Falstaff nearly had a seizure. He fell off the steps in his haste to get away from Ace.The junkie didn’t budge.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Falstaff said in confusion. He stumbled to his unsteady feet.
Ace leapt up, certain now that he had the wino’s attention. “The man, right? The man called me a killer.What do you think about that, huh?”
The wino recovered his presence of mind and made a theatrical bow. “I’m deeply moved.”
“Damn straight,” Ace said. “A killer. With a .45. The fucking Ladykiller.”
“How thrilling for you,” Falstaff said, wiping his face with a large dirty handkerchief. Still wary of Ace, he sat back down beside the junkie.
Ace regarded Falstaff skeptically. “You jiving on me, man?”
“Heaven forfend.”
Ace smiled slyly and slowly reached into the junkie’s pocket. Falstaff was transfixed. Ace slowly pulled out a dirty cloth, which he unwrapped to reveal a used hypodermic needle. The wino stopped wiping his face and looked at him in fear. Ace very slowly made a fist around the hypodermic, raising the exposed needle aloft like a knife. The wino’s attention was riveted to his every move. “I could do him,” Ace whispered, “like I done all them others.”
Falstaff watched, silent, horrified, fascinated, as Ace stood over the hapless junkie. Ace froze, his arm raised directly over his prey.
The big man collected his wits and lurched to his feet. “Ace, easy does it — don’t — please.” Falstaff backed away for a few feet, then he turned and ran awkwardly.
Ace stayed in his pose for a second, smiling. He dropped the needle and called after the retreating wino, “But I ain’t got my gun with me.”
Flushed with the gratifying response to his demonstration of mastery, Ace set forth down 42nd Street with some of his old swagger. Until Jackie Why jumped out in front of him and ran him into a doorway.
Holding Ace against the wall by his throat, the pimp reached down with his other hand and grabbed Ace’s balls and gave them a cruel squeeze. Ace squeaked like a mouse.
“Today’s Saturday, babes,” Jackie snarled. “You owe me a chunk of change, I do recall.Where the fuck is it?”
“The cops screwed me up, Jackie,” Ace said in a tight voice. “I can get it next week. Don’t hurt me.”
“Ordinarily, Ace-hole, I would hurt you real bad.” Jackie released him. “But on account of you’re a celebrity, I’ll give you the time. One catch: You owe me double.” He smoothed Ace’s ratty jacket. “But a vicious killer like you ought to have no problem arranging the green.” He chortled and left Ace there, holding his crotch.
Ace wheezed up to a pay phone and pumped in a quarter.When they answered at the crisis center, he asked for Nita Bergstrom.
“You heard?”
Nita was not in a good humor. “Don’t call me here. Are you totally stupid?”
“I have to see you,” Ace whined.
“Tonight.” She hung up.
For Nita, concentration was virtually impossible. The staff meetings and client counseling sessions and paperwork all blurred by her.What did Ace’s release mean? It had been negligent of her not to instruct Ace in the operation and maintenance of the .45. There simply had been no time.
Her real mistake, she knew, was underestimating Dillon.
Dave Dillon was waiting in the conference room with Dr. Solomon. The black woman detective was there too.The staff assembled slowly. “I’m afraid that since the murderer is still at large,” Dr. Solomon said, “that we must continue to help the police with their investigation. Megan, you are requested to accompany Detective Dillon on more of his interviews. And Nita, we’ll need you to help Detective Loud here go through the rest of the files to see if we can find any mention of the victims.”
“Dr. Solomon, I protest,” Nita said. “We don’t have time to go off on all these paper chases and Chinese fire drills. Our clients have suffered enough from this charade.”
Dr. Solomon’s resolve withered before her. “Well, um, perhaps you have a point, Nita. Uh, maybe next week. Or —”
“No way,” Dave said forcefully. “I can get a court order in a half hour. And the publicity stemming from your reluctance to help us catch this killer will do your crisis center no good, I assure you.”
“Oh, my,” Dr. Solomon said. “How awkward —”
“Fine,” Nita said. “If the detective won’t admit he was wrong about the crisis center, we’ll indulge him.”
“Megan, let’s go,” Dave snapped.
The staff trudged out. Nita led Jamie to the file cabinets. “Here. I don’t have time to help right now. Please leave everything in order, and please do not lose any of the files.We’ve had some trouble in that regard with you people.”
“You got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” Jamie said.
“Detective, I have no idea what a woman of your obvious intelligence is doing on the police force.” Jamie raised her eyebrows and Nita watched her appraisingly. She took a deep breath and decided to take a flyer. “But I wish you’d put your talents to work on Detective Dillon. He’s making an ass of himself with my vulnerable young friend.”
Jamie, prepared to lash into Nita, brought herself up short. “What do you know about Dave and me?”
“Only what I see.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“What’s obvious is that you’re a better woman for him than poor little Megan ever could be. I’d like to see you get him.”
Jamie laughed, partly at the sharpness of Nita’s insight, partly at how rapidly the social worker had disarmed her. “Girl, I tried every trick in the book on him. But he’s wrapped up in the case. And when that’s not going on, he’s wrapped up in your friend. I can’t fight it. Time to move on.”
“You’re wrong. If she doesn’t suffer a relapse, I believe Megan is cured. He’ll want a woman to bounce back with.” She gave Jamie a sly, why-not smile.
“Better buckle up,” Dave said as Megan settled beside him in the unmarked car. He started the car. “We’re meeting a friend of Lydia Daniels. Another hooker, named Carla. What struck me was that Lydia was wearing a coat much too long for her the night she died. Her pimp, a nasty piece of work called Jackie Why, said Lydia had no other friends, but we asked around and found this woman, Carla. A tall woman. Carla is no fan of the police, which is one reason you can be a big help here.”
Megan nodded.“I’ll try.”
The dark blonde hooker sat waiting for them in a booth at a seedy coffee shop.There were only a few other patrons, hunched over their coffee or sleeping on the Formica counter. The counterman, who showed hair sprouting from every orifice and patch of skin, was busy reading the racing form.
Even seated, Carla was tall. “You got my coat?”
Dave handed her a bundle as he slid along the cracked Naugahyde seat all the way to the window. “We don’t need this anymore. It’s been dry-cleaned.” Megan sat down beside Dave.
“Any blood on it?” Carla asked as she ripped open the paper package.
“Not now,” Dave said. “Dry cleaner did a good job.”
Carla swiped the package onto the floor. “Ick. I don’t need no coat been doused in blood. Uh-huh. I’ll get me a new coat.”
“You’re aware that she tested positive for HIV?” Dave said.
“Lover, are you paying me for my time?” Carla said. “Time is money, honey, and Jackie likes us girls to keep up the cash flow.”
Dave grimaced. “Not in the budget, Carla. Sorry. We hoped you’d help us out because Lydia was your friend.”
“Sweetcakes, the only friend I got is named Jack Daniels,” Carla said. She started sliding out of the booth. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be moving along.”
“Sit down,” Dave growled.
“Darling, unless you’re arresting me, I don’t have to talk to you,” Carla said. “So, toodles.”
“She went to the West Side Crisis Center, didn’t she?” Megan asked.
Carla jer
ked a thumb at Megan. “Who’s this, Dillon? Little Bo-Peep?”
“I’m a caseworker at the crisis center,” Megan said. “Apparently, this killer is preying on our people. We’ve got to stop him. He killed Lydia. He killed a friend of mine, and he’ll go on butchering innocent people if we don’t find him.”
Dave, surprised as much by what Megan said as by the passion with which she said it, stared at her.
Carla stopped sliding out of the booth. She sat opposite Megan now. “Did you know her? Lydia?”
“I don’t think I did. We get a lot of clients. And we suspect that she wore a disguise anyhow. Many people are ashamed to be seen coming there.”
“She did,” Carla said. “Put on this funny Tina Turner wig. She was scared that Jackie would find out. Jackie, he don’t like nobody messing with his girls’ heads. If he heard that Lydia was bitching about him to somebody, that girl would be dead meat.”
Dave started to ask a question, but Megan held up a hand to silence him. Then she asked exactly what Dave wanted to know: “What social worker did she see at the crisis center?”
“She never told me. She was real secretive.Whoever, this person had a real hold over her. Lydia thought this caseworker was God. Lydia did a lot of her tricks raw — like, without the condom — and this caseworker told her she was spreading AIDS. Lydia didn’t believe the test, so she kept accepting the hot shots. Guys like it better, see?”
“Did Lydia say who she was going to meet the night she died, Carla?” Megan asked.
“She said she had an important date. And it was no trick. That’s all I know.”
Outside the coffee shop, the hooker moved her tall frame into the spring afternoon. Dave smiled at Megan in admiration. “You did great in there.Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Megan smiled. “It pays to be nice to people.”
“Hey, Megan, I’m crazy about you. I want to be really nice to you.”
“I’d like that.”
“Do you like music?”
She nodded.
“There’s some great music I want you to hear. With me.” He ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and scribbled an address. “Tonight. Eight o’clock. Meet me on this corner and we’ll walk. How about it? Then I’ll fix you dinner.You like steak?” He seemed boyishly eager, needy. She couldn’t stop smiling. “Please come.”
Megan accepted the notebook paper and put it in her purse. “I don’t know,” she said with a small laugh, “I’m not sure I should be alone with you in your apartment.”
“My cat will chaperone.”
Megan caught herself giggling like a schoolgirl. And as she walked off into the skipping beat of the avenue, she felt the warmth of Dave’s eyes on her. She thought it was just as well that she had the afternoon off — she had to register for courses at Hunter — and wouldn’t encounter Nita.
Ace slunk into the Foxy Lady.Tony Topnut spotted him and bellowed, “Take cover, it’s the Ladykiller.” A few of the regulars erupted in a maelstrom of hoots and catcalls. They pelted Ace with bar coasters and wadded-up napkins.
But Ace found who he was after. Billy Ray Battle sat at the far end of the bar, wearing his eyepatch and sipping his beer.
“What the fuck do you want, dickbrain?” Billy Ray said.
“Billy Ray,” Ace said, at a loss for words.
“You and me got the distinction of being Ladykiller-for-a-day,” Billy Ray said. “Ain’t that sweet shit?”
“I need your advice.”
“If I ever cross paths with that Dillon again, I’ll boil his ass for breakfast.That’s a natural fact.”
“You’re good at handling women,” Ace went on. “Guy like you, the chicks go nuts. Listen, I got this, like, problem. I been seeing this real crazy bitch. And I mean, nuts. Fact is, she scares the shit out of me. She wanted me to do something, and I fucked up. Now she wants me to meet her tonight.”
“Simple.” Billy Ray burped. “Don’t show up.”
“Not that simple,” Ace said. “I got a real thing for her. I got to go. I got to hear what she says.”
“You fucking this bitch?”
“Well, uh, sure. But she’s crazy, man. I never can predict what crazy, wild-ass shit she’ll pull.”
“Let me guess,” Billy Ray said. “You want me to be your bodyguard.That it?”
“Yeah, uh, I guess you could, sort of — Uh-huh.” “She pretty?”
“Pretty?” Ace said. “She’s a walking wet dream.” Billy Ray licked his lips. “Good. I like them pretty.”
Nita had a while between the end of her long day at the crisis center and the start of her shift on the hotline. Tim would be her partner tonight. She realized she hadn’t heard from Megan and wondered how her friend had fared with Detective Dillon. Nita called Megan’s home and got her machine.
“Called to say hi. Nothing important.Wanted to hear how course registration went today.And of course, how your gumshoe work went with the red-light district’s favorite dick. Why don’t we have dinner tonight before my shift?”
Realizing she needed some air, Nita went for a walk. Evening was about to settle in.The street moved at an underwater pace. She passed the building where she had shot Reuben. Bloodstains were still visible. If only that fool hadn’t disrupted her plans, how much easier her progress would be. And she never should have used Ace for a deceptive ploy. She could almost hear her father telling her that she wasn’t as good as she thought.
The weight of the .45 seemed extra heavy in her bag. Tonight would be the first time firing this weapon. She had taken it apart, cleaned and oiled it, inspected every part, and dry-fired it — no bullets — repeatedly. Tonight, she would set matters right. Her feet clicked resolutely along the sidewalk.
Then, once again, she heard the steps behind her. Right behind her. Keeping time with her. Mocking her.
She whirled around.
Nobody. Down the street, a dust devil of spring air whirled scraps of paper about in a teasing spiral.
Megan couldn’t help herself. She walked up to the designated corner feeling heady, both guilty and excited at the same time. Dave was waiting for her, leaning against his illegally parked car and watching her approach with frank admiration. She noted with relief that he wasn’t wearing a tie. She had agonized over what to wear and decided on a simple but stylish sweater dress that could go to a concert or a jazz club with equal aplomb.
Dave kissed her quickly.The glint in his eye was enough to make her tingle as the memory of that night flooded her senses. She shook her head to clear it, sending her reddish curls bouncing.
“Well, where are we going?”
“Right here,” Dave replied teasingly and bowed and stretched out his hand to usher her down a subway entrance.
“But you said we were going to walk there,” Megan said, confused. “And your car’s right here.”
“We are going to walk.Trust me.”
Megan marched obediently down the dank concrete stairway. Dave followed her. He was clearly enjoying his little game.
A train was roaring through the local station on the express tracks, and without trying to talk over the deafening roar, Dave handed Megan a token with a small flourish. She accepted it with a puzzled look and went through the turnstile onto the platform.
There was a small knot of patrons clustered at one end of the platform. Dave touched her elbow to steer her toward them. The sound of the express train’s noisy passage died away in the distance and was replaced by the sweetest sound Megan thought she had ever heard. She forgot her problems. She forgot the rank smells and crude graffiti-strewn walls of her immediate environs. She walked toward the voice.
When she reached the small crowd, she saw a short, fat black woman in African dress and lots of colorful jewelry singing a sad French song a cappella. The lovely voice in the natural echo chamber of the subway took on a rich, vibrant quality.The hairs stood up on the back of Megan’s neck. She barely breathed.The only coherent thought that crossed her mind was that th
is was what Edith Piaf must have sounded like.
Without interrupting her song the woman smiled and nodded at Dave who gave a small wave. Megan was brought back to her surroundings and took his arm and gave it a squeeze of gratitude.The slightly mournful song ended just as a train pulled into the station.
A few of the listeners got on the train, several of them pausing to put money in a basket at the singer’s feet. At least one was wiping away a tear. Much of the audience did not budge and Megan realized that they must be regulars. Dave too.The singer came up to Dave and put her hands on his face to pull him down and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. She smiled at Megan, who blushed as if she had been introduced to an angel.
As the train roared away, the singer returned to the center of the circle of her fans and spoke in a lilting island patois. “I’d like to dedicate this song to my friends and to lovers everywhere.”
She began to sing again, an achingly beautiful French love song. Megan leaned against Dave when he put his arm around her and listened, her eyes brimming.
When Dave unlocked his door, Megan produced a bottle of Chianti from her large shoulder bag and handed it to him.
“Great.Thanks. But first, let me introduce my roommate.”
But the cat already had sashayed up to Megan and rubbed her legs. Delighted, she picked it up and cuddled it. The cat purred with engine-room-level happiness.
“A cat person,” Dave smiled approvingly.
“And a music person,” Megan said warmly.
“My mother didn’t like either, so I’m making up for it,” Dave said. He uncorked the wine, which gave a merry pop.
“How is your mom?” Megan asked as she rubbed cheeks with the cat.
“Better. She cursed the mailman from her bedroom window today. Always a good sign. I marinated the steaks to a fare-thee-well. How do you like yours?”
“Bloody,” she said.
He smiled widely. “Me too.” As if their concurrence on cooking beef portended other, more delicious, similarities.
They sat on the couch and drank Megan’s wine. The cat sat between them and they took turns stroking it. Their conversation was fun and lively. Sometimes, they just smiled at each other for no good reason.
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