by John Lutz
Nodding approval, Jamal began whisking vigorously again.
“You don’t act like it,” Lauri said. “And that’s the operative word—act!”
“Girl’s education showin’,” Jamal said.
Wormy stepped toward him, the upper half of his body seeming to move much slower than the lower half. “I about had it with you!”
Jamal smiled. “C’mon, I stab you with this whisk.”
Wormy took another threatening step toward Jamal, but Lauri stopped him, grabbing his stringy upper arm. “You’re going to get us all fired,” she said, squeezing hard enough to make Wormy wince.
“Screw that! Sometimes you gotta—”
“And no place in the Village will hire you again to play music.”
That gave Wormy pause.
“I don’t like what’s happenin’,” he said, wrenching his arm from Lauri’s grip and turning his back on Jamal.
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Shahi korma’s happenin’,” Jamal said. “Right there ready to serve an’ startin’ to cool.”
Wormy glared back over his shoulder at him, then said again to Lauri, “I don’t, goddamn it, like it!”
“Like there’s some law,” Jamal muttered.
Wormy stormed out of the kitchen, not bothering to check and see if anyone was coming the other way through the swinging doors. Fortunately, no one was.
Lauri picked up the plate of shahi korma and placed it in the center of a circular tray, then lifted the tray so it was perfectly level.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said to Jamal.
“That Joe guy been around askin’ for you,” he said, deadpan.
“When?”
“Now an’ again.”
She carried the tray from the kitchen, careful to go up on her toes and check through the tiny window to make sure Wormy wasn’t lurking outside the swinging doors.
No sign of him. But that didn’t mean he’d left.
“Ever think of goin’ out with me?” Jamal asked behind her. “Shed yourself of that worm man?”
If Wormy was still in the restaurant, Lauri didn’t know it. She looked neither left nor right as she bore the shahi korma to its table with the regal bearing of a queen.
It didn’t take the Butcher long to locate the hotel. The low marble steps, the dark lower edge of the marquee, the glass revolving door set in a wall of brick and smooth white stone—all were like features of a face.
He’d spent a while at his computer, visiting the websites of New York hotels, before he’d found the right one—the Meredith—and compared it with the newspaper photograph to make sure. It was a mid-priced—which in Manhattan meant merely astronomical—business hotel, with all the amenities to make it competitive. He took a virtual tour of several rooms, as well as the restaurant and coffee shop. Most useful.
Later that day he rode past the Meredith in a cab in order to see it in three dimensions and get a feel for the place. Then he got out and walked around the surrounding neighborhood, terrain into which he might someday have to escape.
It had been only hours since he’d learned this morning that his mother was in the city, and already he knew her exact location. Knowing it somehow made her even more real, more menacing. Her presence haunted him like a specter as he walked the streets, mulling over what to do. Even in a city this size, it was possible they’d pass each other on the sidewalk, perhaps not even glance at each other.
Or one of them might glance. The thought gave him a chill.
He was surprised when he looked at his watch and saw that his research had taken most of the afternoon. Though he wasn’t hungry, he had a tuna melt and coffee in a small diner before returning to what he increasingly thought of as his lair.
He did feel somewhat better since gaining the essential knowledge of his mother’s whereabouts when she slept. The Meredith Hotel. Now what? Time to practice to deceive?
Not yet. Time to learn more.
He poured a Jack Daniel’s, walked to his recliner, and situated himself where he could see out the window at the darkening city. Such a long way from that time years ago in the swamp, but time could be folded like an accordion. More and more lately his dreams carried him back, his nightmares that weren’t as horrifying as the actuality that gave them birth. The swamp had invaded his mind and become a part of him, and there were things living and crawling there he didn’t want to touch. He thought he’d escaped them but they’d been there all along.
Some nights he lay in bed staring into darkness, terrified of falling asleep. Was it only because of his dreams, or was he feeling the pressure the literature on serial killers proclaimed them to feel as their victim count climbed?
None of us ever escapes.
Perhaps his mother wouldn’t escape. The things that crawled in the darkness of his mind crawled in hers.
It had been so long since they’d seen each other, but he was sure they understood each other.
He also understood Quinn.
Of course the Meredith would be a trap. He knew his nemesis, Quinn. He’d followed him, studied him. As Quinn had studied his nemesis. They’d crawled into each other’s brains. He knew Quinn’s mind better than Quinn himself knew it.
Quinn had his own miasma of problems, his own dark swamp. A record of harsh justice and violence, a stained reputation, an alcoholic past, a failed marriage, a troubled daughter, a woman he loved who didn’t love him. An insatiable need and talent for the hunt.
None of us ever escapes.
Do we really want to?
There was no doubt in Sherman’s mind that his mother was bait, an archangel of evil that had to be slain. That she was being used to lure him to destruction was fitting.
Quinn certainly had to understand that the Butcher wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of the very demon he’d been trying again and again to slay, the angel demon that wouldn’t stay dead. But Quinn didn’t understand Sherman’s mother as well as he thought. She was bait, but she was deadly bait. She wanted to kill her son as badly as when she’d tried all those years ago in the swamp, only now she’d be even more determined.
Deadly bait.
Sherman would have to plan carefully. Move carefully. He felt like a spider walking the web of a much larger, much deadlier insect. One that was waiting for him and would sense his slightest misstep. One that could paralyze him with a glance and suck him dry of life even before his heart stopped.
Mom…
Nine-year-old Sherman took a sip of Jack Daniel’s and told himself things had changed and he was grown up now, an adult. With an effort of will, he ignored his fear and engaged his mind.
He was nothing if not a problem solver.
The Meredith Hotel wasn’t precisely a spiderweb. There were different ways to approach it, and different ways to move within it.
Quinn’s trap was a problem that could be solved. That must be solved.
It was a family matter.
59
Something new. Something exciting.
Lauri didn’t get to the Upper East Side very often. She tried not to let it show that she thought Mangio’s was one of the neatest places she’d ever seen. She and Joe shared a tiny round table near a wall, away from the small dance floor. A band, guys in matching jackets and ties, not like The Defendants, were playing soft syncopated music that she guessed was rumba. Other than the dance floor, the place was carpeted in plush red, contrasting with the white tablecloths and glinting silverware. The long-stemmed glass from which Lauri was sipping a vodka martini, straight up, was fine crystal that glittered in the light of the single candle in the center of the table. She supposed this was what people called class.
She looked around at the women seated at tables or dancing and was glad she’d worn the dress Joe had bought for her. It had been a gift from an exclusive shop on Madison Avenue and was obviously expensive. Since her father was busy in the evenings he hadn’t seen her leave in the dress, which was a good thing, because it might have
required an explanation. She really should have her own apartment. Her world was opening up like a flower warmed by the sun. If this thing with Joe continued to work well…
“You look happy,” he said, smiling across the table. “That makes me happy.”
“The only thing that would make me happier,” she said, “is if this—being someplace like this with you—would last forever.”
“No,” he said, “There’s something else. I know what would make us both infinitely happier.”
She reached across the table and lightly dragged her fingernails over the back of his hand. “Joe—”
“I’m going to teach you how to rumba.”
She couldn’t control the expression on her face. From the inside it felt like disappointment.
He laughed. “Oh, you thought I meant something else.”
“I think we both know what you meant,” she said, laughing along with him but still maybe showing her disappointment.
“Maybe you already know how to rumba.”
“No.”
“You will in five minutes. I have a foolproof teaching method.”
He stood up, holding her hand gently by her fingertips and guiding her up out of her chair and toward the dance floor. She found herself having some difficulty walking, which was strange since she’d had only one drink
They weaved their way through the tables and reached the parquet dance floor, which wasn’t crowded. His timing was right—the band was only halfway through the rumba number. Joe held Lauri close in dance position, her right arm bent up at the elbow, his left hand clasping her right. His right arm was around her waist, his fingers spread near the small of her back, pressing her into him.
“We’ll do a simple box step,” he said, his breath warm in her ear. “Follow my lead and you’ll pick up the rhythm and hip movement.”
He was right. She was soon dancing without worrying about getting her toes stepped on. Then he held her even closer so the rhythm flowed through his body into hers. The experience as a whole was making her light-headed.
“Looser in the hips and we’re there,” he whispered. “That’s good. Great! Great!”
She willed her body to relax as he held her more firmly. Now she had no choice; her body had to sway in precise syncopation with his. Fine with Lauri. She swung her hips freely, feeling his hand slip lower on her back to rest on the rise of her buttocks. She wanted so very much to please him.
“I might be slightly…”
“Slightly what?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You okay?”
“Oh what?”
“Kay,” he said, grinning.
“Oh. I’m that. I think.”
“Very good,” he said of her dancing. “Just relax. Trust me and follow my lead.”
That was his best advice. He loosened his grasp on her slightly (though not on her rear, so they remained pelvis to pelvis) and she let her body respond to the gentle guidance of his hands and the subtle shift of his body against hers. Her body became even looser, her movements more fluid. She could trust him and relax.
He smiled down at her. “Now you’re an expert just like me.”
She smiled back at him. (Was he going to get an erection? She would know if he did.)
The music stopped and he kissed her.
The Hungry U, The Defendants, Wormy, were all far away and in a different world.
“Trust me and follow my lead,” he whispered again in her ear.
In the back of the cab she surprised him. It had taken only a brief kiss, the slightest fondling. He didn’t think he’d slipped that much ketamine into her martini. Just enough to disorient her slightly, confuse her a little bit. He wanted her to enjoy and remember. Maybe he hadn’t even needed the stuff; he’d only resorted to it because time was important here. Maybe it hadn’t even kicked in yet. The stuff was actually made for veterinarians to give to cats. Pussy. There was an amusing thought.
Within a block away from Mangio’s she had her arms snaked around his neck and the warm wedge of her tongue probed his ear. He felt a tightening in his groin, and her hand was on him as they kissed.
“I don’t want to wait, Joe,” she whispered in his ear. “I can’t wait.”
“Your place?” he asked, toying with her, stringing this out to make sure, letting it build in her.
“Can’t. I don’t live alone. With my father. He’s not home now but he might walk in on us.”
He grinned, knowing she couldn’t see in the dimness of the cab. The desperation in her pleased him. She was disassociating somewhat, not too much. He’d gotten the dosage about right.
She snuggled closer to him. “Might…”
“What?”
“Don’t know. Can’t remember. Don’t care. What’re you—”
Holding the slender nape of her neck, he kissed her hard on the lips, using a thumb to play with her earlobe. His other hand was beneath her hiked-up skirt, exploring her warm wetness. He felt her respond to his kiss with her lips, tongue, teeth.
“Jesus! I can’t wait!” she whispered hoarsely when he released her. “I don’t know…”
“What?”
“Just don’t know…Only had one drink.”
“You had three, darling. I was counting.”
“Three?”
She pressed her body hard into his.
He leaned forward, toward the Plexiglas divider that separated passengers from driver. “Take us through the park.”
The cabbie had been there before. He glanced quickly in his rearview mirror then veered right and made a U-turn.
Passing headlights of oncoming cars shuffled the light in the back of the cab and made her blink in mild confusion.
“It will be a slow drive,” he whispered
“Have you got something?” Lauri asked, clinging to him.
“Of course,” he said. “A condom.” He kissed her perspiring forehead, working the hand that was beneath her skirt, manipulating skillfully with his fingers. “You don’t have to worry, darling, I’m careful. You’ve never met anyone more careful.”
60
Sherman as usual read the Times over breakfast. He’d bought the paper from a vending machine at the corner, inserting his coins and thinking with a smile that the paper should be paying him. After all, he was giving them something to write about that was more interesting than their usual gray wire-service pap. He was selling papers. Every time the circulation of one of his victims stopped, the Times’s circulation increased.
The morning was so beautiful that he’d skipped his favorite diner in favor of a small restaurant with green plastic tables outside. Pedestrians walked nearby, just on the other side of the black wrought-iron railing separating the outer sidewalk from the dining area. Beyond them, traffic locked in the morning rush rumbled and lurched forward about ten feet at a time. But the cool morning breeze carried the vehicle exhaust away so it didn’t interfere with his appetite, and the sun sent warm rays angling in beneath the green canvas umbrella above Sherman’s table.
As he forked in his scrambled eggs and nibbled at his toast, Sherman read in the paper that Jeb, the brother he’d never seen, was a currency trader. Something like family pride crept into Sherman’s mind. So Jeb was smart, like his half-brother, and like Sherman made his money in the world of finance. Sherman had made his fortune in tech stocks, systematically getting out just before the bubble burst, and then compounding his wealth by selling some of the same stocks short, cashing in as they plummeted in value. Possibly Jeb had gotten rich during the same wild market volatility. Sherman thought—no, he knew—that heredity meant much more than most people suspected. Heredity was destiny, and impossible to escape.
A gust of summer breeze flipped the top newspaper page, and there was the now familiar photo of Mom climbing out of a taxi in front of the Meredith Hotel.
Sherman stopped chewing and stared at it for a long moment, into the dark eyes above the smiling lips. It seemed to him that the eyes were not s
miling.
The photo also made him think of last night in the cab with Quinn’s daughter. Quinn’s daughter! Now Sherman was the one to smile. What would Quinn think if he knew? As he would someday know—Sherman would take care of that. As for Lauri, she’d remember last night, what she could of it, fondly. He was sure he hadn’t used enough ketamine for her to suspect she’d been drugged, so eager had she been to sleep with him even without a little chemical enhancement. And even if she did suspect, she’d probably forgive him for it. Little Lauri wasn’t nearly as innocent as she pretended. How could she be, bedding down with that tall, skinny junkie—the musician, so-called?
After finishing breakfast and paying his check, Sherman scraped his metal chair over concrete, away from the table, and stood up, careful not to bump his head on the umbrella. He felt full and satisfied, and sexually sated from last night, as he strolled toward his apartment. He was expecting a fax from a connection to a connection he had in Atlanta, an architect who a few years ago had found himself in a financial tangle Sherman helped him to escape. The man had later landed a plum job in City Planning and Development. He was not only in Sherman’s debt, he was a bureaucratic animal who knew the jungle. More specifically, the New York City archival records jungle.
The disentanglement of the man’s financial affairs were of questionable legality, and if revealed would at the least be embarrassing if not ruinous. Sherman expected cooperation.
He wasn’t disappointed. As he closed his apartment door behind him he glanced over at his fax machine and saw several messages in the arrival basket. He knew what they were—the 1947 blueprints of the Malzberg Plaza Hotel, which in 1964 was renovated and became the Meredith.
Faxed blueprints of the renovation plans were included.
He removed the pages from the fax machine to confirm what they were, and then laid them out on his desk to peruse later. He’d worked up a sweat walking back from the restaurant, so he decided that before anything else he’d take his second shower of the morning. Besides, he’d noticed earlier that he needed to touch up his blond hair.