The Serialist

by David Gordon

  “Fuck.”

  It was the security guard from Toner’s factory. Dani rolled her window down.

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, but you folks looking for someone?”

  “No. We were just sitting here,” she said. “That all right?”

  “Well, you were seen driving by before, so that’s all.”

  “Seen?”

  “On the security cameras.” He pointed and we all peered at the cameras mounted on the posts of the fence.

  Claire said, “Hold on,” into her phone, and leaned into the front to face the guard. “Well, that sign says no parking on Thursday and this is Friday, so that’s OK, right?”

  “No problem, miss.” He smiled stiffly and touched his cap in a sort of ironic salute. “Just checking. Have a nice night.”

  We watched him walk back across the street and through the gate, which shut behind him.

  “That was weird,” she said.

  “Let’s go,” Dani said. “That guy gave me the creeps.”

  “And you know what else is strange?” I started the car. “Don’t freak out, but I keep seeing this black car following us. I think it’s the cops. Or the feds.”

  “I know,” Dani said. “I keep seeing it too.”

  “Me too,” Claire added from the back.

  There was one more thing on my mind that I did not mention: Dora Giancarlo was next on our list for tomorrow. I’d been thinking about this eventuality since our morbid tour of Darian’s high spots began, and I knew that this had to play into Dani’s insistence on accompanying me. Nevertheless, we had avoided all discussion of the topic. Nor did we say anything about it that night, on the ride from the factory to her place, where she declined my invitation to join us for a bite. When I tried to kiss her good-bye, she gave me her cheek.

  “Cold-shouldered you again, huh?” Claire asked. She hopped up front and I watched her buckle her belt before pulling out.

  “You noticed.”

  “Yeah. I also noticed one of her socks jammed between the back seats.”

  I winced. “Sorry.”

  “So I take it she wasn’t so cold last night. Not too cold to take her clothes off.”

  “Well, they weren’t exactly off. Maybe she is shy around you.”

  “Shy? She’s a polecat. That’s not her problem.”

  I headed toward White Castle, which Claire had requested for dinner, another reason Dani might have declined. The silence ticked by. I could feel Claire looking at me.

  “OK, what?” I asked.

  “Not to be blunt, but you’re kind of dense so . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look, Dani’s an OK person, but she’s got some kind of weird fixation on the murders and her sister and all. It’s not you that she’s turned on by. It’s him.”

  55

  Dani’s sister had been living on the Lower East Side. She had a scholarship to study acting and singing and she modeled for extra cash. We drove past her old building on Clinton Street and then up through the sprawl of NYU, which seemed to spread like an anthill, colonizing the once wild territory of downtown New York and filling it with drones. Even twelve years before, when Dora lived here, the neighborhood had lost much of its menace. In the 1990s, gentrification swept out the drug dealers and thieves along with the poor people, artists and minorities, and Dora should have been safer than at any previous time in New York history. Perhaps she was just unlucky, or perhaps prosperity and an influx of fresh, eager youngsters drew its own more insidious brand of predator.

  It was in one of the student lounges that they thought Dani’s sister might have seen the poster offering generous pay for models plus free prints for their portfolios. She called him from her apartment and then, on February 9, 1997, she headed out to Queens to meet Darian Clay.

  “At least that’s what they think,” Dani said, sitting beside me in traffic while Claire, I now realized, only pretended to ignore us from the back. “That’s all based on what she told my parents. She didn’t say a name or anything. Just that she was going to pose for some photographer the next day and that it was no big deal moneywise but she was hoping to get some good shots for her book. Or else they think maybe he approached her in a coffee shop or even on campus. People approached her all the time, you know, because of her looks.” Here she frowned in embarrassment, realizing she was describing herself as well. “She was a lot more outgoing than me, very charismatic. That’s why she was the star.” She laughed. “Well, that and talent. Anyway, he got her out there somehow to pose for those pictures.”

  “You saw them?” Claire asked. Dani looked back and gave her a small smile.

  “Not any bloody ones, no. But I saw the regular ones, the ones they found in Clay’s studio and that he claimed they did willingly. The cops showed them to us to ID her. They were just regular pictures. But somehow I felt there was something about them, about her. They made me sad. But then of course they did, right? After the fact. The truth is, I hadn’t seen her in a few years or my parents. I was living out in San Francisco and only came back when I heard she was gone. When I saw those pictures, I felt bad for her suddenly. I remembered all the pictures and videos of her everywhere in our house growing up, the singing and dancing lessons, the lines we’d have to hear her recite for practice at dinner, the photos she did for her first head shots, with makeup and hair and all, her first jobs, seeing her smiling in some pajamas in a catalog, all of which my mother cut out and kept and who knows what my dad did with it later, and instead of feeling jealous or resentful or condescending like before, I just felt sad for her, that she had to go through what she did. All of it. Not just the end. And I’m sure it’s like you said, it’s what happens later that makes the past seem sad, seem destined, like the sadness of what is going to happen is there already, when it’s us who put it in, we who are alive to know what happened, but still when I look at those pictures of her young and staring into the camera like that, I think poor girl, you poor poor girl.”

  56

  From Whither Thou Goest, O Slutship Commander chapter 7:

  “Bedtime” in zero-gravity. The Timespace Wellness Guide recommends rotating the viewscreen away from the nearest sun and toward those farther out, the tiny cracks and pinholes in the worn black dome of the universe. It also prescribes Storytime as a before-sleep ritual. Not only does this help regulate the bio-clock, it also provides material for dreams during the prolonged centuries of REM, reducing the incidence of space-mares, epic bad dreams in suspended animation that leave the sleeper confused, exhausted and occasionally mad. While true psycho-breaks were relatively rare, many awoke in their ipods to find their pillows drenched in tears or their skin scratched raw. Hours or even days were spent reconstructing what was real, after a decades-long dream involving dead relatives and monsters. Commercial travelers even prerecorded video-chips to remind themselves who they were.

  Tonight I rest my head in Polyphony’s lap while she combs out my ponytail, trims my beard and ear hair and, as we journey across time toward the far star our charts call Sol, soothes me with an old, familiar tale:

  “There once was a Zorgon Artisan (Ninth Degree) named Rufus Camilius, who had a small workshop in downtown Mylar, in the old Pleasure Center, where he built sex-droids and lived in the back with his beautiful daughter, Clio. His skills were unsurpassed, his flesh work especially was amazing, and it was said that the Duke of Drago himself carried a piece of Rufus’s butt skin in his pocket, as a kind of charm, and that during the long cold march to Swampland and all through the great battle of Dork, he would reach down and stroke it for comfort. Nevertheless, fashion changes, and Rufus found that the vogue was no longer for finely made androids. Genetic engineering was all the rage and everyone wanted mass-produced clones. Science was the future, and no one appreciated high art or old-fashioned craftsmanship. Poor little Clio lived on a bowl of gruel a day, while Rufus was reduced to chewing scraps of his own once-vaunted skin to ward off hunger pangs. Though he had many offer
s to sell comely young Clio, he had always refused for sentimental reasons, but now it seemed inevitable. Then he had an idea: combine the ancient art of android design with the new science of genetic cloning. It was his last, daring hope. He melted down all the flesh in his workshop, stripped the circuits from his own prosthetic foot, and while she slept, plucked a golden hair from the head of his daughter. Then he labored, without sleep or food, day and night until he produced his first model, the Clio II.

  “It was a hit. He sold many Clios and soon rolled out the second part of his plan. He approached celebrities, top performers from the Satellite Casinos or the Holo-Tube and licensed their genetic material. Now anyone with enough money could keep his or her favorite actor, singer or politician as a sex slave. Rufus prospered greatly. He built a fine house and dressed his daughter in beautiful gowns. They feasted on mutton and fresh space-mold every night.

  “Then, late one evening, an unmarked hydro-carriage arrived at the door, and Rufus received a visit from none other than High Lord Malodour, disguised in a black hood and cape. He was deep in mourning. His beloved wife, Lady Plumm, had died and he was going mad with grief. He offered any price, as well as all his influence and protection, if Rufus would do him one service. He opened a velvet case and removed one of Lady Plumm’s hairs.

  “Well, what could Rufus do? To disobey Malodour was certain death. So he returned to his workshop and produced an exact replica of the High Lord’s lady, asking only that he promise to keep her locked in his dungeon at all times. The High Lord’s gratitude was immense. He showered Rufus with riches and favor. But all for naught. The die was cast, and from then on, Rufus’s life was a torment, for just a few days later, there came another knock on the door. This time a Prince of the Blood, whose fair maiden had perished in a dragon accident, was there on his steps, holding all that was left of her, a dainty right hand on a satin pillow. What could Rufus do but obey the Prince? Then a spice merchant from the outer Pleiades came begging. His beloved boy slave Bono was gone, having fallen in love with a passing star minstrel and fled. He threatened to expose Rufus if he did not grant his request. Rufus reluctantly agreed. One after another they came, an endless stream of the heartbroken and bereft, those whose beloveds had left them, or betrayed them, or simply turned them down. Then at last, one dawn, Count Stark, a famous knight and lute composer, arrived with a chest full of jewels.

  “ ‘What is it?’ asked the weary Rufus. ‘Has she died? Left you?’

  “ ‘No,’ said the sorrowful knight. ‘She is there, right now, in my bed at home. But she is different than when I met her. She has changed . . .’ ”

  57

  The next day, Dani, Claire and I initiated Phase Two of my plan (Phase One of which had so far yielded nothing whatsoever): revisit the homes of the more recent victims, those whom I’d already seen, and discover some pattern or link that would connect them to the past murders. The one minor hitch was that, since the dead girls’ apartments were still considered crime scenes, and since I was a suspect in those same crimes, our police escort might not be as discreet and accommodating as before.

  And so, on a bright, clear, cold spring morning, Madam Sibylline Lorindo-Gold emerged from her chamber once more. I was in full Mom drag this time—black dress, stockings, everything except the shoes. Claire had pushed for the heels but there was no way I could even get my mom’s orthopedics on, so I was wearing the only high black shoes I owned, combat boots. My face was hidden behind foundation thick as spackle, cherry red lipstick, eyeliner and blush. My eyelids were midnight blue.

  Dani and I gathered our belongings, including a small overnight bag with my normal clothes. Claire kept watch by the window.

  “There he is,” she called out, her head in the curtains. “Black sedan at ten o’clock.”

  “Where’s ten o’clock?”

  “That hydrant across the street.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  Dani made a call on her cell. “OK, it’s a go,” she said into the phone. “Black cop car in front of the hydrant on your left.” She shut the phone. “Let’s do it.”

  “Good luck,” Claire called from under the drapes. Her sneakered feet twitched excitedly.

  “Right.” I put my black straw hat on, the one with the little roses, and we went.

  Down in the lobby, I gave Dani the suitcase I’d been carrying and took the rubber-tipped cane, but we didn’t go out yet. We waited at the door. Then from up the block we heard it. Like sonic depth charges were going off in the sewer beneath us. Like Godzilla was stomping over after eating Brooklyn.

  “There he is,” Dani said, and there he was, in a gold Caddy Coupe with wire rims, that huge bass thumping out the ass. RX738 to the rescue. He rolled up and stopped, double-parking right in front of the cop. Then we stepped outside, Dani holding the door and then taking my arm while I leaned on the cane and pretended to be an old arthritic woman. Together we strolled to her rusty Datsun parked down the street. She unlocked her passenger door and helped me in. As she went around her side, I looked in the rearview and saw our shadow, the cop or agent, yet another white man in black sunglasses, arguing with RX.

  “Here we go,” I said to Dani as she got in. She peeked into her side view.

  Meanwhile, RX got out, even bigger than I remembered, six feet three with a ’fro like a hedgerow planted on his head, and invited the skinny young cop out for a talk. As Dani started the engine, I saw the chat grow heated. The white boy waved his arms and RX closed in on him. The white boy waved his badge and RX laughed. Then the white boy waved a gun.

  “Fuck,” I said. “This is bad. I think we should abort.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, putting the car into gear. “Rex has it covered.”

  Still without any visible hurry or worry, RX stepped back, raised his open hands, and turned to place them on the roof of the car. As Dani pulled into the street, I watched a passenger I hadn’t noticed get out of the Caddy, a heavyset white man in a dark blue pinstriped suit. He also had his arms raised in surrender, but one of them was holding a business card.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “His lawyer,” Dani said, as we drove away.

  “God bless lawyers,” I said. “If I ever get rich, I’m buying one.”

  She kept it slow to the corner, as the little scene behind us shrank in the mirror, then stepped on the gas as we pulled onto Northern Boulevard. I changed into my male clothes and scrubbed my face with a Handi Wipe while we headed into the city, to Horatio Street and the home of Morgan Chase.

  We cruised down her block and then around again, looking for parking and lurking cops. But no one was watching. It was like nothing had ever happened. A UPS truck puttered down the street and a cabbie leaned on his horn. Young mothers pushed militaristic strollers over the uneven sidewalk. Spring, it seemed, had even chosen this block to throw its welcome party. The budding trees were unfolding rice-paper hearts and butterflies, and with each breath of wind, dazzling armfuls of this confetti fell on the parade of parked cars, on the man in the suit with the cell phone, on the old lady with the two canes, rubber-tipped like mine. Morgan’s building was still easy to break into, but the apartment door was locked and sealed with that police tape.

  “Now what?” Dani asked, brushing a little white seedling from her hair.

  “I bet the window’s open, to air the place. We could try the fire escape.”

  So we trooped up to the roof, went to the rear of the building, and clambered back down the fire escape as quietly as possible. Luckily it was a weekday morning and the other apartments’ windows were shut, blinds drawn. No one was watching. Morgan’s window was open six inches or so, with only a thin curtain drifting behind it. I pushed it up and climbed through. Dani came in behind me.

  The apartment had been cleaned, sort of. The blood-soaked mattress and box spring were gone, along with all the bedding. The bed’s skeleton, with its steel frame and a ribbed headboard curving up, looked like an abstract sculpture, a trap
or a chariot, and no longer a nest. The floor underneath it had been scoured till the finish was scratched off and was lighter than the surrounding wood. Nevertheless, all these attempts to remove the traces of the crime only made the room seem more haunted. I thought of the porn story I wrote for Clay about her, the scene that took place in this room.

  Of course the police had been through the place with tweezers and a magnifying glass, but we rummaged around anyway, looking for something that would somehow connect to something else, or appear newly meaningful in the light of the nothing much we’d seen before. It didn’t work. Dani became morbidly absorbed in an old family photo album while I discovered many rows of small glass jars, each filled with dried herbs and labeled in an elegant hand. Morgan was a rigorous lady, all right. The silverware drawer looked like a surgeon’s tray and even the dishtowels were perfectly folded and stacked like unread newspapers. But none of this had protected her. Danger had found its way into her life through the secret crack in her heart. Desire was lawless and obeyed no one. Or perhaps it was the other way around: desire was the final law under which all others broke.

  We left through the door, dipping under the police tape and letting the lock click shut behind us. Then we drove up the West Side and out to New Jersey. All along the river and the highway, I saw trees raise their colored heads like flags, into the wind, as if marking the path to the Fontaines’ lawn, which was covered in the dogwood’s blazing pink.