Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  ‘Tell us about their lives,’ said Henshaw. ‘What sort of people they are.’

  ‘At the risk of sounding as though I’m stereotyping all serial killers, most do share certain common traits. For example, an average profile would probably be a white male in his twenties or thirties. He would possibly target strangers near his home or place of work and importantly, there is usually no relationship between the killer and victim, or maybe just a slight acquaintance. The other factor that studies have shown is the apparent lack of motive for killing, which –’

  ‘But hang on a minute, this guy’s killing young, female stablehands. There must be a motive. He must have a grudge or something.’

  ‘Well, as I was saying, although there often seems to be a lack of motivation and the killings appear to be random, it’s usually the case that the motivations are simply shrouded. It’s only when they’re caught that the true reasons come out as to why they kill.’

  ‘Like what? What sort of things would make this person a killer?’

  I had to hand it to Henshaw, he was persistent. He knew what to seize on; what his listening audience wanted to hear.

  ‘Usually their past holds the key. They may have come from a dysfunctional family background involving physical or sexual abuse. Their parents may have been drug addicts or alcoholics. Common is a feeling of resentment towards society which is brought on by their own feelings of failure. These can include sexual frustrations, an inability to be socially accepted or to form normal relationships with the opposite sex. They may have had overbearing parents, or they may have experienced some form of betrayal or abandonment, often from the mother, which seems to be a common element with a lot of serial killers. Other traits include aggressive daydreaming and, of course, isolation. Who knows, maybe this guy was left alone for long periods as a child. I’m only speculating here, you understand, but we have had serial killers who as children were actually kept locked up in cellars or their rooms for days at a time by their parents.’

  ‘You mentioned that they daydream. These dreams, do the fantasies become reality?’

  ‘Sometimes the daydreams continue to develop and expand from about the age of eight, right through to adolescence and into manhood and the killer escapes by following or enacting their dreams.’

  ‘That’s a chilling thought, Doctor. For those listeners who have just joined us, we’re talking with Doctor Mike Lamare about the profile of serial killers and in particular, what the makeup of the strapper killer might be. Doctor, this might sound a silly question, but you’ve mentioned some factors such as an overbearing mother who may have been the cause of setting a killer on their path. Why don’t they just kill the cause of their problem and stop there? Why do they go on killing strangers?’

  ‘It’s not that simple. It’s an interesting fact that serial killers rarely kill the source of their resentment such as a repressive mother, for example. However, they may kill those who have a likeness to, or remind them of that person.’

  ‘So he’s killing them, through others?’

  ‘It’s complicated, but yes, something like that.’

  ‘They must be absolutely psychotic nutcases,’ said Henshaw, handing down his verdict.

  ‘Actually, most aren’t psychotics. They’d be technically classed as psychopaths who are suffering from chronic mental disorders or abnormal social behaviour.’

  ‘You sound like you’re making a case for excusing them; that it’s not their fault they’ve become what they have.’

  ‘No, not at all. No one can be excused for mass murder. I’m merely pointing out that the past usually holds the key to what they have become.’

  ‘Doctor, we’re going to throw the lines open now to our listeners . . .’

  What a conceited fool. What pretence of knowledge does he have that makes him an expert on killing? Does he think his fancy qualifications give him an understanding of what I do? And that Russell Henshaw, what a self-righteous fuckwit he is. I feel like ringing in to the radio station and setting him straight on a few things. Maybe they could let me take some calls from those moronic listeners. Wouldn’t that be a thrill . . .

  ‘Hi, I’m Bill. I’m a pensioner from Mentone. I just wondered if there’s any danger to someone like me from a guy like you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no Bill. It should be quite obvious that I’m not going out of my way to kill males. Although I should kill you for asking such a stupid question.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Not at all. Next please.’

  ‘Hello, this is Tracey. I was reading about all your victims having certain characteristics and –’

  ‘That’s a big word, Tracey.’

  ‘Um, thanks. And anyway, as I’m eighteen and a brunette, I wondered if I was a likely target?’

  ‘Are you a slutty-looking strapper? Always got an eye out for the jockeys?’

  ‘No. I mean, I try to dress to impress, but I work in a shoe shop. I don’t know anything about racing.’

  ‘Then I’m not going to kill you, Tracey.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so relieved!’

  ‘You have a nice day now.’

  A wonderful fantasy, isn’t it? I could go on for hours imagining all sorts of silly things. Perhaps that quack was right about one thing; I’ve always been a bit of a daydreamer. But daydreams are infinitely better than nightmares. Like Father’s visits, creeping into my room every night to ‘tuck me in’ . . . Then later, when I moved out into the flat at the back of our house. Perhaps that’s why he built it. To muffle my cries. He knew all about inflicting pain, the cunt. Taught me all he knew about that since I was five years old. I learned good off him, real good. And Mother’s constant whoring around with those jockeys. Think I didn’t know, even at my age, what she was up to? A regular stream of silks paying her visits. She fucked jockeys and he fucked me and we all pretended nothing happened. One happy family. Now that’s dreaming . . .

  10

  The protection guy had rung Billy back just like I figured he would, and Billy had organised the meeting for Thursday afternoon at three. I got to Gino’s at about a quarter to and went in by the back laneway so I wouldn’t be seen if the guy was watching the front of the shop.

  ‘Everything all set up?’ I asked Billy.

  ‘Just like you wanted.’

  I had Billy fix a table directly opposite the entrance to the kitchen so my back was to the wall, and Billy slotted in to sit next to me. It was quite dim inside with the security shutters blocking out the daylight where the front window used to be. Billy asked if I wanted any more lights switched on.

  ‘No, the one over the counter and this one above the table is perfect.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘No. When he gets here, just bring him in and introduce me as your friend, that’s all you have to say,’ I said.

  Right on three the front doorbell rang. Billy looked at me and I nodded at him to go and answer it. I heard two voices greeting Billy and then they followed him inside. One of them belonged to a fit and gym-chiselled Italian-looking guy in his mid-twenties.

  ‘I’m Lorenzo,’ he announced.

  He was flashily dressed, a dark suit jacket and pants and a crisp white T-shirt under his jacket. He sported a carefully grown three-day stubble, the sort you’d have to spend an hour a day manicuring to get just right, like the movie stars do. He wore a pair of god-awful, exaggerated square-toed shoes that made his feet look like a clown’s. In his hand he twirled a pair of designer sunglasses, which drew attention to the big-name watch hanging loosely on his wrist. A wannabe gangster if ever I’d seen one.

  He introduced his friend who stood alongside him; ‘My associate, Angelo.’ The muscle. Angelo wasn’t flash, just big. Not overly tall, but he was solid and built like a wrestler. He too wore a suit, with a button-up knitted top underneath the jacket. At a guess, I’d put him at ten years older than Lorenzo. Billy led them through to where I was sitting at the table and presented
me. ‘A friend of mine, Punter,’ he said, sitting down next to me.

  Lorenzo gave me the once over, nodded at me as if it didn’t really matter to him whether I was there or not, and then gestured towards the darkened shutters, getting straight down to business.

  ‘You guys have got a problem,’ he said, walking a couple of steps back towards the front counter and inspecting the damage. ‘See, you just can’t go on getting your window broken every week, it’s bad for business. Isn’t it, Angelo?’

  Angelo nodded solemnly; thought that was so.

  Lorenzo prodded a finger at the shutters and shook his head distastefully. ‘Yeah, it’s bad for business. A customer sees that and he says to himself, “I’m not gonna go in there. I’m gonna go to the shop across the street instead.” Where’s he gonna go, Angelo?’

  ‘To the shop across the street.’

  For Christ sake, talk about a Laurel and Hardy act. I was nearly drumming my fingers on the table waiting for him to get to the punchline. Lorenzo walked back by the counter and spotted the fridge behind the bar. He made a detour and helped himself to two Crown Lagers. He gave one of the beers to Angelo, who remained standing watching us, then sat down to join me and Billy at the table.

  ‘Why don’t you help yourself to a beer, fellas,’ said Billy. I could sense him smarting at Lorenzo’s arrogance and I pressed my knee to his thigh to shut him up. Lorenzo ignored his comment; got on with his game plan. It was a script he had down pat, and I could imagine him walking into a hundred little restaurants like this all over town, reciting the same lines.

  ‘Yeah,’ he continued, ‘you fix a window and it gets broken again, then you start up all over, but in the meantime the customers’ve gone walkabout and so have your takings. So, you got a problem.’

  He only had to look at Angelo this time for the parrot-like response. ‘Yeah, they got a problem,’ he echoed.

  ‘And unless you got someone like me and Angelo to protect your place –’ he looked about the room as if it could disappear at any moment ‘– then, you ain’t gonna have no place left.’

  Not bad. I’d heard better, but still, reasonably polished.

  ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right,’ I said. ‘If Gino’s pays you guys a hundred a month, you’ll make sure that we never get another broken window again?’

  Lorenzo shook his head quickly. ‘No, it’s gone up since the last time we spoke. It’s a hundred and fifty a month now.’ He turned around and looked at Angelo.

  ‘Inflation, eh, Angelo?’

  Angelo nodded dumbly back.

  ‘I see, a hundred and fifty. That’s a lot of money for a small business like this to pay every month,’ I said. ‘What if Gino’s can’t afford it?’

  A dark cloud was brewing over Lorenzo’s face. I was expecting it; knew the fireworks would have to start sooner or later. He stood up suddenly, the chair falling to the ground behind him. Then he grabbed his bottle of beer and, turning around, made a big show of smashing it over the counter, and then hurled what was left of the bottle at the bar. That seemed to be the signal for Angelo to get in on the act too. He picked up a tray of china coffee cups from the sideboard and threw them after the beer bottle with a terrific crash. Billy tensed. I could feel him ready to spring up, but I checked him, made him sit still.

  ‘If you don’t fucking pay,’ Lorenzo said angrily, ‘who knows what accidents might happen at Gino’s? Broken windows, graffiti, vandalism. Fires can start up in these places too, can’t they, Angelo?’

  ‘Fires been known to happen,’ said the parrot.

  Lorenzo turned and faced me. ‘So what’s it gonna be, then?’

  I looked at Billy and gave a resigned shrug, and then I turned back to Lorenzo. ‘I don’t think you leave us a lot of choice. All right,’ I said, gesturing with my hands for him to take a seat, ‘let’s talk business.’

  Lorenzo smiled and sat down. ‘I thought you guys would be reasonable about things.’

  I pulled out a roll from my shirt pocket and laid it on the table in front of him, let the greedy bastard see I was carrying plenty.

  ‘How about I give you six months in advance?’

  He snatched at the bundle. Even greedier than I thought.

  ‘Might as well make it a year, then you won’t have to see us around so often.’

  No one had noticed Tiny come out of the kitchen until he walked up behind Angelo and poked the shotgun into his back. He’d timed it just as we’d planned; to stay hidden and not make an appearance until I showed them the money.

  ‘You know what this is, big fella?’ said Tiny.

  Angelo knew; had probably felt the cold of a steel barrel before in his line of work. He nodded his head and raised his hands voluntarily as Lorenzo’s head whipped around to see who had spoken.

  ‘Tell us what it is, Angelo,’ said Tiny.

  ‘It’s a shotgun.’

  ‘That’s right, Angelo. And they make a helluva mess to a man’s guts at this close range. Whatta they do to a man’s guts?’

  Angelo knew the drill; ‘Make a helluva mess.’

  Lorenzo appeared lost for words, astonished that the tide had turned so quickly against him. Tiny shoved Angelo forwards with the gun’s barrel and told him to sit down next to Lorenzo, then he stepped into the light where we could see him.

  Tiny is an intimidating sort of a bloke close up. He seems as tall as the ghost gums he once chopped for a living, a veritable mountain of a man. A big, raw-boned country brawler with fists the size of a council worker’s shovel. Today he wore a bib and brace overalls, no shirt; his lanky tattooed arms left you in no doubt that if he ever let rip with a punch, you’d be out for the count.

  ‘Lorenzo, what the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘Tiny?’ said Lorenzo.

  ‘You two know each other?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘I bounce for his old man at the Grainstore Club,’ said Tiny. ‘What the hell are you doing? If your father knew what you’ve been up to he’d kick your arse till yer nose bleeds.’

  ‘Oh shit, don’t go tellin’ him. Please don’t do that, I didn’t mean youse any harm. I wouldn’t have come around if I’d known it was your place.’

  ‘You oughta be afuckin’ shamed of yourself,’ said Tiny, getting stuck into him.

  Lorenzo had suddenly lost all of his wannabe gangster confidence; he looked more like a student getting an earful from his headmaster.

  ‘Tryin’ to fleece these poor bastards out of an honest quid. You, workin’ a protection scam! After all your father’s taught you. You oughta hang your head in shame, boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘Shut up! I gotta think what the fuck I’m gonna do with you now.’

  Billy suggested he get us a beer from the fridge to help us with the thinking process. We thought that was a good idea.

  ‘Can I put my hands down?’ asked Angelo.

  ‘No!’ said Tiny out of sheer annoyance. ‘Keep ’em where I can see ’em.’

  ‘Okay, I keep ’em where I can see ’em,’ mumbled Angelo.

  ‘I’m gonna have to ring his old man,’ said Tiny, ‘explain the situation.’

  ‘No, you can’t! He’ll kill me,’ pleaded Lorenzo.

  ‘And I fuckin’ shouldn’t?’ yelled Tiny, moving menacingly close to the table. He had the shotgun cradled in one arm and a stubby in the other.

  I intervened. ‘How many others have you done in the Glenhuntly strip?’

  ‘What, shops?’

  ‘Yes, shops like ours. Smashed their windows and put it on them for protection money?’

  He owned up to the other three I’d known about. I wiggled my fingers. ‘Let’s have it back, then.’

  ‘What?’

  Tiny prompted him. ‘The money, you git.’

  ‘Oh sure, I was gonna give you that back, of course.’

  Lorenzo pulled out a wad, the size of which suggested we hadn’t been the only restaurant on his collection list today.


  ‘Here’s your money back,’ he said almost apologetically, stuffing the rest of the cash back into his jacket pocket. I wiggled the fingers again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s also the cost of the windows.’

  ‘But you’d be insured for those, wouldn’t you?’

  I shook my head. ‘A small business can’t afford to pay the premiums these days.’ I looked at Angelo, ridiculous, with his hands still in the air. ‘Can they, Angelo?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘small business can’t afford premiums.’

  Lorenzo pulled out the wad again, though not as quickly as last time. ‘How much?’

  I looked across at Billy. ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty-three hundred a piece plus GST,’ he said with relish.

  Lorenzo peeled off the notes from his fast-diminishing bankroll.

  ‘There’s the matter of the security shutters, too.’

  ‘Security shutters? Fuck!’

  ‘Oi!’ butted in Tiny. ‘Show some fuckin’ respect.’

  ‘Sorry. Security shutters.’ He winced when Billy told him how much.

  ‘I’m in the wrong fuckin’ game, those blokes got a racket goin’.’ He shelled out for the shutters and asked if he was square.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ I said pointing to the smashed coffee cups. ‘There’s the tray of cups and the two beers you helped yourself to.’

  Lorenzo gritted his teeth when Billy figured it out at around twenty broken cups at five dollars a cup. He half looked like he was going to say something, but a fierce glare from Tiny saw him hand over the last of his notes.

  ‘Is that it, then?’

  ‘Correct weight,’ I said.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Tiny. ‘We’re not done. I don’t ever want to see you around here again playing your standover game. Not at Gino’s or any other restaurant or shop on the Glenhuntly strip. You’re barred from around here, you understand?’

  Lorenzo looked down guiltily, wouldn’t meet Tiny’s eyes.

  ‘I hear you, Tiny. I won’t. You . . . won’t tell the old man, will you?’

  ‘Go on, fuck off out of here before I change my mind.’