Without Mercy

by Len Levinson

  On his way out of the Lounge, Rackman paused to watch Inspector Jenkins give a news conference to an assembly of reporters and television cameramen in front of the bar.

  “Do you believe that the same killer is responsible for the murders of Cynthia Doyle and Rene LeDoux?” an attractive lady reporter asked.

  “At this time I have no reason to believe that both murders are linked together,” Jenkins replied.

  “But they were killed in an identical manner.”

  “That doesn’t mean they were killed by the identical person.”

  A male reporter with the face of a matinee idol nearly jabbed his microphone through Jenkins’ teeth. “Can you tell us what progress you’ve made so far, Inspector Jenkins?”

  Jenkins smiled as he pushed the microphone back a few inches. “We are proceeding with a thorough investigation. However I’m not at liberty to reveal any details at this time.”

  “Do you have a suspect yet, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that at this time.”

  The sidewalk was crammed with onlookers held back by a small army of patrolmen. There was a massive traffic jam on Eighth Avenue that extended downtown for fifteen blocks, and two patrolmen were trying to move the cars through an open lane on the west side of the street. Rackman elbowed through the crowd to his car, got in, managed to turn it around, and drove uptown to the Albemarle Hotel on Fifty-first Street between Eighth Avenue and Broadway.

  It was a seedy old building occupied by people on welfare, hookers, and lowlifes. The rusty fire escape hanging from its facade looked like it might fall to the street at any moment. Rackman entered the lobby, where denizens of the hotel sat on collapsing furniture around a black and white television set. A black man in his mid-twenties was behind the check-in desk. Rackman showed him his shield. “What room does Rene LeDoux live in?”

  “Who?”

  “Rene LeDoux.”

  The black man shrugged. “Never heard of her.”

  “Don’t you keep a record of who lives here?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Check it.”

  The black man reached under the counter and took out a big blue notebook stenciled with Register across the front in black ink. He leafed through the notebook while Rackman took out a Lucky and lit up.

  “I don’t see no Rene LeDoux,” the black man said.

  “She’s living with a guy, and maybe the room’s under his name. They’re both French Canadians.”

  “Oh, you mean the Canucks.” The black man found the appropriate page. “Here they are, Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Fournier. Room 1006.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Fournier is in?”

  “No I don’t.”

  “I’m going up to see him. You’d better not tip him off that I’m on the way.”

  Rackman rode the shaky elevator to the tenth floor and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. Taking out his picks, he tripped the latch and entered a small shabby room with an unmade double bed in its center. It smelled of perfume and cologne; clothing was strewn everywhere. The framed photograph of a teenage girl was on the dresser. He looked in the closet and found men’s suits and sports jackets on the hangers along with women’s clothing. It didn’t appear that Pierre Fournier had flown the coop.

  Rackman returned to the lobby and approached the room clerk. “Fournier isn’t there. By the way, what’s your name?”

  The room clerk took a step back. “I ain’t done anything wrong.”

  “I didn’t say you did. What’s your name?”

  “Percy.”

  “Percy what?”

  “Percy Green. Folks call me Greeny.”

  “Do you have any idea where Pierre Fournier might be right now?”

  “Try the First Base Cafe down the street. If he’s not there, I don’t know where he is.”

  Rackman left the hotel and spotted the sign of the Cafe on the other side of the street. It was the ground floor of another broken-down hotel called the Prince Albert. He crossed over and entered. The bar was to the right and tables were in back. The jukebox played funky rhythm and blues, and the air stank of beer, whiskey, and tobacco smoke. He looked down the bar and saw black and white people dressed in cheap, flashy clothes. Near the cash register sat a guy with wavy salt and pepper hair, a mustache, and a square-shouldered suit. Rackman walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around.

  “Are you Pierre Fournier?” Rackman asked.

  “Who wants to know?” the man asked in a French accent.

  Rackman took out his shield. “I’m Detective Rackman from the New York Police Department.”

  The man squinted at the shield, then looked at Rackman. “Yes, I’m Pierre Fournier. What is the problem?”

  “Why don’t we go back and sit at one of those tables.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “That’s what I’ll tell you about when we get back there.”

  Fournier looked worried as he walked beside Rackman toward the rear of the bar. They sat in the dark corner beside the cigarette machine. Fournier took a sip of the wine that he’d carried back. Rackman took a deep drag from his cigarette.

  “You live with a woman named Rene LeDoux—isn’t that right?” Rackman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she your legal wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Rackman flicked an imaginary ash off his cigarette. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Fournier. Rene LeDoux was murdered about an hour ago at the Polka Dot Lounge.”

  Fournier stared at him in disbelief. At a nearby table, two black dudes talked about the fifth race at Belmont Park.

  “Murdered?” Fournier asked, bewildered and unsteady.

  “I’m afraid so. We’ll want you to come to the medical examiner’s office to identify the body.”

  “I. . . ah. . .”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Fournier. You don’t have to say anything.”

  Fournier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His world was disintegrating and he didn’t know where he was. Rackman had been through this many times. He’d seen people fall down and cry, he’d seen them get angry and try to punch him, and he’d seen them become instant vegetables unable to respond to questions. He disliked the last category most of all.

  Fournier took out a Gauloise cigarette and Rackman lit it for him. Fournier looked into Rackman’s eyes as if his pain could be absorbed and ameliorated by them.

  “Can you come with me now?” Rackman asked gently.

  Fournier nodded. They stood and Rackman led the way out of the bar. They got into his car and drove downtown, wondering where the killer was and why he was knifing prostitutes. On lower Broadway, he figured Fournier had recovered his composure sufficiently to be of use.

  “Mr. Fournier, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

  Fournier reflected for a few moments, as they passed dark factory buildings. “Go ahead, m’sieu.”

  “Did you or your wife know a woman named Cynthia Doyle?”

  “Cynthia Doyle? No.”

  “Your wife was killed by a big heavyset man about my height, with short black hair. He wore a red and black wool jacket. Do you know such a person?”

  “No.”

  “Can you remember seeing such a person recently?”

  “I do not think so.”

  Chapter Five

  Rackman stopped his unmarked Plymouth in front of a white east side apartment building that looked like an upended carton of a dozen eggs. It was fifteen minutes after midnight and he’d just dropped Fournier off at his hotel. Fournier had identified Rene LeDoux, alias Rene Fournier, in the morgue. It seemed certain that the same person had killed Cynthia Doyle and Rene LeDoux, but they still had no solid leads.

  Rackman pulled down his Official Police Investigation sign and got out of the car. The doorman recognize
d him and said hello. Rackman got into the elevator, rode to the third floor, and knocked on Francie’s door.

  She opened it and gave him a cross look. Wearing jeans and a white blouse, she was slim with large breasts, auburn hair, and finely chiseled Anglo-Saxon features. Rackman thought she resembled Greta Garbo a little.

  “Hi baby,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  She looked away. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

  “How could anyone ever forget about you?”

  “You’re not even in the door yet and already you’re bullshitting me.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you.”

  “You know very well that you hardly ever think about me.”

  “I think about you all the time, but I’m busy.”

  “Nobody could possibly be that busy.”

  She led him past the tank of tropical fish into her living room, which doubled as her bedroom. She’d been sitting on her red corduroy sofa reading a script. At the age of thirty-two she still was taking acting classes and workshops, still hoping for her big break. Across the room against the far wall, in an elaborate plastic apparatus of tubes, boxes, and treadmills, was her pet hamster, Ziggy, looking at him.

  He sat on the sofa and took out a cigarette. The atmosphere was laden with frustration and repressed anger. The look in her eyes hit him like a blast of arctic air.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She went to the kitchen, futzed around, returned with a bourbon and water, and placed it on the coffee table before him. Then she sat so far over on the opposite side of the sofa that if she had moved over a few more inches she’d have fallen over the armrest onto the floor.

  He sipped the whiskey and puffed his cigarette. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

  “I think it’s time that we had a talk about our relationship and where it’s going,” she said.

  “That’s all we ever talk about, Francie.”

  “I think you’re afraid to have a real relationship with me.”

  “Here we go again.”

  “I think you’ve been traumatized by the relationships you’ve had with your wives and now you’re afraid of women.”

  “I’m very busy, Francie. I don’t have much time for seeing people.”

  “That’s only an excuse. If people like each other they find time to get together.”

  “I work fourteen hours a day. People are killing each other without letup out there. Did you read in the paper about the girl who got her throat cut in an alley on the west side the other night?”

  “I don’t read those kinds of papers,” she said haughtily, for she read only Variety, Backstage, and Show Business.

  “Well that’s the case I’m working on now. It’s not easy to track down a killer like that.”

  “The truth is that you don’t care very much about me.”

  “We’ve been over this a million times. If I didn’t care for you I wouldn’t be here.”

  “You come here twice a month, and that’s it.”

  “I don’t have much time.”

  “Of course, because this relationship doesn’t mean very much to you.”

  “It does too. It’s the only relationship I’ve got. The problem is that you’re not doing anything with your life and you expect me to come around and make everything okay for you. But I can’t make everything okay for you. You’re the only one who can do that.”

  Her eyes flashed. “What do you mean I’m not doing anything with my life? I go to acting classes every day, and I go to the gym, and I go to auditions! You always say I’m not doing anything with my life, but I’m doing more than you! And I go to group every Tuesday night, and I’m writing a book on nutrition with my chiropractor!”

  “If you’re so busy, why do you want me around all the time to pat your head and play kissy face?”

  “Is that the way you see it? Just patting me on the head and playing kissy face? You’re a grown man, but you don’t know what love is. I feel sorry for you.”

  “The kind of love you’re talking about is ridiculous. You should have grown out of it by now.”

  “Maxwell says you’re afraid of a real relationship.” Maxwell was her psychiatrist.

  “Fuck Maxwell.”

  “Don’t you talk about Maxwell that way!”

  “I think he’s an asshole, and you’re a bigger asshole because you’re paying him forty dollars a week. If you kept that money you could afford an apartment with a bedroom.”

  “If I got an apartment with a bedroom, would you stay with me more often?”

  “How should I know?”

  She slid closer to him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. “I love you so much, Danny. Why can’t you love me too?”

  “Because I don’t believe in that crazy horseshit anymore. It’s okay for movies and television but for real life it can ruin you.”

  “You’re not romantic at all.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Don’t you care about me?”

  “Of course I care about you.”

  He turned to her, kissed her fragrant throat, and moved toward her ear. She pulled away quickly.

  “All you ever come over here for is to get laid,” she said coldly.

  “What’s the matter with that?”

  “It makes me feel shitty.”

  “Don’t you like to fuck me?”

  “You’re the best sex I’ve ever had in my life,” she said, and melted in his arms.

  They lay side by side on the sofa, pecking each other’s lips, tasting tongues.

  “I love you, Danny,” she whispered.

  “I know it.”

  “Maxwell said I shouldn’t settle for relationships that aren’t what I want.”

  “Why don’t you just keep on with me the way we’ve been going, and give up Maxwell.”

  “I couldn’t give up Maxwell!”

  “You’re a grown woman but you can’t make a move unless you talk it over first with that asshole.”

  “He’s a very intelligent, aware, caring man.”

  “Then why don’t you go out with him?”

  “He’s married!”

  “I’ll bet his wife is breaking his balls right now just like you’re breaking mine.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll stop. You just tell me what kind of relationship you want to have with me, and that’s what we’ll have.”

  “Why don’t we just continue whatever it is that we have, and if you find somebody you like better than me, go ahead out with him.”

  She moved her head back and looked at him as though the little wheels in her head were spinning fast. “Is that what you’re going to do, Danny?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Francie. I work like a dog and when I have a chance I come over here.”

  “If you meet somebody you like more than me you’ll leave me?”

  “That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

  She punched him in the ribs. “You son of a bitch!”

  He grabbed her slim wrist before she did it again. “Your problem is that you can’t deal with the truth. People leave each other when they find somebody they like better. Isn’t that what you did with your husband?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And the guy after him?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You’ll do the same thing to me, or I’ll do it to you. Or maybe neither of us will find anybody better and we’ll keep on like this for the rest of our lives.”

  “Do you really think that might happen?”

  “Why not? I’m not looking for anybody. I’m too busy. I’m glad that I’ve got you so I don’t have to look for anybody else.”

  She pressed her breasts against him. “I love it when you talk to me like that.”

  “All you want me to do is tell you how wonderful and beautiful you are.”

>   “Is that so hard?”

  “No, but this is.” He moved her hand down and pressed it against his erection.

  “What’s this, Danny?” she asked ingenuously, squeezing it.

  “You know very well what it is.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “Sure.”

  She caressed it while kissing his lips, cheeks, nose, and chin. “Oh, you’re such a sexy man,” she sighed.

  He unzipped his fly and took it out.

  “It’s so big,” she said, wrapping her hand around it.

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.”

  “I do not!”

  “Sure you do.”

  “It really is big, and it feels so good.”

  “It’s missed you.”

  “Has it really?”

  “Yes, and it wants to do it to you.”

  She giggled. “Do what to me?”

  “You know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why is it that you always want me to talk dirty?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “It wants me to fuck you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else?”

  “Guess.”

  “Does it want me to suck you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If I suck you, will you suck me?”

  “You know that I don’t like to do that so much, Francie.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Afraid it’ll bite you?”

  “I’m not afraid it’ll bite me. Why don’t we take our clothes off?”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you put your diaphragm in?”