by Kihn, Greg;
They went from one seedy apartment building to the next, asking everyone they met if they had seen a man with red hair.
The trail was getting colder and Panelli was starting to sneeze.
“Let’s try one more place; then we can go back to the station.”
“Thank God.”
George asked a guy who worked at the newsstand if he’d seen a man with red hair. The newspaper vendor was small, like a jockey, but had a tough face with a long scar across his cheek. He chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and coughed constantly.
George believed newsies always knew what was going on in a neighborhood. People bought the morning paper, cigarettes, magazines, and gum, even in the worst part of town. They came and went, but newsies usually noticed the regulars. George knew from experience that they were a valuable resource.
He bought a cigar and struck up a conversation.
“Red hair?”
“Yeah.”
“Tall guy?” He spit. “Dresses in black?”
“Yeah.”
The man squinted at them and said, “I seen a guy like that, but only once. Red hair. He’s not a local, though, or I’d know him.”
“Was he checkin’ out the girls?”
The newsie nodded, coughed, and spit again. “Could’ve been.”
“Would you recognize him?”
“Maybe. You gonna bust him?”
“Yeah, if I can find him.”
“You guys are cops, right? You take me for a fool? I don’t rat on anybody out here; otherwise I’d be dead meat. If word got back that I told the cops anything, something real bad might happen.”
George brought his new cigar to life with a wooden match and bellowslike cheek muscles. “I’m not interested in the local lowlifes. I’m looking for the strangler.”
The newsie’s eyes lit up. “No kiddin’? The strangler? Man, that’s cool. That’s one motherfucker I hope gets caught; he’s makin’ everybody crazy.”
George turned to Panelli. “See? The food chain has been interrupted. Girls stay away, customers stay away, money stays away. This community wants to rid itself of the cancer. Pretty soon they’re gonna spit him up like a hairball.”
Panelli flashed a wry smile. “That’s deep.”
George puffed his cigar and perused the magazines on the stand.
The newsie watched. “So you’re the new guy they called in? The ringer?”
“Yeah.”
“I seen you on TV.”
“That’s me.”
“Hey. Would you pay me for information?”
George nodded. “I might.”
The newsie scratched his chin. “It might be worth big money.”
“You won’t be able to retire on it,” George said, “but if it’s the right information, I’ll go something decent for it.”
“You say you’re looking for a guy with red hair?”
George looked at Panelli. “Yeah.…”
“So maybe I might be able to turn you onto somebody.”
“Who?”
“How much money you got?”
George pulled out his wallet and counted out five twenties. “Try this,” he said, and handed it to the newsie.
“There’s a guy I know, a small-time street dealer. He told me he was lookin’ for a red-haired guy who burned him on a dope deal.”
George was listening intently. “A dope deal, huh? That’s interesting. The red-haired guy was buyin’?”
The newsie looked down at George’s wallet. “The answer to that question is also for sale.”
George counted out another hundred.
The newsie snatched it up with the same hand that still held the first hundred. “The answer to your last question is no.” He looked at George and grinned. “He wasn’t buyin’; he was sellin’. That’s how come my buddy got burned.”
“Let me get this straight. Your buddy was gonna score from the red-haired guy, and he got burned?”
“Yeah. He took the money in front and never delivered.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“That’ll cost you another bill.”
George frowned. “How do I know you’re tellin’ me the truth?”
The newsie laughed. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’m here every fuckin’ day of the year. If you find out I’m lyin’, come back and break my legs. We’re livin’ in a fishbowl, man.”
George counted out another hundred, this time borrowing half of it from Panelli, who acted like it was all he had. When the money was in the newsie’s hand, he went back into his little booth and motioned for George to come closer.
“If it gets back that I talked to you guys, bad stuff might happen.”
“Nobody’s gonna get popped except the strangler. You have my word.”
“My buddy’s name is Tony B. He’s usually out on Tenth Street, two blocks over. The B stands for Brooklyn, Tony Brooklyn. He’s got a mustache and wears a fringe jacket, looks Hispanic, black hair with a ponytail, midthirties, short.”
Jones and Panelli crossed the street and made their way through the thickening raindrops toward the haunt of Tony B.
They found him just where the newsie said he would be.
As soon as Tony got a good look at them, he sprinted down the street like a halfback.
Had it not been for Panelli’s quickness and agility, Tony would have gotten away. But the athletic detective ran him down like a linebacker and pinned him to the pavement in front of a red neon sign proclaiming: LOVE ACTS.
By the time George caught up, out of breath and limping a little, Panelli had Tony up and handcuffed from behind.
Tony screamed, “You fuckin’ fuckers ’r fucked!”
“Wow, did you hear that?” George said. “I didn’t think that was possible, man. I’m gonna have to write that down, I think you just made a breakthrough in the English language. You managed to use the word fuck as a noun, a verb, and adjective, all in the same sentence. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“Fuckin’ fuckers,” said Tony, sputtering like a dud firecracker.
George wheezed. “He’s doing it again.”
“Where were ya goin’, man?” Panelli asked. “We just wanted to talk to you.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“Search ’im,” George told Panelli.
Panelli patted him down, went through his pockets, and found a wrinkled plastic Baggie containing several packets of white powder. Panelli held the Baggie up and said, “That was too easy. No wonder he took off.”
George smiled, pulled out his badge, and showed it to Tony. The big gold detective’s shield glinted, a symbol of righteous indignation. “Well, looks like you got big problems now, asshole. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Tony struggled like a trapped insect. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin, man.”
George affectionately wiped a piece of dirt off Tony’s shoulder. Tony looked at him as if he’d just looked in the mirror and noticed that George cast no reflection.
“This is a very delicate situation,” George said. “We got you here red-fucking-handed, man. And now you’re telling me you don’t wanna talk. That’s very discouraging.”
George spoke to Panelli in a stage whisper. “What do you think we should do?”
Panelli’s reply was much louder. “Bust him; lock him up. What else is there?”
Tony struggled anew. “Shit, man! What you want me for? I didn’t do nothin’.”
George thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “You wanna walk, Tony? Is that what you wanna do? You wanna walk away from here and never see us again? I’ll bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Walk your candy-ass right down the street, huh?”
With his wrists bound behind him, Tony’s struggles were so hopelessly futile as to be almost comical. His head was the only thing that moved now, as if it were trying to detach itself from the rest of his body. “What are you sayin’, man?”
“What I’m sayin’ is you mi
ght have one chance to walk. It’s all up to me. I could set you free as a bird or make your life a living hell. The whole thing’s at my whim. And frankly, I gotta tell ya, Tony, after that run, I’m in a pretty shitty mood right now.”
Tony looked from cop to cop, his eyes crazy in the reflection of red neon. “What do you want? Just tell me, man.”
“We want to know about the guy with red hair.”
Tony laughed a short bark. “That asshole? You wanna know about him? Shit. What do you want him for?”
“Suspicion of murder,” George said before Panelli could tell Tony it was none of his business.
Tony smiled, showing a mouth with several missing teeth. “Whoo-ee. I knew that fucker was trouble; I knew it right from the start. He’s not from around here, you know, just comes down once in a while. I bought shit from him before, man, couple of times. Real good shit, uptown stuff. Then last week, he takes my money for a quarter and burns my ass. Now I got guys lookin’ to cut me, you know what I mean? It’s real ugly ’cause of him.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Shit, if I knew that, I’d go get my money.”
“What’s his name?”
“Just called him Red. But, you know, that’s a big joke, too. Dig it. The hair’s fake, man. The dude was always in disguise. Tell you the truth, I thought he was weird as shit.”
Jones and Panelli relaxed; Panelli lit a cigarette and Jones stoked up his cigar. Rain had fallen briefly, but now it was clear. The streets shimmered with an oily iridescence.
“You sure about that? He was wearing a wig?” George asked.
“That’s the word, man. Gave me the creeps, too, but I never let on that I noticed. You know? He had such sweet shit, I didn’t really care. None of my business. But I swear to God, he was wearing a fuckin’ wig and makeup. I got some friends who are TVs, you know, and I can tell that shit a mile off.”
George said, “You sound like a real interesting guy, Tony. I tell you what—I’ll make you a deal, You find this guy for us, we’ll let you go.”
George’s face was earnest. He delivered the lines like Brando in On the Waterfront, only more believably.
Tony’s relief was instant. “All right! Let me go, man. You won’t regret it. I’ll find that fuckin’ fucker for ya. We’ll nail that fuckin’ fucker till he’s fucked. He owes me money.”
“You have the soul of a poet,” George said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jukes walked in a daze, something he warned his patients never to do. The big city could be a dangerous place for a space cadet. After nearly getting run over by a taxi, he snapped back to reality.
Christ, he thought. I’m falling apart here. I’ve got to get ahold of myself.
He needed a drink and a shower and sleep. He had a massive headache. He’d been thinking about Cathy, O’Connor, and the Banshee.
It was dusk in New York—the magic, sinister time of half day and night. The big city seemed somehow undecided on which side it should show.
Jukes’s once-logical thought process spun its wheels. He mentally bounced back and forth between their faces, always returning to her face—the unforgettable face of the Banshee.
Dying light rays slanted through the skyscrapers, bending in the prismatic windows far above, then slanting down on him. Jukes was bathed in the unnatural colors only sunset through smog can bring.
He walked down the block, away from his building. A friendly supple hand grasped his shoulder.
He jumped.
Jukes spun around and looked into the face of Fiona Rice.
“I’m sorry, Jukes; I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Jukes breathed a sigh of relief, glad it was a friendly face he had turned to greet. “Oh, Fiona, I had no idea … Sorry I jumped. I’m so tense these days.”
Fiona smiled. “After we talked, I felt so bad for you … Well, to tell you the truth, I was on my way over to see you. Will Howard gave me the address. I thought you might want to talk some more, or maybe just need a shoulder to lean on.” She paused. “Besides, I have some more information on the Banshee that I thought might interest you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Jukes stammered.
Fiona looked into Jukes’s eyes, surprised at how bloodshot and sunken they’d become. His hair stood uncombed, and his tie was loosened. He needed a shave. He bore little resemblance to the man she’d met earlier. Yet the kindness in his face remained. His gentle way and sensitivity were unchanged; that much she could tell at a glance. “Why don’t we go someplace? We could have a drink or something. Have you had dinner yet?”
“Well … I don’t know. I’m not really in the mood right now,” Jukes replied.
Fiona showed concern. “Oh, Jukes.… You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. How about a cup of coffee?”
Jukes made a sour face. He said, “I’m not feeling all that sociable, and besides, I must look like hell.”
“You look fine. A man like you never looks all that bad.”
Jukes managed a weak smile; he wasn’t used to compliments from pretty women, or any women. “All right. You win. I could use some nourishment. It’s been a tough day.”
He let her lead him by the arm.
Any other time and Jukes would have been flattered that a woman would pay this much attention to him. Right now he just wanted to crawl into a hole. The accumulated stress showed on his face. He knew it and could do nothing.
Their relationship, still in its infancy, was at the first crucial turning point. He didn’t want to show her his weak side, but there weren’t that many sides left to Jukes Wahler.
He looked at Fiona and realized how badly he didn’t want to lose her. This time he would get it right, he vowed. Suddenly he wanted a shave and a change of clothes in the worst way.
I’m blowing it.
But when he looked, she was smiling. Her face seemed encouraging and radiant. The more he basked in her warm glow, the better he felt.
I’ll just be honest with her and take my chances.
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist tonight,” he said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll do all the talking. Why don’t you just relax. Where do you want to go?”
“There a place in the next block. They have great chicken noodle soup.”
“Ah, a traditionalist. Sounds perfect.”
They sipped their soups together and watched day dissolve into night. Fiona kept conversation to a minimum and let Jukes rest.
He spilled some soup on his tie and she immediately leaned across the table, dabbed her napkin in water, and swabbed at it. “Hold on; let me fix that for you.” When she was done with the tie, she smoothed his hair and adjusted his collar.
He felt her hands touching him, fussing over his appearance, and liked it. Another new experience. He wondered what it would be like to live with a woman like Fiona—to have that kind of attention all the time, to swim in it. It must be intoxicating, he thought.
“Uhm, thanks.…” He still felt a thousand light-years away.
Jukes had never been in love, and he wondered if that was what was happening to him now. The prospect of it warmed his soul. And scared him, too.
He found himself staring at her, wondering what she’d be like as a lover.
God, he thought. How can I be thinking about that? I must be a real cold and callous piece of crap to think about sex while Cathy is missing.
Fiona batted her eyelashes.
Why does she like me?
Her enthusiasm for these little flirtations became infectious and Jukes found himself playing back, smiling and blushing like a schoolboy.
He found himself anxious to hear what she had to say, anxious merely to hear the sound of her voice.
And he was tempted to spill something else.
Fiona said, “If you’ll recall our last conversation on the subject, I told you that the Banshee started turning up around the fifth century. Well, I was
going through some recent Celtic translations, new discoveries from the Dublin Archives, and lo and behold! Banshee legends date back even earlier than that, a hundred years earlier as a matter of fact.
“Like the legend of the Vampire, the Banshee predates most of all the commonly held Christian beliefs about death and spirits. Of course, as with most ancient records, symbolism is the key.”
Jukes nodded.
Fiona’s voice was musical. “Saint Patrick, you’ll remember, drove the snakes out of Ireland.… Actually, there were never any real snakes; that was a metaphor. This was during Roman times. The political situation in what was then part of the Roman Empire was very unstable. Warlords controlled small areas and fought among themselves. Life was hard.
“Anyway, Saint Patrick returned to Rome while he was still young. He’d been held captive by one of the tribes roaming the countryside. Before he left, he became involved with the chieftain’s daughter, not a very saintly thing to do under the circumstances, but these were lusty people, earthy and simple.
“You must remember that the kind of intellectual, religious posturing we associate with the church was still centuries away. Most of the world was still barbaric at that time, and people lived by their wits and muscles. Superstition was real.
“The chief’s daughter got pregnant. There’s no way of knowing whether it was Patrick’s baby or not, but her father became extremely upset and beat her mercilessly. She died during childbirth. It was said that she had consorted with the devil.
“Later, when Patrick returned to drive the evil out of Ireland, she came back to him in the form of an avenging angel. She stood at the side of Saint Patty and battled her father’s clan.
“Over the centuries, whenever a young girl was murdered or abused by a male descendant of one of the old families, she sought revenge.”
Jukes had become absorbed in Fiona’s story. He’d momentarily forgotten all about Cathy. Incredibly, he also found he was losing his skepticism about the Banshee.
Fiona said, “She became the avenger of womanhood.”
Jukes wondered if he should tell Fiona he’d actually seen the Banshee. There will never be a better time, he thought. But will she think I’m crazy?