footstep as Randy descended the stairs.
Cautiously, Joe slid out from beneath the bed. He walked into the living room and watched as Randy threw the suitcase into the hatch of the Chevette, watched until he drove away.
Now, dammit, fast. Find the lighter.
Joe began in the living room. On his hands and knees, he made his way through every room, searching both with his eyes and his hands.
He went over the entire apartment twice, three times. It was growing dark outside and he didn't dare turn any lights on.
Quickly he walked through the apartment, giving it a final once-over. He turned up nothing. Someone had found it. Randy? How long would it be before the police knocked on his door? Joe closed his eyes. "Please, please let me have left it somewhere else," he whispered aloud to any God who was listening.
He knew, though, with a certainty as sure as his love for Anne, the lighter had been left here.
Joe looked out all the windows once more. No one was about. He went to the back and went down the stairs. He peered into the alley and saw no one. Quietly he closed the door behind him.
He began walking quickly, thinking how he at least had to make it home before Anne started dinner and hoping she hadn't called Nature Snack and they hadn't called him. Something had to go right for him.
As he turned out of the alley onto Oak Park Avenue, he detected a quick movement of something small behind him. A kid?
Joe turned. Behind him sat a hawk-faced woman in a wheelchair. What was she doing out in this snow?
"At last we meet," the woman said. "I'm Pat Young." She smiled. "I understand you were good friends with Maggie Mazursky."
5
Joe stared at the woman in the wheelchair for a full minute before his racing thoughts put words together and got them out of his open mouth. "Maggie who?"
The woman frowned, pulling the blue blanket she had
draped over her shoulders closer around her. "Mazursky. Come, come now. We're beyond pretending, aren't we?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was just here to read the meter. Now that you mention it, Mazursky was the name on the doorbell." Joe smiled weakly, feeling very sick. He felt his lower lip begin to tremble and tried constricting his face muscles to stop it.
The woman's hawklike features took on a determined stare. "Look, I saw you enter and leave Maggie Mazursky's apartment the day she was killed. Cut the shit with me. I don't want it. I don't need it."
Joe stared at the woman. His mind was a blank; there were no excuses for these accusations. Perhaps he should just turn and run. She wouldn't be able to catch him. But what if she knew his name?
Joe spoke. "So? That doesn't prove anything."
"I live across the street." Pat gestured at her building. "No one else was in that place that day. I know; I was watching." Pat snickered. "Call me a busybody."
"I suppose you can see through the building as well ... to the back."
"Look. We both know you killed her. Now, I don't know why and I don't know how." She smiled again. In the dying light of the day there was something grisly, something predatory in her upturned lips. "But I really don't care about any of those things. I don't want to turn you in . . . handsome."
Joe shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Then what do you want?"
She shivered. "Look, it's awful cold out here. Why don't you step around behind me and grab hold of the chair and push me across the street? We can talk in my apartment; it'll be a lot more comfortable."
Not thinking he had any other choice, Joe grabbed the handles of the chair.
Joe's feeling of entrapment crystallized once he was inside Pat Young's apartment. The room seemed even more closed in by the dark brown carpeting and the deep beige of the walls. The room had more the look of a junk store than an apartment.
Pat Young smiled up at him once more. "Please, let me take your coat."
Numbly, Joe removed his sheepskin jacket. He handed it to her, the nausea growing. He feared throwing up.