“This is a man that’s convinced a half dozen women to commit murder for him, and then killed them for their trouble. He’s ruthless.”
“No, darling, I’m ruthless. He’s a hack.” There was a glint of danger in Betty’s eye.
“I’m coming with you.”
“It’s entirely unnecessary, Jake. Besides, I’m meant to be a seductive lady of the night,” she batted her eyelashes dramatically, “How would it look if I turned up with a police chaperone? You’re exhausted. Just go home and get some sleep. Or better yet, take Adina out for some dinner. You could both do with a glass of giggle juice to wash the cobwebs away.”
“I’ve already seen Adina, I called in to the orphanage on the way here. She’s as up to her elbows in papier-mâché as you are in pickling juice. She’s going back in after dinner tonight to help the boys build a giant beanstalk for the set of their play.”
“How adorable! Is that little dear, Teddy, in it?”
“I believe he’s playing Jack –”
“Adina’s taken a real shine to that boy over the last few weeks,” Betty said, thoughtfully. “He’s such a sweet child, a little odd though, I can’t put my finger on it –”
“Stop changing the subject, Betty. I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty. You know I want to catch this bastard as much as you do.”
Betty sighed dramatically. “Fine. Perhaps Adina will take Georgie with her to the orphanage tonight then, seeing his little pals again will cheer him up. But if you come with me, you’ll have to wait for my signal, Jake. You’re utterly recognizable these days and you’ll upset the apple cart before I get the chance to entrap him with my feminine wiles. It takes all the fun out of it.”
“Entrap him with your feminine wiles?”
“Vengeance is best when it’s unexpected, darling.”
“You really are too much, you know.”
“There, see. You’re finally laughing.”
The elusive Tin Man. Betty thought again of his face, pried from the Russian enforcer’s mind before she fileted him in the frozen fish house. Straight, white teeth. Smooth skin. Golden hair that seemed to glow, pulled back into a loose ponytail at his neck. Perhaps thirty years old? Forty? The man seemed strangely ageless, and far too beautiful to be the criminal mastermind he undoubtedly was. Only his eyes gave away his sociopathy.
It was always in the eyes, Betty mused, as she watched the entrance to Dom Serdets from the shadows across the street. Hollow, hypothermic eyes. Like falling into a well and drowning before you hit water.
She had been watching the door for twenty minutes. It was now eleven o’clock. The dark alley she crouched in smelled like rotting newspapers and fish guts. A dank, earthy blast of yeast pushed by her every so often, from the bakers up the road.
“It’s no good,” she muttered to Jacob, who was watching from behind an upturned trash can. “He must already be inside. I’ll have to go drag him out.”
Jacob responded with only a growl.
“Don’t say it,” Betty said. She stood up and straightened her gold-tassled wiggle dress to cover the glint of silver strapped to her thigh. She’d borrowed it from the dressing rooms of Trixie’s bordello. “You know I always am.” Betty burrowed her shoulders into a tatty fur stole, jingling a little from an excess of bawdy jewelry. “Give me time enough to get what I need. Or break his neck – whichever comes first.”
“Very funny,” Jacob muttered.
“Aren’t I, just?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Only need five.”
She slipped to the edge of the alley in shadows, then stepped boldly out and began walking toward the bar. To an observer, she might have suddenly appeared from nowhere.
Betty waited for a moment as a Checker Cab rolled past, followed by a Hudson Eight Coupe with a handful of soused sailors spilling out the top, hooting at her. Betty blew a kiss at their catcalls, laughing, then ran across the road. She stepped into the Russian Bar.
‘House of Hearts’ my eye, she thought, taking a look around. More like a House of Horrors, unless your heart had the taste for oversized, flea-bitten dock-wallopers with a dozen vodkas under their belt. It was quiet, with only a handful of men at each of two tables, all others empty. The men stopped talking when she walked in and watched her cross to the bar. Behind it, a tall woman was dragging a cloth over the timber benchtop. Behind the barmaid, a split swing door, led off to what Betty assumed was the kitchen. The bold, marching melody of Polyushko Polye spilt from a radio somewhere beyond it.
“Evenin’,” Betty said, in her broadest Queens accent. “Nice place.”
The bar waitress raised her eyebrow and looked around.
“It’s Ritz, yah?”
“Good enough for the likes of me, love,” Betty laughed. “I’ll have a Bear.”
“We have met, no?” the barmaid asked, “You come here before?”
“Never, doll,” Betty replied, surprised.
“My mistake,” the woman said, her brow furrowed. She turned away and began pouring the cocktail, adding equal parts cream and cacao liqueur to double vodka.
Betty looked around. In truth she had never been inside the Dom Serdets before, only watched it from afar. She did, however, recognize it. Flashes of familiarity struck her as she looked around. The tables dotted across the front windows, the heavy red curtains that hung on either side. Jagged memories stolen from Lucy’s fragmented mind of the night she’d been commissioned to murder.
The barmaid turned back, placed Betty’s drink in front of her, and accepted the one-dollar bill. She inclined her head at the tables of workers who were still staring at Betty. “You got their attention, kukalka,” she said, in a heavy Russian accent. “Not that is worth much to you, cheap bastards they are.”
“Not lookin’ for a squeeze tonight,” Betty waved, dismissively. “I’m meetin’ someone.”
“Yes? I have fresh pot of pelmeni if you brave.” The barmaid nodded back over her shoulder, toward the doors.
“You’re a doll, but I ain’t stayin’. Got a quick trick on the cards,” Betty winked. “Gotta get to it. Earn my keep.”
The barmaid smirked. “I see. Who is lucky guy?”
“Never met ‘im yet, called it in.” Betty shrugged. “Tin Man, or something? Sounds like a promise, hey? Hard as nails?” Betty laughed. “We’ll see!”
The barmaid’s reaction was immediate.
Her face blanched. Her tall figure stiffened. Her eyes darted to the door, then over to a table of men who were still watching Betty. The barmaid forced a frozen smile, looked back at Betty and picked up a glass from the bar with deliberate movement. She began rubbing it hard with her cloth.
“You should go,” the barmaid said almost inaudibly, her eyes on the glass, her lips barely moving.
His name had evoked a primal fear. What did she know?
Betty dove into the woman’s mind, cursing herself that she hadn’t thought of doing it before.
Anastasiya. Thirty-two years old, unmarried. Her father ran the bar, and sat now, at one of the tables with the immigrant workers. Anastasiya cooked, cleaned and served, her father helping her on busy nights. The clientele could get rough, but Anastasiya had never seen the Tin Man rough. Quite the opposite in fact. Which made her fear of him all the more intriguing. In Anastasiya’s memories, Betty saw her serving the Tin Man his vodka straight. Watching as he charmed each woman that came to meet him, with his wide smile and hollow eyes.
The first memory that Betty sought from Anastasiya’s mind was of Lucille Wright, the Tin Man’s first Boudoir Butcher. Platinum blonde and washed out, her makeup gaudy and her dress thin. She was clearly down on her luck when she took Slim Fred’s ill-fated job.
‘Pennies from heaven,’ he next promised a jittery bird, with un-ironed hair rolled high and a cigarette tight between her fingers. ‘An easy job. You’ll be back on street in a jiffy –’
‘They say you strong woman,’ the beaut
iful man winked at the next memory in Anastasiya’s mind. ‘I can handle meself,’ came the slurred reply, with a thick Brooklyn accent. ‘This friend of mine – he need strong woman to take control, you understand? He like it rough, you know?’
Next, a dark-skinned woman with her lips painted red. ‘You have spirit.’ Tin Man had flattered her. ‘My friend, he will like that.’ Tin Man had flattered her. ‘Just give me the drum, sugar,’ the call-girl had drawled, ‘It’s all the same to me.’ He had laughed, good-naturedly and begun his persuasion. The woman had listened to his instructions. Her head soon looking too heavy for her shoulders, her mouth slack, her eyes hazed. Too much drink, Anastasiya had thought.
Anastasiya had decided this Tin Man was a pimp and complained to her father that he shouldn’t let him use the bar to do his work. Her father, a quiet, usually jovial man, had dragged her back through the swinging doors into the kitchen. ‘On opasen, moya dorogaya doch’’ he had warned, looking more scared than she’d ever seen him. ‘Never speak his name again. You will do what he says. Keep your eyes away. Keep your mouth shut. And pray he doesn’t come back.’ It was then that Anastasiya had paid attention to the rumors that passed between glasses on busy nights.
A younger one next, one of the street workers from Spanish Harlem ‘He loves exotic girls,’ Tin Man had said, ‘a beauty like you will send him wild –’ The young woman giggled, apparently transfixed, and stirred her drink, slipping a little deeper under his spell.
Another memory came bidden, dark blonde, about forty. A skin full before she’d arrived. Betty didn’t recognize her, and neither had Anastasiya as she had brought out more drinks, a pit of dread in her stomach. ‘A quick job, at his house, I can take you there –’ the Tin Man was saying. The blonde didn’t need much convincing. Her eyes were glazing over as she threw down another cheap wine.
Another memory, another woman. This time Carla Jackson, sitting by the far window, nervously tapping the table as he gave her instructions. Her mouth set hard, her life even harder. ‘A friend of mine,’ the barmaid overheard, as she dropped drinks on the table. ‘Keen, but too shy. Needs a hand, if you get my drift – you can help him, no?’ He was grinning, winning the woman over. Anastasiya walked away. She had heard the story before. She stood behind the bar and looked out the front window to the busy road beyond. A car was pulled up out the front, a black Mercury with the top up, the shadow of a woman inside. When the Tin Man had his meetings, the woman was always there. Sometimes she came inside, like with Tilly. Mostly though, she just sat there in the passenger seat, watching through the window. Anastasiya had shivered at the sight of her. The memory of her piercing blue eyes.
Then, finally, Tilly. Most recently in the bar. Her vibrant red curls were unforgettable, spilling down onto her shoulders as she sat listening to the Tin Man’s request, her eyes fading in confusion as each minute passed. She had left with him eventually, as they all did, and by that stage, Anastasiya knew better than to question it.
Anastasiya had seen each woman in turn stumbling out of the front door, pushed along by the man with the golden hair. Shuffled into the back seat of the black Mercury with the woman, whose intense gaze never left each face. Driven away. To a fate even rumors didn’t dare speak.
“You saw them all,” Betty muttered under her breath. She rallied herself. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, doll, I can look after meself.”
There was a noise behind Betty, and the glass front door opened. The room around her froze.
Betty turned. In the doorway stood a large man, in a grey overcoat. He was wearing round spectacles and had his hair combed back with oil. This was no muscle.
Betty looked back at Anastasiya. The barmaid showed no sign of recognition, but was still visibly shaken by Betty’s mention of the Tin Man.
Perhaps this was just another boozehound come to drink vodka, Betty thought. But even as she mused, the man’s eyes met hers at the bar and he looked her up and down, a little nervously. The man smiled. He began to walk toward her.
“Fred sent you?” he asked, as he drew close. His accent was lighter, as if it had worn away over the years. Slightly different. Latvian, perhaps. Anastasiya stepped back, confused. She shot Betty a look of concern but was discarded with a cheery wave.
“That’s right,” Betty replied, playing along. “You Tin Man, then? Ready to rumble, love?”
“Our friend the Tin Man couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. He asked me to meet you,” the man said, his voice careful. “He has a friend who needs – amusing tonight. You keen for the job?”
“Always keen, love.”
“Vodka,” he nodded to Anastasiya, then held out his arm. “Your name?”
“Doris,” Betty said, then winked. “But you can call me Dot.”
“Well then Dot, let’s talk.”
Interesting. This one was straight down to business. There was no false charm or small talk – Betty could see that hiring prostitutes to commit murder was not in this man’s usual job description. He led Betty to the small table in front of the window. As she walked, Betty dove into his mind, to strip him of what she needed to know. Igor Kuczynski. Racketeer and Money Launderer. This was the numbers man helping Tin Man lift his game in the big city. Not a direct killer, no, but he was no innocent pencil-pusher either. He kept the ledger on extortion money that the Tin Man took from local businesses for protection from other gangs. This darb kept tabs on the crack runners and paid their dibs in dope or dough. Kuczynski wasn’t pulling the strings, but he had his hand in the Tin Man’s pocket.
Betty sat down. Flashed him a disarming smile. She saw the man’s eyes dart again to the window beside him. The curb was empty. Night traffic still sped by. She was glad to be seated in the window, where she knew Jacob could see her. Not for her own sake, but to stop him from rushing in prematurely.
“Who’s the go giver, then, sugar?” Betty said, taking a sip of her Russian Bear. “Bad side of a break-up was it? Needs a bit o’ fun?”
“Something like that,” Kuczynski said, his eyes darting around the room. “He’s not expecting you, but I’m sure a face like yours can reel him in easily enough. Slim Fred seemed to think you were the girl for the job.”
“Oh, I’ll catch his cod, don’t you worry ‘bout that. Where’s he holed up?”
The man smiled, politely, stiff-backed.
“I have a car coming,” he said. “I’ll drop you there. He lives rough, down by Water Street, but you’ll find him at the Bridge Café.”
“River Rat, hey? He got a name?”
“Harry,” Kuczynski paused, “Flynn.”
“Never had the pleasure,” Betty laughed. “Not yet, anyway.”
The man gave a little nod, acknowledging the joke with a look of faint distaste.
“It will not take long,” he said, uncomfortably, looking out onto the road again.
“Never does –”
“For the car to arrive –”
Betty grinned. She followed his eyes out to the road. Still empty.
“Not much of a talker, are ya, love?” Betty prodded him, gleeful of his discomfort. “So where can I find your friend the Tin Man then, if I wanna offer ‘im a little something extra? A girl like me can always use more work, and I think he’ll like what I’ve got to offer.”
Kuczynski looked at her suspiciously.
“Tin Man has no fixed address. And we will not require your services again. Just one job. He likes to keep things – simple.”
“That right?” Betty preened her hair and leaned back in the chair. Her glossy red nails tapped the table. “Well, it’s his loss, sugar.”
Her mouth twitched in irritation. Betty had hoped to have the Tin Man bleeding out in an alley by now, with a knife in his heart as she looked down on him. Instead he’d stood her up and sent this sap to procure her services instead. Perhaps he was getting paranoid. The easy way, then, she thought.
Betty drilled into Kuczynski’s mind, searching for the an
swer to her question. Her yield was nothing more than a revolving door of houses, apartments, hotels, dens and bordellos. A different hideout every night. Kuczynski was telling the truth. The Tin Man was leaving no trail for his hunters to follow him home. Bother! No Tin Man. No address. There was only one thing left that could salvage her efforts this evening. She just hoped Jacob played his part.
“You look like you’re all wound up there, brain box.” Betty smirked and inspected her nails. “Maybe it’s you that needs a good –”
Then Betty saw it – the tiniest twitch of Kuczynski’s head toward the window beside him. A headlight reflected back in the shine of his eyes. A long shadow rolled along the glass. Betty looked through the window at the car that had pulled up outside. It was a black Mercury with the top up, the shadow of a woman inside, driving.
Betty’s face split into a wide smile. She knew what was coming. In fact, she was counting on it.
“That your ride?” Betty nodded to the car and saw Kuczynski’s shoulders relax.
“Our ride,” he said. “It is time for me to take you to see Harry, yes? Time for you to do what I’m paying you for. Take the man to bed. Show him a good time. Let us go.”
And then it began. Just as she hoped. An echo in Betty’s head, forcing its way through, like someone whispering to her from behind a closed door.
A cajoling voice. Calm and controlling.
The same voice that had addressed her through Sister Murdoch’s fragmented mind, after the nurse committed murder at Greybone’s Lunatic Asylum for the Criminally Insane.
Surrender to my words.
Feel me under your skin.
Nothing else matters.
Do only as I say.
And Betty could, just for that moment, feel the power of the woman’s intent washing over her. Feel the ache of her own body to succumb to it, to let it control her. To let it take her wherever it led.
You will lay him bare.
Take his face in your hands.
Then take his life as he writhes.
Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations) Page 5