Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “I put one leg back over the rail, said, ‘Kid, that’s the case, you don’t belong up here.’ Kid looked at me, said, ‘No shit. I make it back down, first thing I’m gonna do is quit.’ I climbed back on the cat-walk, told that boy, ‘Son, that makes two of us. I don’t belong up here anymore either.’”

  Vance said, “That was it, you quit? Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Signed my papers, took a reduced pension for early retirement. Went into partnership with my son Roy. Spent my spare-time becoming computer literate, and took up bunji jumping.”

  “You shitting me? Bunji jumping?”

  Vassily laughed, “Fuckin-A. Last time up there on the crane? Something clicked in my head just as I pulled myself back to safety. Don’t know what it was, but I wasn’t depressed for over a week. Next time I started feeling shitty, I thought about it, how it might be even more therapeutic if I actually jumped.”

  “Remind me not to ever seek out your guidance if I’m feeling depressed.”

  “Well, I’d lost the death wish, so I figured out a way to actually do the jump, get the depression relieving benefits, and survive: bunji-jumping.”

  “Just how do you go about learning something as esoteric as bunji-jumping?”

  “Like anything else, go to school. Then, you want, you can join a club.”

  “You belong to a club?”

  “I did, not anymore. Too much of a loner. Besides, I only jump occasionally now. I’m dealing with shit a lot better these days, and I’ve got other stimulating interests. Still, jumping is a guarantied way to snap out of a funk. Shock therapy. Fucking rush and a half.”

  Vance laughed, “I’ll stick to booze.”

  “Tell you one thing, Johnny. I ever had reason to end it all, I’d sure as shit do it by jumping. Since that day on the crane, I’m a firm believer in June’s outlook.”

  A lapsed Catholic, Vance doesn’t want to open up the whole suicide, eternal damnation, issue. Fuck this conversation. Figuring a subject change was overdue, he sipped from his beer, dragged on his smoke, said, “Your boy Bill, he’s done well. Damn, look at this place. Not to mention Carol. Very well.”

  “Hard earned, Johnny, every fuckin bit of it.”

  “I know,” Vance shakes his head, “I’ve seen him fight.”

  “He’s something to see all right, get your fucking blood boiling he will. Been that way since he first laced on a glove.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ten years old, he was,” Vassily crushed his can, dropped it next to his ‘saves me walking’ cooler, and pulled another can out, “Eighty pounds, even so, hit like a fuckin mule. A child with bricks for fists.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  Vassily lit up, exhaled a prodigious cloud, said, “I was parked one day; big kid, I don’t know, twelve, maybe fourteen, knocked little Bill on his ass. Busted his nose. You see the second Maxon fight?”

  Vance nodded.

  Vassily drank, laughed, said, “The way Bill came off the canvas, went after Maxon, decked him? Well that was just what little Bill did that day. Un-fuckin-real. Jumped up, same crazy look in his eye, knocked that big kid out. I’m talking out . . . cold. One fuckin shot. Ten years old, no shit.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Ran over there, made sure the bully was OK. Prick was more embarrassed than hurt. Then, I brought Bill home. Took him out back, said, ‘Son, I want you to hit me, same right hand you laid that mutt out with.’ Then I bent down, stuck out my chin.”

  Vance shook his head, “Jesus. What happened?”

  “Bill was always a good kid, minded his Pop. He hauled off, belted me, right on the button.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  Vassily laughed, “What? You think a ten year old kid dumped me? Never happen. Let me tell you, even today I could take Bill’s best shot.”

  “Well, you got the neck for it.”

  “Twenty-one inches. Fifteen minutes of wrestler’s bridges every day, but that ain’t it. I was born with an anvil for a chin. Passed it on to Bill, along with his punch.”

  “You ever fight?”

  “Not in no ring. Had no discipline, no will. I was a fuckin lazy clown, I would have gotten killed. Bill, he had the fortitude, the work-ethic, the guts. Got that from his momma, God bless her. Nadine’s got it too.”

  Vance grabbed a fresh beer, drank, said, “OK, so Bill popped you on the chin . . .”

  “Staggered me a bit, got my attention alright. Showed me his knock-out of that kid hadn’t been a fluke. Bill could hit. Then I checked his hand, kneaded it, made sure it wasn’t broke. Asked Bill if it hurt, he laughed, said, ‘No Pop, but how’s your jaw?.’ I told him I’d live, then I put him in the car, drove him down to the Long Beach Pike. Used to be a gym there.”

  Vance slapped his knee, “Sure, Jake Shugrue’s Seaside. I remember that.”

  “Right. Driving down, I told Bill, ‘son, you got the punch, you got the hands, you got the heart, and cause of that little asshole hit you, you got the nose, let’s see if these folks can make a boxer out of you. You think about it, we get there, you don’t want to go in, tell me before I shut down the car. You say no, I’ll take you home to your momma. She’ll wipe your nose, and dry your little tears for ya.’”

  “Pretty cheap psychological shot to take on a ten year old.”

  “I’m a hard man, never said I wasn’t. Yeah, he was a boy then, today you met the man. You think I fucked-up?”

  Vance raised his beer can, said, “You got a point.”

  The two men sat relaxed, drinking, smoking, and watching Nadine and her guest at the far end of the pool. The man, animated, talking, perpetually on. Nadine, wearing a generic grin, sipping her beer.

  Vassily glared, said, “Guy’s an asshole.”

  Grinning, Vance said, “Sounds like you’ve seen a couple of his movies.”

  Vassily laughed, “Well, that too. What I mean, I’ve seen Carol entertain a lot of guests over the years, never saw her turn her back, walk away like that. Very gracious hostess, normally. You really have to work at it, piss Carol off. Trust me, guy’s a jerk.”

  “Careful, you could be talking about your future son-in-law.”

  Closing his eyes, Vassily said, “Please, not even in jest.”

  “Not to worry, Nadine’s too sharp to get swept away by a lame like that.”

  “True. She’s quick alright. Look, I know you haven’t really worked with her yet, but just from the couple of days you two have been knocking around together, what do think about her potential? Think she can hack it, the whole detective thing?”

  “Nadine can hack just about anything she wants to.”

  “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but, sounds like you’re qualifying your answer.”

  Vance sighs, “You’re her step-father . . .”

  Vassily holds up his hand, “We don’t use that . . . ‘step.’ Never understood that. Step. Fuck’s that supposed to mean anyway? In our family it’s just father . . . daughter, brother . . . sister, period. No ‘steps’ among us Kozoks.”

  “Fine, I can dig it. Now, let me give it to you straight. Nadine’s already a good cop, and she’ll be a good detective someday. But . . . this case we’re starting, the Widowmaker? Frankly I think she’s got a bit too much sympathy for the dude we’re trying to bring down. I won’t swear to it, but I believe her objectivity has been affected. That could cause problems down the line.”

  Vassily’s eyebrows go up, “You think if she had the opportunity, she’d let this mutt skate?”

  “What do you think?”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Really? You know her situation a hell of a lot better than I do. Her blood father, a chronic wife-beater. He beat Nadine too. This is the same type of asshole that the Widowmaker consistently targets. Might not he appear heroic to someone with Nadine’s background?”

  “Maybe to most women with her background. Nadine ain’t most women.”

  Vance frowned, �
�OK, Nadine’s tough, granted. But, she was victimized. Tough or not, a victim is still a victim. Nadine is a victim.”

  “Johnny-boy, Nadine stopped being a victim twenty-five years ago,” Vassily crushed his can, let it fall, “when she put a bullet in that cocksuckers skull.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  By the time Todd Citron left, in a huff, later that afternoon, Nadine, her family, and Vance were all in total agreement: Citron was a man who could have sent Mother Theresa into a hissy-fit, and driven Gandhi to kill.

  In the end it had been Nadine who, if she hadn’t exactly demanded Citron’s departure, had brought it about.

  Sitting around drinking, they’d all endured what seemed like a ton of Todd Citron’s brand of bullshit. Extolling his own, dubious, virtues wasn’t enough for Citron. He thrived on diminishing the talents, tastes, opinions, and accomplishments of those around him. As a cop Vance had made a career of dealing with assholes, still, he had to admit, the actor was in a class all his own.

  When it was Vance’s turn to be nit-picked by the stellar expert on any and all things, he called on his years of experience to keep his cool. Deadpan and taciturn: it was the style that had carried him through countless hours of interrogation and courtroom testimony.

  Citron, in character now; the aggressively sharp-witted young attorney, “The Widowmaker case, a task force? Why?”

  Vance, blowing smoke across the table at Citron, “Catch him.”

  “Catch him?” Citron, playing to the rest of the table now, oblivious to their indifference, “He’s been out there for years, twelve victims, that you’re willing to acknowledge, and now, you’re going to catch him.”

  “Give it my best shot.”

  “Oh, your best shot. Why is it that I don’t find that reassuring? I certainly won’t be sleeping any better tonight, knowing that you’re responsible for the apprehension of this maniac.”

  Vance, leaned forward, “You’re not sleeping well?”

  “I sleep just fine,” Citron, not used to improvisation, uncomfortable with Vance’s unscripted dialogue, “what’s that got to do with it.”

  “Not what you said, sir. Your implication was you weren’t sleeping well, perhaps fearful that the Widowmaker remains at large.”

  Citron grinned around the table, “Bullshit, why would I give a fuck?”

  Meeting his eyes, Carol said, “Your recent divorce, Todd. Your ex-wife maintained that you battered her: repeatedly.”

  “Not true. Not fucking true.”

  “Why would she make that kind of an allegation?” Vance said.

  “What, are you fucking dense? M. O. N. E. Y. Money, OK? Simple as that.”

  Nodding slowly, Vance said, “Good reason. Money’s always a good reason. Still . . .”

  “What?”

  “Big movie star like yourself, that kind of an accusation, probably got a big play in all the newspapers, TV too.”

  Citron, switching roles; persecuted, victim of a media witch-hunt, “It was a fucking nightmare. The worst part being, I never laid a finger on that lying shrew. Of course, nobody in their right mind would believe her.”

  Vance said, “Sir?”

  Citron, exasperated, “What?”

  “That’s the point.”

  “What? What’s the point?”

  “The Widowmaker.”

  “Widowmaker, what?” Citron looked around the table, seeking support, “What do we have here, a fucking quiz show? What about that psycho?”

  Vance grinned, “There ya go. Widowmaker’s a psycho. Psychos, shit, they believe anything they want to. No stretch for him to believe all those lies your ex told. He targets abusers, rapists, batterers. You’re a very high profile guy. Wouldn’t surprise me, you ended up on his hit list.”

  “Especially if he’s seen your movies,” Carol said.

  “Double, if he paid to see those movies,” Bill added.”

  Citron held up his hands, grinned, “OK. OK. I get it. It’s let’s fuck with Todd time, right? OK, I can handle it. It’s alright. Cool.”

  Vassily’s voice was barely a whisper; but it carried, “No. It ain’t alright.”

  Citron’s grin iced over, his own eyes pinned by the glare from Vassily’s. Vassily’s brown irises as dark as the pupils they encircled. Citron said, “Excuse me?”

  Vassily’s voice, gaining in volume, “You slimy little, pencil-neck, piece of shit. These people may not see through you. My daughter may not see through you. But, you can bet your conniving little ass, I can see through you like Saran-wrap you plastic motherfucker.”

  “What are you talking about?” Turning to Nadine, licking his lips, Citron said, “What the hell is he talking about? How many beers has he had?”

  When Nadine said, “I don’t know. Pop? How many beers?” Carol had to pinch Bill’s thigh to keep him from laughing.”

  “We’re not talking about beers.” Vassily said,” We’re talking about Mr. Macho here. Big screen tough guy. Hollywood hard-case. Our hero is scared to death of the Widowmaker. Rightfully so, you ask me. He’s guilty as hell, thinks the Widowmaker knows it, and shit, that might be true. He wants police protection.”

  Nadine frowned, “What are you saying Pop?”

  “You, honey. He wants to scheme his way into your heart, worm his way into your pants. Put his head under your pillow, hide from the big bad Widowmaker under your sheets. He saw you on TV, knows what you’re capable of. He wants you to be his unofficial bodyguard.”

  Nadine looked at Citron, “Todd?”

  “Are you kidding me? You can’t be serious. He’s drunk.”

  “Watch it. That’s my father you’re talking about.”

  Vassily stands, “Nadine, don’t be protecting me. I’m more than capable of handling anybody wants to take advantage of my daughter.”

  Todd Citron gave it his best shot, Academy Award stuff, knees knocking under the table, still he managed to project a calm, confident, sincerity. Smiling, he said, “Hey, hey, Vassily. Vassily, no bad intentions here. Honest. I’ve got nothing but highest respect for Nadine. You’ve got to get a grip, man. Chill.”

  Vassily came around the table, economic and smooth of motion. Before any one could move, he was behind Citron’s chair, both big hands clamped down on Citron’s trapezius muscles. Squeezing, he said, “Get a grip? I got your fuckin grip. How’s that, punk?”

  “Oww! Shit. Stop.”

  Nadine gave Vassily a sleight shake of her head, he eased up, winked at her, said, “Stop? Sonny, I’m just getting started.”

  Citron implored Vance, “Detective. You’re a sworn officer of the law, get this man off of me.”

  Vance, stood, said, “Damn, I’ve got to piss. Bill? Which way to the head?”

  “I’m going to stay here,” Bill said, “make sure macho-man here doesn’t hurt my dad. Roy, why don’t you show Vance the way.”

  “Be glad to. This way, Johnny-V.”

  Carol said, “Nadine, you want to help me with dessert?”

  “Sure, hon. Be with you in a minute.”

  “Hey, wait. Don’t everybody leave me here with these two.” Citron, immobile, deserted by any pretense of calm whatsoever, voice now a whine, “I don’t know what I did, but, shit, I’m sorry. OK?”

  Nadine bent low, looked Citron in the eye, said, “Todd, you and I? I don’t think it’s gonna work. You don’t mind if we call it a day, do you?”

  The three Kozoks held their laughter till they heard Todd Citron’s Hummer start, then pull away.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Nadine had accepted Vance’s offer of a lift home.

  They’d already traversed the Vincent Thomas Bridge, drove across Terminal Island, and were now climbing toward the apex of the Desmond Bridge to Long Beach. She loved it up here. Years ago, a Sunday morning tradition; she, June, and Vassily would walk the mile from the point where Ocean Ave. became the bridge proper, to it’s zenith. There, she could stare, out over the port, beyond to the Pacific’s endless horizon, see
every type of vessel, from skiffs to massive container ships. Or, turning inland, she’d view the Palos Verdes peninsula, turning further still, distant L.A.. Finally ending with Long Beach at her feet. Memories.

  “ . . . had a good time. Nice people, all of them.”

  Leaving a long past sunny Sunday’s warmth, the firm reassurance of her father’s hand, Nadine turned to Vance, said, “Sorry, I was woolgathering. What did you say?”

  “I had a nice afternoon. Liked your family. Fun bunch, especially Vassily.”

  Nadine laughed, “Yeah, Pop can get a little trippy. Not everyone gets his sense of humor though.”

  “Safe bet Citron didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t see him laughing much.”

  “Fuck’m, he can’t take a joke. Vassily was joking, wasn’t he? About that bodyguard shit?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a thought though. Citron could have been looking at you with protection as an ulterior motive, at least partially.”

  Nadine laughed, “Doubt it. Guy like Todd-baby? He’s so in love with himself, he couldn’t conceive of anybody not feeling the same way. Not even a psychotic like the Widowmaker.”

  “Psychotic? Widowmaker? Don’t tell me you’re adapting a more conventional view of our killer here.”

  “Shit. I’ve always maintained the dude’s a head case, has to be taken off the streets. Only thing I ever said was, he makes some damn good selections, target wise.”

  “So far. I got hold of Logan, after Citron left. Want to hear about it now, or you want to wait until tomorrow, when we’re officially on the case?”

  “You kidding? Let’s hear it.”

  “They got ahold of Satana’s girlfriend, that dancer at the Double-D, Bo-Peep? Gal gave us Satana’s name. Sally Brown.”

  Nadine grinned, “About as exotic as apple pie. They run her?”

  “She’s got a drivers license, up to date, no violations. Old Camero registered to her. Address is current, rent’s paid, but Satana’s gone.”

  “How do they know?”

  “Landlord granted Logan access, after he told him Satana was missing and it was possible she’d met with foul play. Guy liked her, said she was a good tenant. Looks like she left half of her shit behind, guess what was part of that shit?”