Murder in Times Square

by Mykola Dementiuk

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  Murder in Times Square

  by Mykola Dementiuk

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  Erotica/Mystery/Crime

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  eXtasy eBooks

  www.extasybooks.com

  Copyright ©2010 by Mykola Dementiuk

  First published in 2010, 2010

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

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  All he thought he wanted that weekend was some flirting, some excitement and a little sex on the side, but he was trapped when he walked into Connie's arms. A young woman who happened to be not a lover, but a killer who used men like her empty bottles of booze, discarded as another was picked up and drained. Glug...glug...glug...

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Murder in Times Square

  Copyright (C) 2010 Mykola Dementiuk

  ISBN: 978-1-55487-694-5

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  www.eXtasybooks.com

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  Murder in Times Square

  * * * *

  By

  * * * *

  Mykola Dementiuk

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  * * *

  Chapter One

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  Connie was a dizzy broad who was always giggling or laughing yet in a way, was dangerous, too, enough to make me slightly dizzy and nuts that I still shake my head at her memory. Was the hot summer of ‘69 that I first saw her. I still recall the subway walkway in that morass of tunnels that are in the Times Square station. She was walking in front of me up the stairs and slightly bending over. I was stooping down behind her for a better look of her ass under her skirt. I had a hard-on rising in my pants before she straightened up again and turned around, wickedly smiling and staring at me as I took a few more steps up toward her. I was very red-faced. Yet did I see what she was showing me? Of course I did, wanting to pull my dick out and have her give me a sucking right there and then. But it was a quiet subway station and though no one was around, we stood on those steps as if something was going to happen and we were just eager for it to occur.

  “How you doin'?” I hesitantly asked, hoping she was as friendly as she seemed.

  “Doin’ okay.” She giggled and shrugged, turning around to see if anyone was coming.

  “Good,” I said, at a loss for something clever to say. I could feel my hard-on softening and shrinking. I felt like an awkward idiot. “Nice dress.”

  “This thing?” She laughed, looking at herself. “Anyway it's not a dress, it's a skirt.” She opened her summer jacket to show off her low-cut, black-colored top. The black top matched the bottom black shirt perfectly. I could just imagine the dark nylons tightly hugging her legs. My hard-on instantly came back.

  She grinned again and glanced around the tunnel walkway, then slightly raised her skirt up, showing me her nylons held by a dark strap disappearing further up into her white panties. I was desperate to fall down to my knees, my mouth open, ready for anything.

  “What you looking for, a little action?” she asked, blinking her eyes.

  “Why, you got any?” I wickedly answered.

  She stepped closer, her arms going about me. “Fuck me, baby,” she hissed, her voice very low and hushed. “Right now, please,” she pleaded, raising one leg up as if to invite me in. “I don't care who's gonna see...”

  I stepped right to her. She pulled up her skirt higher, raising her leg and grabbed her black panty crotch, instantly shifting it out of the way, exposing her hairy cunt. Boy was she hairy! I had lowered my zipper and pulled my cock out and was in her in an instant. I had never done it standing up—a bit awkward—but it was glorious! Much like entering heaven and finding beauty and peace. In that awkward position, I came much too quickly, less than three or four strokes as I suddenly felt my cum spitting out of my cock and surging into her. I turned very red as my cock fell out and she looked slightly frustrated and disappointed. I was, too. It was the fastest fucking I ever had. She adjusted her panty over her cunt and pulled her skirt down, buttoning up her little jacket and once again looking for people. I think she wanted someone to see what she had just done in that deserted Saturday afternoon station walkway. I was very angry and disappointed with myself in any case.

  “Buy me a drink,” she quietly whispered.

  I immediately brightened. “I'll buy you a bottle, if you want.”

  She beamed and raised her cheek for a kiss, which I avidly did.

  “A bottle would be very nice,” she said, taking my arm and squeezing it. That moment was almost better than fucking her, which I'm sure I would do again. I was beginning to like her very much.

  We walked out of the subway and into the Times Square crowds. I didn't care where we were going, as long as it was with her.

  42nd Street was crowded in the early afternoon with walkers who lazed and strutted along, lookers who eyed them suspiciously with evil intent and still other nervous paranoid types who darted in and out of crowds, hoping no one would see them and disappearing into magazine stores, pinball arcades or movie theaters. I loved the area and somewhere along the way, I had played out my role on 42nd Street. Yet being a loner I never had walked along with a woman by my side like I was doing now. And it felt grand and I was very proud!

  A few times I saw that guys eyeing her avidly—her black clothes and dark nylon clad legs would certainly bring about attention—but as we neared the bar we were going to, she began to lose her smile and seemed to get nervous.

  “Can you tell them,” she hesitantly asked, biting her lower lip, “that I'm your girlfriend or something?”

  “Sure,” I said, smiling at her. “I'll tell them you're my fiancee and we're going to get married. How about that?”

  That threw her. “Wow, really! Oh, boy! I like that, fiancee, eh? I really, really like that.” She beamed and held on to my arm more firmly.

  I could feel the love gushing through me, much like Romeo and Juliet...well, maybe, but I was hoping it didn't go downhill as forlornly as theirs did.

  “Oh, what's your name?” she softly asked.
<
br />   “Eddie.”

  “Connie.” Her face turned red. “It's really Consuela but I don't like it,” she said firmly, making a face.

  “Connie is very nice. I like the name Connie,” I said and we entered Grant's Bar.

  I had never been in Grant's Bar, but passed by lots of times and assumed it was just a drinking bar. I immediately saw that it was more than that. Oh sure, there was the usual frank and burgers on one side, an ice cream machine in the middle, burgers and fish on the other and all about a crowded, packed, drinking bar with as many drinkers as there were standee eaters. I didn't know such a place existed and was pleasantly surprised. The patrons were a mixed bunch—old-timers nursing their drinks, others who downed drink after drink too quickly and dangerously, while still others stood around, sipping and staring, nervously waiting, up to no-good, at least that's what I could make out. And just about everywhere were pretty transvestites, sitting and whispering, standing and showing off their fake breasts, or walking out in their short skirts as someone followed behind them. 42nd Street was certainly alive and well.

  Connie and I made our way to the crowded packed bar and were lucky enough to get two seats together. We got the drinks—gin and tonic for her, vodka tonic for me—when suddenly she turned and quickly drank it. I saw the nervous look she had, as if she was about to run out of the place. I eyed the crowd behind her. I also slightly turned red at the familiar face. For looking right at us was a guy I had seen countless times at the Bryant and the Pix movies houses. Though we had no exchange of words between us in the movie theaters, it was clear what we were doing in that dive movie house. As a matter of fact, that's where I was going when I met Connie, on my way to get a blowjob or hand job in the balcony of the Pix or the darkened rows of the Bryant when I stopped off for a quick fucking with Connie. Interesting world, no?

  “He's fucking weird,” she went on, downing a sizable swallow. “He always shows up where I'm at and thinks there's something between us. But there isn't...Jesus Christ!” She took another swallow of her drink, finishing it off, and turning to glare at him.

  By then my shame and redness had dispelled itself and I was able to give my movie house friend a clear but stern look. That did the trick. He turned red at seeing me with Connie and quickly left the barroom-restaurant. I breathed a sigh of relief that my friend had not recognized me. But maybe he did. I didn't care.

  She told me that Paco—that was his name—had been after her ever since she had met him and when he found out she was a regular in Grant's Bar, it became a hang-out for him, too. There were lots of guys she knew like that, but Paco was weird, as if there was something connecting them together. She was good for loose things, she said, but when you get too close, she backs off.

  “I'm a wham-bam-thank-you-Ma'am,” she said, “and not the wham-bam-I-love-you bullshit type, you know?” Again she downed her drink, which I had just ordered for her, but that's exactly what Paco expected, love for ever, like she was going to be his for eternity. “Gimme a break!” she said wiping her mouth and smearing her red lipstick. “I'm nobody's,” she again stressed, looking at me.

  I got the message. I sipped my drink and rubbed my hard crotch, which made me want to caress her very much. But I didn't say anything, just nodded my head as if I was agreeing with her. She turned and looked at the bartender. He was at the other end. She quickly reached into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of Gordon's Gin. She surreptitiously but easily poured herself a drink in the bar glass and put the bottle back in her purse.

  The bartender didn't see a thing.

  “Ah,” she said, as if relieved. “That's better.” It was straight gin.

  I smiled, more and more I was beginning to like her, with her devil-may-care attitude. Her dark ponytail hairdo, her giggling smeared made-up face, her nice little breasts that she kept showing me the tops of, which was a nice inducement. Even though she was fully clothed, I could just imagine her tits and couldn't wait to get my hands and tongue on them. As she drank, I kept squeezing my hard-on and couldn't wait to get her in bed, but where? She said she was from the Bronx, which did little good from my Lower East Side background. Yet by the time we had decided to go, about an hour later, we knew it had to be close enough to fuck. She was drunk and so was I, and all we wanted was a bed where we could fuck and do it again. That or at least pass out.

  Outside, I think it hit us both how stoned we were—giggling like maniacs and finding every little thing absurd and ridiculous. We staggered on to 7th Avenue—to get away from the 42nd Street crowds—and clumsily we walked around to 41st. It was lined with the back of movie houses, a few closed shops and a liquor store near the corner at 8th Avenue.

  “Aw, shit, Mother fucker!”

  I turned around. I saw Paco following after us on 41st Street. The balls of the guy made me mad, too. I was pretty drunk and ready for any argument.

  Paco stopped, leaned back against a car and looked at us. In the empty distance of the vacant street, he looked non-threatening just a bothersome irk, one that would go away soon enough. I took Connie by the arm, “C'mon, let's go, ignore the asshole.”

  “No,” she said, shaking my arm off. “I'll show him.”

  For a brief moment, she seemed incredibly lucid, like she knew what she was doing and there was no stopping her. She walked down the street toward Paco. I saw her reaching in her purse and retrieving something. Paco held out his arms, as if inviting her to go along with her threat. And she did, coming closer to Paco. She lunged at him, striking him in the chest. For a moment, there was a silence, then Paco went down, his body shaking. I saw her gesturing at him, like there was more to the matter. I rushed up to her, and she was cursing.

  “Mother fucking asshole!” she flared, “Serves you right, you bastard!”

  “Hey,” I said, my eyes widening. “What the fuck is this? What did you do?”

  Paco lay still.

  She looked at me like I was the idiot. “The asshole won't stop bothering me. I couldn't take it anymore. He got what he deserved.”

  I knelt next to Paco, he was face down and not moving.

  She reached for his wallet in his back pocket and swiped it from him. “Let's get out of here,” she said, nervously looking around.

  I couldn't believe what she was doing. “You bitch,” I said, rolling Paco over. A knife stuck out from his chest and he wasn't breathing. It's amazing that the blade went into his chest and found its mark...but it did. If you tried it a hundred times, you would probably miss, but in that strange street murder scenario, it easily came to rest and Paco was dead. I felt a strange remorse sweep over me, like there had been something between us...now there was nothing. “Jesus Christ!” I said, backing off. “You killed him.” I looked at Paco, strangely peaceful, like there was nothing that could bother him anymore.

  “Let's go,” I heard her say, taking the money and tossing his wallet back at him. “It's not his anyway. I'm sure he stole it.”

  I looked at Paco, muttering, “Jesus!”

  She grabbed me by the arm and drew back up the street.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Chapter Two

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  She walked quickly up 41st Street back to 7th Avenue. I followed her, turning around to take a final look at Paco. He lay just as we had left him, the knife in his chest, as if waiting for something that would never come.

  “Shit,” I mumbled to myself and felt an incredible headache coming on. Amazing how drunkenness had quickly gone. I glanced at Connie, she was still a bit wobbly, but counting the bills she had taken from Paco. I frowned. We turned the corner and saw two cops standing on 42nd Street and gazing at us.

  “Forty six dollars!” said Connie, walking past them. “Wow! That's great!”

  I was disgusted. How could she say that? She knew damn well where the money had come from. As drunk as she was, she wasn't that plastered as to not recall what had just happened. Or had it happened before? I shook my head. />
  We came to Grant's Bar and I thought we would go in.

  “I know a better place, let's go there. Too many tease here.”

  I looked at her. “What do you mean, tease?”

  She shook her head. “You know, tease, guys that make believe they're girls.”

  Then it hit me, she was talking about transvestites, the letter Ts. I awkwardly looked away.

  She held my arm as we continued our wobbly walk, past movie houses, pinball arcades, sex magazine stores and everywhere people standing and looking, as if they knew what they were looking at.

  On 9th Avenue, we came to the Elk Hotel, a small three-story building that catered to alcoholics, bums, prostitutes, transvestites and other low-life scum. I had never been in there before, but knew of its ill renown as she led me up the steps like an old pro. It was obvious she had been there countless times.

  The hotel clerk frowned at us from his desk as we made our way up the stairs.

  “No drunks,” he firmly said, and went back to his reading.

  “What?” Connie shrieked. “Who's drunk? I ain't drunk.”

  The clerk just shrugged. “New policy...no alkie low-lifes. And that means you, sister.”

  So far, he had ignored me, not even looking my way. It felt good to be avoided, like this was my chance at getting away from her. Another clerk peered at us from the back room. A smile broke upon his lips, as if he was recognizing something.

  “Well, well, weren't you here last week?” he said, pushing his chair aside and standing.

  Connie turned red. “Clem... Ain't my money good enough for you anymore?”

  Clem laughed, but said to the serious clerk, “Give ‘em a break. If they use the top floor, no one will see, then they'll be fine,” and he winked, as if making us a part of his pact.

  Connie grinned and strangely, she looked real attractive. I felt a tinge of my erection coming back. But holy shit, preparing to have sex with a murderer! Wow! What the hell is my world coming to?