The Helper cd-2

by David Jackson

  Nothing further on the calls to his cellphone either. They’ve stopped. Dead.

  To Doyle it’s almost as though his refusal to take the helper’s calls has brought the killing spree to an end. As if the killer needs to feed off his little chats with Doyle in order to have the fuel to carry out his mission.

  He knows it can’t be that simple. The killer must be up to something. More murders will take place. He can feel it deep in his bones.

  It’s not a comforting sensation.

  It’s like knowing there’s a massive spider hidden in the room with you, just waiting to jump out when you least expect it.

  His guess is that the swarthy bastard behind the counter isn’t genuinely Italian.

  Italian-American, perhaps. He’d give him that much. A Mediterranean set of genes there somewhere, no doubt. But severely diluted over several generations. Long enough for him to have lost that accent which sounds so affected it’s laughable.

  The name, too, has to be fake. Peppe. Clearly he has adopted that moniker purely for the alliteration it lends to the name of this dump. Peppe’s Pizza Piazza. A nice ring to it, sure, but a tad convenient, wouldn’t you say? But then the owner’s real name is probably something like Timothy, which wouldn’t quite conjure up the same romantic imagery of a moonlit dinner overlooking canals with gondolas and bullet-riddled mafia victims floating by.

  He’s willing to bet that the guy lays claim to a stupid surname too, again for the effect. Roni, perhaps. Ciao. My name is-a Peppe Roni. Come in and-a taste-a my spicy sausage.

  And a piazza? Hardly. San Marco in Venice is a piazza. Navona in Rome is a piazza. This is more of a. . well, a room, basically. Even the use of the word ‘restaurant’, which also appears on the signage outside, is kind of stretching the definition to breaking point. Sure, there are a few small tables and some chairs here, but you’d hardly want to spend more than the time it takes to wolf down a few slices in these surroundings. Peppe and the other pseudo-Italian who works here are probably wondering why their only sit-in customer is spending so much time over his meal.

  If only they knew.

  The pizza must be damn good, though. It’s clearly what keeps this place going. Say what you like about the ambience, there’s a steady stream of people coming in for take-out orders. They might not be willing to sit here for long, but they obviously crave the product.

  He’s not really in a position to judge the quality of the pizza here. He decided long ago that he couldn’t really class himself as a pizza person, despite the alliteration. He would much prefer a steak, medium rare, or perhaps some nice sea bass. Throw in a bottle of Chianti or Chardonnay and mood-enhancing music and lighting — heaven! Company or no.

  And so his acquaintances — he can hardly call them friends — would puzzle over why he is now sitting in front of a fourteen-inch pie, heaped high with all kinds of meat toppings.

  If only they knew.

  He’s had one slice. It was bearable, but it took him ten minutes to get through it. But then he’s not very hungry. He never is when there’s work to be done.

  He takes a sip from his glass of San Pellegrino and looks around. The man who calls himself Peppe (ha!) is handing change to a woman who, judging from her planetary-scale girth and acne-peppered complexion, eats nothing but junk food. He watches as she waddles out of the building, and then he catches Peppe’s eye.

  Peppe points across to his table. ‘Is-a good?’

  In response, he smiles and raises his hand, the index finger and thumb joined together in a circle to signify approval. As he does so, it occurs to him that perhaps the gesture signifies something different in Italy. Like maybe, Suck my dick. Not that this guy would know, impostor that he is.

  He checks his watch. Seven p.m. precisely. Should be anytime. .

  A phone rings.

  . . now.

  The phone is on the wall behind the counter, next to the cash register. Peppe plucks at the receiver and brings it to his ear with a flourish.

  ‘Good-a evening. Peppe’s Pizzas.’

  Peppe listens for a moment, and then: ‘Ah, Miss Peyton. How are-a you this evening?. . The usual?. . Very good. And the time? Is it at eight o’clock?. . Excellente. We will-a see you then. Good-a-bye.’

  Seated at his table, the man listens to all this and feels his heart rate accelerating with each word. He watches Peppe disappear behind the scenes to pass on the order, and presumes that he is doing so to avoid having to reveal his lack of mastery of the Italian language.

  He finds that his mouth is suddenly dry, and he takes a gulp of his mineral water. Feels the fizz of the bubbles in his gullet.

  He waits for Peppe to saunter back into the room, then waves for his attention.

  ‘Excuse me. Could you box this up for me, please? I have to go now, but I really want to finish this later. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Sure. Is-a no problem.’

  He watches while Peppe clears the table and transfers the remaining slices into one of their branded cardboard boxes. He knows what’s going through his head. Peppe is wondering how anyone could take so long to eat just one slice, as if he detests the stuff, and then want to take the rest of it home, stone cold.

  If only he knew.

  A smile on his face, the killer pays his tab and leaves, carrying the pizza carton before him like he’s one of the wise men bearing gifts. As he goes through the door, he glances at his watch again. Ten after seven. Just as he planned.

  Excellente.

  For Tabitha Peyton, Friday night is usually pizza night. Usually, but not always. Hence the waiting around in Peppe’s. He had to be sure. But the visit also provided him with his credentials for the next step of his mission.

  He heads to his car first, parked up a block along from the pizza house here on Allen Street. He opens the trunk and takes out the other items he needs if he’s to be convincing. A motorcycle helmet and a leather biker’s jacket. He swaps his own jacket for the leather. Doesn’t exactly make him a Hell’s Angel, but it ought to be enough.

  He locks up the car, dodges through the two-way traffic, then walks around the block onto Orchard Street. He stops at a five-story tenement opposite the Blue Moon, once a similar tenement until it had another three stories grafted on top when it was converted into a boutique hotel. He climbs the steep set of steps to the front entrance, then finds the buzzer labeled ‘T. Peyton’. He smiles to himself. Nine times out of ten, if they put just an initial with no indication of gender, you just know it’s going to be a single woman. He thumbs the buzzer and waits.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Pizza delivery.’

  A pause. Then: ‘Mikey?’

  ‘No. This is Pete. I’m the new guy. You ordered a pizza, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re too early. The order was for eight o’clock.’

  ‘Eight o’clock? Oh crap. I am so gonna get it for this. Yours is the second one I got wrong tonight. My ass is fried. Sorry to bother you, miss. We’ll bring the order at eight, like you asked. Looks like it’s not gonna be from me, unfortunately, but you’ll get it on time. Really sorry about that.’

  That’s it, he thinks. Lay it on thick.

  ‘Wait!’ she says, and he knows he’s got her. ‘I guess it won’t hurt to eat a little early. Bring it on up.’

  He hears the buzz and the click of the lock opening. He’s in.

  He takes the stairs up to the third floor, then raps on the door to her apartment. She opens it in an instant.

  She’s wearing a powder-blue bathrobe, belted tightly at her waist. She has removed her make-up. From somewhere behind her he hears the sound of running water.

  He expects a look of mild annoyance, and he gets it. But he also expects that it will quickly evaporate, and he gets that too. This tall handsome biker giving her his most disarming smile is causing her practically to melt into a puddle on the floor.

  He says, ‘Thanks for agreeing to take this now. It’s really kind of you. To be honest, I don’t think I
’m much good at this job. I feel like I’m really in over my head, you know?’

  She opens the door wider now. It’s amazing how much a girl can allow her hormones to override her instinct for self-preservation.

  ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘I know what it’s like to be out of my depth.’

  He almost laughs. You do, huh?

  She continues: ‘Here, let me take that off you.’

  She grabs the box, then carries it into the apartment, leaving the door gaping, her back unprotected. What the hell does she think she’s doing? Doesn’t she know how dangerous this city can be?

  She puts the pizza down on the kitchen counter, then comes back with a fistful of cash. She passes it to him. Says, ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘No way. The way I screwed this up, I should be paying you.’

  ‘No, seriously. Keep it. Buy a beer or something.’

  ‘Well, only if you’re sure. I could do with some parts for my Harley, so it all helps.’

  He waits for her eyes to widen, and is not disappointed. Suspects that he could soon have the space between her legs widening too if such was his aim.

  ‘You have a Harley?’

  He nods. ‘Two, actually. Not tonight, though. I have to ride the piece-of-shit lawn mower that Peppe provides. Makes me feel such a dork. If my friends saw me on that. .’

  ‘I used to have a Harley.’

  ‘Get out of here. Really?’

  ‘Really. A 2002 Sportster.’

  ‘That’s the same as mine. Which engine? The 1200?’

  ‘Nah, just the 883.’

  ‘Still, that’s pretty cool. You got any pictures of it?’

  He sees her waver, but only for a second.

  ‘Sure. Come on in.’

  He stays put. He wants her to feel that she’s making all the moves here. She has no idea he’s pulling all the strings.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘That’s okay. I should get back to Peppe’s.’

  ‘Come on. Two minutes, okay?’

  He shrugs, walks on in. Casually closes the door behind him. Just the two of them, alone in this apartment. So fucking easy.

  ‘Be right back,’ she says. She skips off to the bedroom. When she comes back he notices that she has loosened her robe, that it is patently lower in the neckline. And when she stands next to him and holds out the picture of her pathetic hunk of shiny metal, he knows that she’s doing so in such a way that he can see right down her cleavage.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says, because that’s clearly what she’s hoping for: a compliment that is ambiguous enough to apply either to her or her stupid bike. He wonders if he could have been even more daring — something about massive twin carbs maybe — but he has no idea whether motorcycles even have twin carbs, let alone whether it is meaningful to talk about their size. He has limited his research strictly to what he needs to achieve his aims.

  ‘Hell of a ride,’ she says, and he realizes she’s continuing the game. Leaving it to him to decide whether it’s the bike or her that’ll give him the biggest throb between the legs.

  He shifts his gaze from the photo and sees that she is looking straight at him. Guesses that she has in fact been watching him throughout to see where his eyes rove. Right now her own eyes are wide with anticipation and excitement. She is loving this game. Getting off on the subtle foreplay.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says.

  She smiles knowingly. Even though she knows shit.

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘Are we in danger of getting a little moist here?’

  Her mouth drops a little. Like she can hardly believe her ears. The nerve of this guy! The sheer temerity!

  But he knows he hasn’t overstepped the mark. Far as she’s concerned he’s just upped the stakes. Made the game even more electrifying.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she says, because she has to. Because she needs to appear to be the shocked prim virgin instead of the oily slut she really is.

  ‘Is there a bath or something being filled back there?’

  There you go, he thinks. You want double entendre? Beat that one.

  ‘Huh?’ she answers, her meager brain not coping well with the sudden context switch. ‘Oh, yeah.’ And then: ‘Oh, shit!’

  She races for the bathroom. He doesn’t wait for an invitation to follow. The bathroom is where this was always destined to play out. And Tabitha has acted her part to perfection.

  He watches her fight with the faucets. He can’t see where the water level is, but a mound of foam is already several inches above the rim of the bathtub. When she finally shuts off the water and turns around, she jumps when she sees him standing in the doorway, holding the pizza box.

  For the first time, he’s not sure how she’ll react. Is she thinking, ‘Whoa, fella! Who said you could come in here?’ Or is this fulfilling her most outrageous porn fantasy? The one where the handsome biker drops in on the frustrated and helpless single woman and offers to tune up her sump with his crankshaft, or whatever the hell the terminology is.

  Frankly, he no longer gives a shit. The game has become tiresome. It’s time to bring it to its inevitable conclusion.

  ‘You want some of this pizza? It’s cold, and there’s a slice missing, but you’re welcome to have some. Personally, I think it tastes like vomit.’

  She tries a smile, then seems to realize it doesn’t fit the circumstances and drops it again.

  ‘I think you should go now,’ she says.

  He hears her nervousness. Sees her discomfort.

  ‘You don’t want me to go. You’ve been waiting for this for a long time.’

  She folds her arms. Trying to appear strong, decisive. But he sees only her admission of vulnerability.

  ‘Forget it, fella. Whatever you think this is, you got it wrong.’ She snaps an arm out, aiming her finger toward the apartment door. ‘Out!’

  He doesn’t budge. Of course not.

  ‘I can’t. Not before I give you what you need. I have to help you.’

  He sees the confusion on her face, but he understands. Her prayers for aid have remained unanswered for so long that she finds it almost beyond belief that they have finally been answered. It must be such an assault on one’s perception of how the universe works.

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  He gives her what he believes to be a beatific smile. ‘You need help. You just didn’t expect it to come now, and from someone delivering pizzas.’ He laughs. ‘But don’t be fooled by appearances. Help is finally here. All you have to do is accept it.’

  Her eyes dart, and he realizes she isn’t going to take his advice. Sadness overwhelms him. She is so fucked up, she is incapable of appreciating the significance of this moment.

  ‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I want you the fuck out of here. Now!’

  He stands his ground. Maintains his smile of serenity.

  She storms toward him. ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’

  He sidesteps a little, creating an opening in the doorway she can squeeze through. He waits for her to increase her pace toward the escape route he has just made for her. Waits for her to come almost level with him. .

  His left hand leaves the pizza box. He brings it upwards at great speed, his palm open. He drives the V-shape formed between his thumb and his index finger hard into her throat.

  She staggers back, clutching at her neck. She opens her mouth and makes sounds like a cat with a furball as she sticks out her tongue and gasps for air.

  Sorry, Tabitha, he thinks. No air today.

  He drops the box and closes the gap. Puts a hand to her face. Forces her backwards. Her legs connect with the edge of the bathtub and over she goes. There is a massive splash as she plunges into the water, and a huge foamy wave rolls over the sides of the tub and onto the floor.

  He thrusts his hands into the water. Finds her shoulders and leans on them. But she fights him, and she is much stronger than he expected. She draws on those reserves of in extremis strength that only those who are
fighting death itself can tap. It surprises him that she actually manages to raise her face above the suds and push her legs and buttocks over the rim of the tub. He grunts as he applies more force to her shoulders, driving her under again.

  Her legs still protrude from the water. They kick wildly and with force. Her robe comes open, exposing her nakedness. Her arms flail. He has to hold his face away from those clawing fingers. Her hands scrabble for purchase, but all they find is the smoothness of the wall tiles. Her nails break as they catch on the grouting.

  She takes an age to die.

  When he is certain she has gone, he removes his arms from the water. Rivers gush from both sleeves of his leather jacket. He looks down at himself and sees that he is sopping wet. In hindsight, he thinks maybe this wasn’t the best way to do things.

  He grabs two white fluffy towels from the rail and spends a few minutes drying himself off. He knows he cannot hang around much longer because the real pizza delivery guy will be arriving soon.

  He takes one last look at his handiwork. Tabitha’s naked lower half still hangs over the edge of the tub, the rest of her buried beneath the bubbles.

  He tried to tell her why he’d come here. I’m really in over my head, is what he said. But what was really ironic was the way she came back with an even better line: I know what it’s like to be out of my depth. Priceless!

  He picks up his motorcycle helmet and pizza box and heads for the apartment door. His shoes squelch with each uncomfortable step.

  Great, he thinks. You try to help someone, and this is what you get.

  Some people are so damned ungrateful.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Nice position,’ says Kravitz.

  ‘Nice,’ says Folger.

  The two Homicide detectives are staring thoughtfully at the visible half of the murder victim, draped over the edge of the bathtub. Around them, other cops and techs swarm like ants — busy, busy, busy. But Kravitz and Folger manage to rise above it all. They see their roles here as ones of authority. They need to be seen as calm and in control. The fulcrum of all the activity, if you will. Or the hub. Or the linchpin. In any case, the bit that doesn’t waste energy flapping around like the lesser mortals here.