It was Monica, making a late night snack (reports mentioned reminisce of an unmade sandwich left on the counter). Before she could make a sound, he was on her, placing his hand over her mouth.
“Don’t be afraid…Alex sent me,” he whispered, or something similar, to calm her.
I’m sure Monica tried to explain that because of her postponed trip out of town she was hoping to suspend the night of the crime. Knowing Chi, her pleading fell on deaf ears. Monica was a smart woman; she probably realized it was best to just cooperate with him – not knowing the caliber of madman she was dealing with.
Chi tiptoed down the hall till he reached the exercise room where he found Tom Evans.
Tom was a large man who all his life kept his body in great shape. Now, in his late sixties, he could have easily triumphed over Chi in a fair fight, but life isn’t always fair and unquestionably nor was Chi.
Slipping silently into the exercise room, Chi found Tom lying flat on his back on a weight lifting bench. He was holding above him a long metal bar, which had one hundred pounds on each end – two hundred pounds plus the bar.
Chi jumped forward, took hold of Tom’s wrists and pulled them away and down. Tom lost hold of the two hundred plus pounds; it came crashing down on his neck. The cracking sound of his neck bone must have been audible.
Foolish Chi, if he left Tom to die at that point, perhaps the authorities would have chalked it up as an accident, but that’s not how Chi thinks.
He hopped on top of Tom’s Chest, taking his knife from his pocket he slashed Tom’s throat from ear to ear. The blood not only poured down onto the carpeted floor, but sprayed across the mirrored wall.
Monica, who had probably been watching from the doorway, was in all likelihood in shock. Chi took hold of her with his bloody gloved hands (which explains why there were traces of Tom’s blood on her nightgown), shook her to her senses and demanded she take him to anything of value.
In Tom’s office desk, Chi took two thousand dollars in cash, Tom’s rings and watch (estimated value: fifty thousand dollars), but most notable of all is that Chi took Tom’s revolver – now, Chi had a gun.
I suspect, Monica asked Chi to hit her, to make it look like a burglary – one she had no involvement in, but had been a victim of. This explained Monica’s broken jaw in two places on both sides of her face. Chi would surely have hit her much harder than warranted.
At that point, Chi dragged Monica into the main bedroom where he pulled all the framed paintings off the walls till he found the safe.
He must have demanded Monica to open it.
Having a broken jaw, I’m sure Monica put up no resistance and opened it, immediately. Chi took an empty shoebox from her closet and placed the jewels in it.
Surely, now that Chi had everything of value, Monica had no doubt he would leave; but again, that’s not how Chi thinks.
He took her by her hair, pushed her in front of her dressing mirror, and forced her to watch while he cut her throat.
Chi searched around the home one more time, in search of anything of value. In the living room, he stopped to admire a large wall mural, at the bottom of which the signature of the artist…yours truly…Alex Defy. What that set off inside Chi, I don’t know.
He went back into the exercise room, took hold of one of the dumbbells, went back into the living room, and smashed holes, here and there, into the mural. Then he took a towel from the kitchen, went into the bedroom, and mopped up some of Monica’s blood with it. He returned to the living room, and swabbed a red streak of blood across my name on the wall – blotting it out. His reasoning for doing this remains a mystery to me as I’m sure it was for the police and the newspapers. I only know, so I’ve said before, it is not a good idea to be everything to anyone.
Chi made his way down the backstairs, out of the building, and into the alley. Once on the street, he removed his rubber gloves and tossed them down a sewer. He then began his long two-mile trek back to his apartment.
His pockets were bulging with the money and jewelry he’d taken from Tom’s desk. There was a bulge in the front of his pants were he stashed Tom’s revolver. He was carrying the shoebox filled with Monica’s jewelry under his arm. All in all, he made it back to his place without attracting anyone’s attention; there are stranger things to see on the streets of New York.
***
After listening to Chi’s partial account of the murders, I still faced the task of telling him about our newest problem – Private Investigator, Harold Macintosh. It took me a while to explain to Chi our predicament. He didn’t grasp it at first.
“Why don’t we just pay this old bastard a visit, and show him who’s boss?” said Chi.
“Because, he’s not stupid; he’s got the goods on us. We’ve got to play his game.”
“How much does he want for these pictures?” Chi growled.
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out on Thursday.”
“I say, we kill the bastard,” demanded Chi.
He just didn’t get it; I shook my head.
“Hell with it; I’m going home. I’ll call you.” I made my way to the door.
“Stay a little longer; I’ll make you breakfast,” Chi’s voice turned friendly.
“Thanks, but I’m dead-on my feet. I promise; I’ll call you.”
***
Back home I settled in on the couch. I drank more coffee, determined to stay awake until the evening. I opened the rest of my mail – mostly bills.
I took up one letter that had no return address; my name and address were handwritten. I opened it. Within, surrounded by a one-page letter was cash – twenty-five thousand dollars to be exact. Monica prematurely mailed the balance.
The letter read: “Now, you are not only the best lover I have ever had in my life, but you are my savior”.
She had the good sense not to sign it, but I recognized the handwriting.
Of course, I pocketed the money.
No use crying over spilled milk, the adage goes. This proverb, I’m sure of it, was first delivered to someone holding a now empty glass, after they spilled all its contents. And I’m sure; it was spoken by someone holding a full glass of milk.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“A third joker, how can that be?”
First and last time I visited the Empire State Building was when I was young, perhaps five years old. My parents took me; we went up to the observation deck.
It must have been a holiday or special occasion; we were all dressed to the nines. We made a pretty picture. My father in his tweed suit and tie, my mother with her pearls and white gloves, wearing the stiffest of crinolines that rustled when she walked and created an impenetrable boundary around her. And I…dressed up in the fashion all parents like to impose on little boys (to increase their cuteness). All decked out in short-short pants (disclosing my scabby knees), a dainty waistcoat and sporting a bow tie. My hair was slicked back, shiny and stiff from an over application of Brylcreem. I remember putting my hands in my pockets was a no-no; that would ruin the desired effect. Why we dressed as if in a 50s sitcom, ask my mother.
There is no single elevator that will get you to the observation deck; you have to take more than one. The pressure in my ears grew greater and greater, as we rose to the top of the building. Whenever I swallowed to release the pressure within my ears, the heaviness returned with each passing floor.
At last at the top, the elevator stopped; I swallowed and a large pop exploded in my ears – I was able to hear clearly again.
We walked around the observation deck, my father excitedly pointed out locations of interest around the city.
“There’s the Chrysler Building, and there’s the Brooklyn Bridge…that big patch of green…that’s Central Park…you can see the reservoir, it’s that blue circle! And look over there…there’s New Jersey!”
My father took a picture of my mother and me with his camera, then she took a picture of my father and me, and then a stranger offered to take a picture of al
l three of us. That photo is in a place of honor in my parent’s home to this day.
My father put some money in a coin-operated telescope; he held me up, and I peered through the lens. Nothing looked much different or closer to me, but I kept looking.
Finally, I focused in on a man and a woman seated on lawn chairs, dressed in bathing suits and wearing sunglasses.
“Why are they wearing bathing suits?” I asked.
“That’s because they’re at Tar Beach,” my father announced knowingly.
“Tar Beach?” I repeated.
Adults don’t always understand the misunderstanding of children. Time was up, my view went black.
Still in my father’s arms, he marched me over to a payphone, dropped in some coins, and dialed. He held the receiver next to my ear; just a frail voice came back to me through the phone line, “Hello?”
My mother watched on smiling, while my father coached me about what to say.
“Say…hello, Grandmamma…this is Alex.”
“Hello, Grandmamma, this is Alex.”
“Say…Guess where I am?”
“Guess where I am, Grandmamma?”
“Say…I’m on top of the Empire State Building…go to your window and wave…I’ll wave back.”
My mother took the receiver and spoke into it, “We’re on top of the Empire State Building, Mom...we’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
My father took me to the railing and pointed out over the city.
“Look, Alex…she’s waving to you…Grandmamma’s waving to you…wave back!”
I waved, though I couldn’t see her. But somewhere in my mind’s eye I saw her at her back window, waving up at me; and somewhere in me I believed it to be true.
My father pointed to one of the protective bars around the observation deck.
“Alex, you see that iron bar, line it up with the Chrysler Building, that big building way out there, line it up with the iron bar like you were shooting a gun.”
I did as my father suggested, I closed one eye and with the other opened eye I lined up the metal bar with the Chrysler Building far-off in the distance.
“Keep looking, Alex,” said my father, with excitement in his voice.
Suddenly, if by magic, the metal bar no longer lined up with the Chrysler Building; it was off to the left. Something had moved! Was it the Chrysler Building? Was it the metal bar? I didn’t understand.
“It doesn’t line up, Papa!”
“It will, Alex, keep looking!”
Sure enough, after a minute’s wait, the metal bar and the Chrysler Building realigned.
“I don’t understand, Papa!”
My father placed me back down on my feet, and smiled at me. He held up one hand, palm straight, and used it to demonstrate what he was about to tell me.
“That’s because the Empire State Building is swaying, back and forth, like a reed in the wind.” He motioned with his hand how the building moved. “It goes this way and that, ever so slowly. It has to bend...or it would snap like a twig, and we would all die!”
Just the image of what he just said made my head spin; I became weak in the knees, and my stomach began to do flip-flops.
I looked up at the clear blue sky above, and just at the moment I did, a small, private, two-seater, one propeller plane flew overhead. It was so close; I was able to make out all the facial features of the pilot. He smiled at me; I smiled back. He waved at me; I waved back. Then, as if a flash sparked in my mind, I came to grips with what just happened. I was so high up in the sky I was having a one-on-one with an airplane pilot. Meanwhile, the Empire State Building swayed back and forth, forward and back. The world started to turn, my mind swam in the possibilities, it was all too much for me and I swooned.
Next thing I remember was coming to in the elevator on the way down to the first floor. I was in my father’s arms. I held on to him as tight as I could. My mother ran her hand through my hair.
“Are you all right, honey?”
“Ah…ha,” I moaned into my father’s suit collar.
Even at the tender age of five, I knew I would never be comfortable or feel safe on top of the world like that again. I swore against high places, and I swore never to return to the Empire State Building.
***
The office of Harold Macintosh, Private Investigator, was in the Empire State Building. I was grateful to learn it was only two-thirds of the way up. It was like homecoming week; all the old feelings crept back into me, the churning stomach, dizziness, popping in the ears, and that uneasy feeling of being out of control. I did my best to hide my anxiety, especially from Chi who was at my side.
It was a corner office; Harold’s name was on the frosted glass door. We knocked.
“Come in,” I recognized it to be Harold’s voice. We entered. “Sit down…sit down,” he said, sounding too friendly.
There were two large brown leather chairs in front of Harold’s desk; we slowly and cautiously sat down.
Harold sat behind his desk wearing the widest of smiles. His hand came up ever so deliberately slow; he was holding a gun.
“Sorry about the gun, but you do understand? It’s not everyday I have two desperate killers visit me in my office.”
“Cut the crap, old man,” snarled Chi.
“All right…I see we need to get right down to business…very well,” said Harold, reaching across the desk and placing a yellow envelope down with his un-gunned hand.
“Now, let’s see, what have we here? Ah, yes…these are pictures of Alex meeting with Mrs. Kingston…and this is Chi at the airport…and Chi at the hotel in L.A…”
“Those pictures don’t prove anything!” barked Chi.
With his one free hand, Harold turned the photo around and examined it.
“You know, I think you’re right!” There was just enough of sarcasm in his voice to be annoying. “I’m afraid; I’d have to agree with you. These photos only prove you knew the wife of the deceased. And these, only put you at the scene of the crime. It’s all circumstantial evidence. But, now, add this to the mix!”
He placed more photos down.
“This is Mrs. Kenyon visiting Alex’s studio; and here’s a great shot of you two boys entering her husband’s medical office, the night of his murder. Oh, and here’s one of you leaving the office; and what’s that you boys are carrying? Gee, things are beginning to look a little suspicious, don’t you think?”
It was clear Harold was building his case. I looked over, Chi was fuming.
As for me, I foolishly looked out the window only to see birds gliding close by. I was preoccupied with my fear of heights and unable to be of any support to Chi.
Harold laid out more photos before us.
“Let’s see, and here’s a shot of Mrs. Monica Evans visiting Alex’s studio, one week before the police found she and her husband murdered in their own home. It seems, wherever there’s a dead body, you two are not far-off.”
“It’s like you said…it’s all circumstantial evidence!” There was a worried note in Chi’s voice; I was still useless.
“Oh, and what do we have here? A photo of you two boys in Needle Park…and what’s this…oh my, selling drugs, too? Gee, those drug vials look a lot like the ones taken from Dr. Kenyon’s office the night of his murder.”
Chi was beginning to look as pale as I was.
“Oh…and here’s an interesting photo…that’s you, isn’t it, Chi? Wow, I hate to brag, but that’s one great shot, I must say. That’s you, Chi, dousing those two hoodlums with gasoline…and here you are setting them on fire! I had to use some abnormally fast speed film to get those shots…that’s why they’re so grainy…but great shots, nonetheless, don’t you think?”
I gathered my wits, and took a deep breath.
“Okay, how much?” I asked, sounding defeated.
“Wait,” Harold said, “it’s no-good without the negatives. You wouldn’t want me making more copies, now, would you?” He threw the envelope of negatives on top of the
mountain of photos.
“Okay, how much?” I repeated.
“Well, we’re having a special today. I’ll give you these photos and their negatives for….let’s say…let’s say I give them to you for nothing…a gift from me to you!”
A blank look of confusion rushed over both our faces.
Harold broke into a belly laugh.
“That’s right, boys, I don’t want anything…a gift from me to you!”
“I don’t get it?” I said, squinting at him.
“Call it a peace offering,” said Harold, “I’ve got an idea…something we might all benefit from, if we were all friends.”
“Benefit…how?” asked Chi, sounding just as cautious as I.
“Let me explain,” said Harold, taking the gun and putting it away in one of the desk drawers. “I don’t think we’ll be needing this any more.”
“Go ahead, we’re listening,” I demanded.
“All my life I’ve been a private dick. It sounds exciting to most people, but it’s not. I spend most of my time in hiding, and taking pictures of people being unfaithful. I make a good living at it, but I haven’t even scratched the surface of the real money I could make if I only had two qualities. The two qualities I never had, and never will…and those are two qualities you boys both have.
“First is the power to seduce women. When I’m tailing a husband, and I find out he’s never untrue to his wife, for a few bucks more I can have him seduced. I get one of the girls I know…a professional…she comes on to him, and he’s done for. Men are like dogs, once they get the scent under their nose they can’t resist. I get the photo I was paid to get, and they get a divorce and live unhappily ever after.
“Seducing a man is one thing, but a woman is a whole different ball of wax. Most men walking around on this planet don’t have the talent you two have. There are husbands who pay big bucks to get the goods on their wives, and send them packing with little or nothing in their pockets.”
“I don’t like the idea,” said Chi, “If pictures of us with women in compromising positions…forgive the pun…were to get around, it would ruin our reputations; no woman would dare be seen with us!”
Memoirs of a Gigolo Page 13