Ladykiller

by Lawrence Light

  “Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Ace lately?”

  The fellow leered at her. “What’s with the shades, honey? Afraid I’ll fall in love with your beautiful eyes?”

  “I need to find Ace.”

  “I seen you before, baby.You was in there yesterday.”

  Nita peered into the bar’s darkness. “Where’s Ace now?”

  “Heard about Billy Ray?”

  Nita forced herself not to flinch. “Who?”

  “Friend of Ace got stabbed and unloaded over in Jersey.”

  “Really?” Nita remained composed.

  The man laughed until the phelgm collected in his throat. He spat an oyster-size wad onto the sidewalk. “Humps like Billy Ray get iced every day.” He shrugged philosophically.

  “Where’s Ace?”

  “Oh, I seen the little bastard all right. Said he needed money ’cuz he had to get out of town quick. So what does he do? He grabbed a couple hundred from my cash register when my back was turned. Wasn’t too long ago. I imagine he already hopped a bus.”

  “Really?”The Port Authority bus terminal lay a mere block away. She felt the lump of the .45 in her bag.

  “What you want with Ace, anyway? Don’t tell me he knocked you up.” He guffawed evilly.

  “Hardly.” Nita strode along the sidewalk to the bus depot. Port Authority was a remarkably clean palace of ramps and concessions, despite the riffraff that slithered all around her. And then Nita saw him.

  Ace saw her, too. He swung his game leg around and hobbled into the crowd.

  Think now.Think. Nita went after him. She slid a hand in her bag and gripped the reassuring steel cool of the gun butt. Think. She had to get him alone, but the terminal was packed with humanity. Any cops around? No. Think. If she shot Ace in public, people probably would be shocked enough that she could get away before the police showed up. Maybe.Yet she was on unfamiliar turf. What if she fled in the wrong direction and trapped herself in some cul-de-sac corridor, as the cops swarmed behind? Think.

  With everyone up to Reuben and Billy Ray, she had had time to plan.With Reuben and Billy Ray, she had improvised out of necessity. And it had worked. Maybe she should trust her instincts now.

  Ace’s head bobbed ahead. She was closing on him, threading through the baggage-laden crowd. She bumped her knees on luggage and kept gripping the .45 in her bag. Then Ace, five people ahead, broke free and dodged to the left. Nita swiveled to follow, and a soft, huge mountain of flesh sent her staggering against someone else’s back.

  “Watch where you going, girl,” said the mountainous woman who had bumped into Nita.

  Over there. Ace had mounted an escalator crammed with people. Nita stepped onto the rising grillwork. She and Ace watched each other, unable to move. When the escalator disgorged him at the top, Ace disappeared.

  When she reached the top, Nita turned about in a helpless circle, trying to find him. Ah. She spotted his narrow shoulders popping through a doorway.

  Nita sprinted over to the door. On the other side was a loading platform and a bus bearing the legend, NJ Transit. A last passenger — a feeble old man — was climbing onto the bus. A conductor helped him up.

  Nita impatiently waited behind the old codger, craning her neck to see past the dark glass of the bus. When at last the old man had negotiated the bus stairs, she tried to follow.

  “Excuse me, m’am,” the conductor said. “Ticket?”

  “I don’t have one,” she said, striving to maintain control when she wanted to scream at him to get out of the way. “I’ll buy one on the bus.”

  “I’m sorry,” the conductor said. “This run is sold out. Next bus leaves in an hour.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Not allowed. Sorry.” He started to get aboard the bus.

  “I have to get on the damn bus,” Nita shouted at him.

  The conductor paused. “If you have a problem, why don’t you discuss the matter with them.” He gestured at two cops who lounged against a nearby wall.

  Frustrated and furious, Nita stood on the concrete platform as the door sighed shut and the bus rumbled away.

  At the rear window, Ace’s face swam. The tinted glass removed the sallow cast of his skin. And pain showed on his bony face. He looked like a lonely youth whose only love had left him.

  If the cops weren’t there, Nita could have put a bullet right through his maggot-filled skull. She went back into the terminal.The sign beside the door to the loading platform said the bus was bound for Rahway.That’s where Ace came from, she remembered. Rahway.

  Nita, adrift in thought, headed for home through the darkened spring streets. A few others flitted past, flying empty flags of faces and hair, living their mundane lives.Think.

  Face it. Not every contingency could be planned for. Nita adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. Perhaps she was better off than she thought. There was no chance the cops could connect Billy Ray to the Ladykiller series. And Ace — well, he had left town, likely for good. His haunted expression in the bus window of thwarted love seemed like solid insurance he would stay silent, wherever he went. So she had time to track him down and take appropriate action.

  The steps sounded behind her. Right behind her. Just a few paces behind. Clip, clip, clip — in tandem with her gait. She speeded up. The steps increased their pace.

  Nita yanked the .45 out of her bag and whirled around. No one.

  She squinted into the shadows collected in the nearby doorways. No one.

  But someone had been there. She had always thought Ace was

  trailing her. He was on a bus to Rahway, though.

  Uneasily, she resumed walking. No steps now.

  At her apartment, the answering machine flashed one message. It

  was Megan: “Hi, it’s me. It’s about seven. I’ve got everything ready. Tell me when you’re coming over. Can’t wait.” Her good humor seemed forced.

  Nita considered backing out after the day she had had. But she smiled at the sound of Megan’s voice. She turned on the shower and stripped off her clothes.

  Nita had dressed up and put on make-up and a skirt. Megan greeted her at the door with a nervous smile. Her small table was set romantically, with roses and a candle. Megan was dressed up herself, and her strawberry hair shone in the candle’s moody flicker.

  “Wine?” Megan offered.

  “Please.This day has been hell.”

  Megan nodded, “I seldom hear you complain —” She cut herself

  off and said, “I’ll get the wine.”

  As Megan busied herself with the cork, Nita glanced around the small apartment. Nita noted with distaste the many stuffed animals on this grown woman’s bed. “You appear to have even more teddy bears than I remember.”

  “Oh, this guy at the doughnut shop down the street gave me the white one. Out of the blue, tonight when I was going past. I go in there a lot for coffee.” As she poured the wine, Nita noticed that Megan’s hands were trembling, and she missed the glass. Red wine stained the tablecloth like blood.

  “How interesting,” Nita said. “Who is he?”

  “A lawyer. On Wall Street. He’s very nice.” Megan finished pouring and clasped the bottle to her chest.

  “A lawyer,” Nita said. “That’s a higher rung than a cop on the social scale, I grant you.” Nita drank half her glass in one swallow. “A lawyer, eh? Of course, they’re all parasites. Feasting off human disorder. Doing nothing to make society function smoothly, to iron out the kinks.They create kinks. And make money doing it.”

  Megan’s laughter had a strangled quality. “Uh, yes, well, uh, he hasn’t exactly asked me out.”

  “He will, he will.You’re edgy. Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong.” Megan’s pleading look was painful to witness.

  “You’re seeing him again?”

  “Maybe. It’s not a big deal.” Megan rubbed the neck of the wine bottle. “I’d better check the pasta.”

  She retreated into the tiny k
itchen.

  Over dinner, they rapidly drank the first bottle and were well into the second as they ate their pasta. Megan rattled on about her upcoming courses at Hunter. As the wine took hold, she behaved less nervously.

  Rhythmic noises started overhead.

  Nita pointed toward the ceiling with her fork. “Who are the love birds?”

  “My neighbors.They’re a sweet couple.”

  The bed upstairs creaked savagely.

  Megan emptied the last of the second bottle into their glasses. “Nita, don’t you ever want . . .”

  “Want what?”

  The candlelight played over Megan’s awkward smile. “Want, like, you know, a man?”

  The thumping overhead speeded up.

  Nita took a long drink of wine. “Whenever the term ‘man’ comes into your head, think instead: ‘unneeded distraction.’ You’ll be a lot better for it.”

  “I guess,” Megan said, and poked at her pasta.

  The noise stopped overhead. Nita and Megan ate and drank without saying a word. Megan fetched the veal and uncorked a third bottle.

  “Delicious,” Nita said, tasting the veal. “Actually, lust is an urge that we can control.”

  “Love too?” Megan asked, feeling a little tipsy.

  Nita, while buzzed, had hardly lost her head. Bergstroms, her father had said, could drink when they had to. “Doesn’t exist. An illusion conjured up by weak minds.”

  At least Megan was too drunk to be nervous. “Nothing like a good man, with a nice smile and a nice bod and —” She took a drink. “Haven’t you ever wanted someone?”

  Nita reached across the table, took Megan’s wineglass from her, and held both the younger woman’s hands firmly. “Yes,” she said softly, “I have.”

  The next morning, with a boiling black mass of spring storms gathering, Jimmy Conlon ambushed Nita as she approached the crisis center. “Looks like rain,” he said.

  “Who are you?” Nita snapped, still walking.

  Jimmy smiled at her, captivated by her dark beauty. “Jimmy Conlon.We spoke yesterday.”

  “And I have no more to say today than I did then.” She had terrific legs and an amazing figure. “Goodbye.”

  “My sources tell me all the Ladykiller victims had a connection to your crisis center,” Jimmy said, keeping up with her. He had out his notepad and pen.

  “Do they? How inventive.”

  “And one of your, uh, psychologically challenged clientele is probably the killer, but you won’t let the cops interview anybody.”

  Nita stopped and faced him. “Who told you this?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t?” Nita was taller than Jimmy by half a head. “How very convenient. Didn’t people do this in Stalin’s time? Unnamed accusers?”

  “You’re denying it?” Jimmy asked politely.

  “I’m not giving you the courtesy of affirmation or denial because you don’t deserve either,” Nita said.

  “It’s not a question of what I do or don’t deserve,” Jimmy said. “I think the people of this city have a right to know what’s going on with this case.”

  “Right to know? Spare me. You wave that around and hope to compromise the therapy of our clients. You obviously know nothing about counseling. All you’ve done is scare the people of this city needlessly with all this baloney about a serial killer. But I suppose it sells newspapers.”

  “And you obviously know nothing about newspapers. Newspapers make their money from advertising, not newstand sales.”

  “I couldn’t care the least bit how you grub for your change,” Nita said. “You people are the scourge of society.You do no one any good. Someone should bring you under firm control.” Nita seemed to be in danger of losing some of her own control now.

  “Talk about Stalin,” Jimmy said. “That’s what he did. And his pal Hitler, too.”

  “The only heirs to Hitler and Stalin I see around here are Detective Dillon and his scurvy crew,” Nita said. “And certainly, you reporters are their propaganda arm.”

  “Lady,” Jimmy said, “the reality train just left the station and you weren’t on it.”

  “Oh, no? You used to write all the articles about this case, didn’t you? Suddenly, I notice another name on the latest story. I bet you’ve been bumped aside. I bet you are in trouble, like Dillon.”

  Flummoxed, Jimmy’s mind blinked off. All he could manage to say was: “What’s going on at the crisis center?”

  “I have no comment.” Nita began to walk away.

  “Hey, what’s that gun doing in your purse?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In your bag,” Jimmy said. “I plainly saw the butt of a pistol.Why are you packing? I bet it’s for protection. I bet it’s because you’re scared of your own clients.”

  “Now you’re imagining things,” Nita said icily. “Have you people no shame?”

  Like the song the white chicks used to sing when she was a teenager, Jamie did believe that pretty girls seemed to find out early how to open doors with just a smile. But the puffy-faced suburban police captain wasn’t buying.

  “Can’t let you inspect the body till a few things get straightened out between us and the NYPD,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” Jamie said. They sat in his steam-heated office with its view of the Bergen County courthouse. A picture of his large family was perched on his desk.

  “Your narcotics boys busted those humps in an apartment in Fort Lee — on our side of the river. They didn’t even notify us. Took them right back across the G.W. Bridge, like they were free to do what they pleased.”

  “I haven’t heard a word about it, captain,” Jamie said. “All I want is to go over the body.”

  “So tell me your interest in the case.”

  Blake had told Jamie to avoid mention of the Ladykiller investigation for fear of leaks, mainly to Mancuso. “Billy Ray Battle is a Manhattan resident who was released pending his assault trial.”

  “Big deal. Assault happens every minute in New York. I’m supposed to be impressed?”

  Rain clicked against the captain’s window like a scattering of pebbles. He turned his attention to the sky outside.

  “Please let me take a look at him, captain.”

  “You’re not telling me everything, miss.”

  “It’s detective, not miss.” She said it softly, bereft of umbrage. “Sorry.”

  “Listen,” Jamie said. “Maybe I can help you. While there’s this problem between our departments, nothing’s probably getting done. Is there some piece of information I can get you?”

  The captain brightened. “I got a list of fugitives who I believe are in the city.”

  “Deal. I’ll get you a status update. Once the mess is ironed out, we can pick them up for you.”

  “Step right this way,” he said.The rain’s beat steadily increased on the glass.

  The morgue had the familiar formaldehyde smell, covering other, even less pleasant odors. It was a cocoon of stark white walls and stainless steel tables, far from the rain and the outside living world. No one else was around.

  “Not as busy as the one I’m used to,” Jamie said.

  “I want to keep it like that,” the captain said. “No offense to the nation’s largest city, of course.”

  “Of course,” Jamie said.

  The captain himself pulled Billy Ray’s body out of the meat locker.The big man lay naked and gray on the slab, a tag around his big toe. Crude stitches from his groin to his throat gave evidence to the autopsy. His right eye was a stew of dried blood and matter.

  Jamie slipped on latex gloves and felt around Billy Ray’s ruined eye. “A knife, all right. Direct to the brain.You can tell where it sliced past the bone in the lower part of the eye socket.”

  “The perp had good aim. Vicious fucker. See the damage to the guy’s nuts? Our guess is that the perp squeezed his nuts, then, when he bent over, zapped him in the eye with the blade.”

  Jamie co
uld tell that the captain was impressed she showed no squeamishness.The first time she saw a corpse, she had puked.This was the umpteenth time. Although the suburban captain was twenty years older than her, Jamie felt sure she had seen many more dead bodies. “He was found naked?”

  “As the day he was born.”

  “No evidence of sexual activity?”

  The captain shook his head. “His anus hadn’t been ruptured. No sign of semen in his penis that we could find. When he went out, his bladder opened, so it might have washed away the semen. But I doubt it.”

  She peered at Billy Ray’s neck and arms. “No indication of ropes or any other restraint.”

  “Not a one.”

  Jamie turned Billy Ray’s death-stiff hands up to the fluorescent light. “Is this writing on his palm?”

  “Yeah. It’s numbers. He spent the night in the ditch, which means he got a little wet and a lot of the ink washed away. But you can kind of read them.”

  Jamie copied down the numbers. “Seems to be a phone number. Seven characters, with a dash after the first three. Hard to say if that’s a four or a nine. Or if that’s a one or a seven.”

  The captain moved close to Jamie and squinted at Billy Ray’s palm. “I’d say it’s a seven. No, wait. A one.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “You doing anything tonight?”

  Jamie smiled. Maybe the song was right, after all. “Captain, I like you.And I have dated white men.And I even have dated married men. But a married white man?”

  “It’s definitely not a seven. Seven’s my lucky number.”

  Ace limped into the solemn, textured dark of his old pool hall, where he first had learned how to lose money. It had a half-dozen tables, their felt tops as green as fresh dollar bills.The click and thunk of balls fired his memories, good and bad. The cream of Rahway’s layabouts had fled here to escape the rain that had soaked Ace’s greasy hair and invaded his collar.

  “Where’s Big John?” he asked.

  Ivan was the first to recognize him. But the greeting wasn’t right for a returning celebrity. “Holy shit. Look what the cat dragged in. Ace Fucking Cronen.”

  Ace shook hands with him. “Where’d Big John get to?” Super Hooper glanced up from the shot he was about to make. The ash from his cigarette fell to the felt and exploded in a soft heap of gray. “How about that.The big, bad Ladykiller hisself.”