Without Mercy

by Len Levinson

  Rackman looked at Ms. Tiernan’s nice round fanny and thought he should get her phone number, but he was too tired, his brain was fading out and he wasn’t up to it.

  “Here we are,” Ms. Tiernan said, taking out a form and a picture. “Kowalchuk, Frank D.” She handed it to Rackman.

  He looked at the picture, and a round unshaven face looked back at him. The hair was straight and unruly, the nose was pugged, and the mouth was big and sloppy.

  “Mind if I sit down?’ Rackman asked.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be in my office down the hall if you need me for anything.”

  Rackman sat on a yellow fiberglass chair against the wall and studied Kowalchuk’s face, the pinched little eyes, the scowling expression, the cruelty of the mouth, or was it a grimace of pain? This was not the sort of man that women loved.

  Rackman looked at Kowalchuk’s application for a hack license, noting his address at 329 East Ninth Street. He saw the fingerprints but couldn’t find where Kowalchuk was presently employed. Getting up, he walked down the hall to Ms. Tiernan’s office.

  She was behind her desk, looking at some papers. “What’s the problem?” she asked in a manner that suggested she could solve any problem in the world.

  Rackman pointed to the application form. “It doesn’t say where he’s working now.”

  “We don’t have that information. These cabdrivers always are switching jobs, and it’s hard to keep up with them.”

  “We’ll have to check the garages, then.”

  “Yes, that’s the only way.”

  Rackman held the form and photograph in the air. “Can I take these with me?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to sign for them.”

  “Show me the dotted line,” he said.

  Rackman left the Taxi Commission and drove uptown, wondering if Kowalchuk had come home yet. He stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken on Fourteenth Street and got some pieces, gnawing them behind the wheel as he continued to Midtown North. His brain was starting to zonk out and he knew he had to get to bed fast, before he had an automobile accident.

  He parked in his slot halfway up the block from Midtown North and made his way to Jenkins’ office, but Jenkins still wasn’t in.

  Detective First Grade Shannon was in the outer office reading the Daily News.

  “Did they pick up Kowalchuk last night?’’ Rackman asked Shannon.

  “No.”

  Rackman dropped the photo and application form on Shannon’s desk. “This is what he looks like, and these are his fingerprints. Give them to Jenkins as soon as he comes in, will you?”

  Shannon dropped the newspaper and looked at Kowalchuk. “Ugly son of a bitch, ain’t he?”

  “Yes. Tell Shannon that the Taxi Commission doesn’t know which garage he works for.”

  Shannon looked up. “How come?”

  “Because these guys switch garages all the time—you know what cabdrivers are like. Anyway, all the garages’ll have to be checked out.”

  “I’ll tell Jenkins.”

  “Okay, I’m going to bed.” Rackman moved toward the door. “Good night, buddy.”

  Shannon looked at his watch, and it was ten-thirty a.m. “Night?” he asked.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rackman woke up at eight-thirty that evening. He turned on the radio next to his bed to an all-news station and the announcer said that the Soviet Union had freed eight more dissidents. Yawning and rolling out of bed, he scratched his stomach and wondered if Kowalchuk had come home. Picking up the phone on the night table, he called Midtown North and got through to Alfred Stevens, a black detective who’d recently joined the section.

  “This is Rackman. Did they pick up the Slasher last night?”

  “No,” replied Stevens, “but we know where he works.”

  “Where?”

  “The Metropolitan Garage on West Sixty-first Street. It was one of the first garages we checked. It’s staked out now.”

  “Who found it?”

  “Olivero.”

  “Good old Olivero.”

  “You comin’ in?”

  “In a little while. If anybody needs me before then, I’ll be home. I put in a twenty-hour day yesterday and I’m not feeling so good.”

  “Take the night off—what the fuck?”

  “I might. See you, Stevens.”

  “Right.”

  Rackman hung up the phone and yawned again. He turned up the radio and the announcer said that a busload of civilians had been blown up in Tel Aviv. The PLO in Beirut claimed responsibility for the deed. Rackman hunkered toward the bathroom, wondering why the Israelis refused to make some kind of deal with the Palestinians. He shaved, took a shower, then put on his blue terrycloth bathrobe and went into his little kitchen to make breakfast since he didn’t feel like going out yet. He opened his refrigerator and took out three eggs and a container of cottage cheese, because he was going to prepare his specialty of the house, a cottage cheese omelet. It was the only thing he knew how to cook besides hamburgers.

  He had a specially pressed steel omelet pan which he’d bought at a restaurant supply joint on the Bowery, and he used it only for omelets. Wiping it out, he placed it over the fire and dropped a big lump of butter into it, because he’d learned that the key to a good omelet was plenty of butter in the pan. He broke the eggs into a bowl and whipped them up, then poured them into the pan and watched the edges curl. He jerked the pan back and forth, feeling like a French chef.

  The phone rang, and he didn’t know what to do. He decided to take the pan off the fire and take the call, although that might be harmful to the omelet. He dashed out of the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Danny ?” asked a familiar female voice.

  “Hi Francie. Listen, I’m busy right now. Can I call you back?”

  “What are you busy doing?”

  “Making breakfast.’’

  “At nine-thirty at night?”

  “I just got up. Listen I’ll call you right back—”

  “I’m not home,” she interrupted. “I’m in a phone booth on the corner of your street. Can I come up?”

  “Sure, but the place is a mess.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Bye.”

  Rackman hung up the phone and returned to the kitchen, wondering if he wanted to see Francie just then. Well, it looked like he was going to see her anyway. He put the omelet back on the fire, flipped it over like an expert, and added the cottage cheese. He folded the omelet over the cottage cheese, let it cook for a while longer, and slid it out of the pan onto a plate. Then he carried the omelet and coffee to the little table next to the window in his living room, which also doubled as his dining room. As he was sitting down, the buzzer went off, and he went to the door, pressing the button that would open the downstairs door of the building. He returned to the table and ate two mouthfuls of omelet before Francie knocked on the door.

  He opened the door. “Good morning,” he said cheerily.

  She peeked into the room. “Anybody else here?”

  “Just me and my roaches.”

  She stepped into the room, wearing a dress, heels, and coat. “What a mess.”

  “I told you.” He returned to the table and continued eating his breakfast. “If you want a cup of coffee you know where everything is.”

  “You’re such a good host,” she said, taking a cigarette out of her purse and lighting it. Removing her coat and dropping it over a chair, she sat at the table with Rackman, who was finishing his omelet.

  He looked at her, admiring the elegant way she held her cigarette, and the regal movements of her head. Her dress, which was a color somewhere between purple and green, fastened around her throat and draped over the swell of her breasts.

  “What are you doing over here?” he asked.

  “I had dinner with a girlfriend of mine at Charlie’s.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Yes. Then I thought I’d come over and see you, because I haven’t seen you
for a while and I was getting horny.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you horny?”

  “Not at the moment, but if you can wait until I finish my coffee, I’m sure I’ll get horny. How have you been?”

  “All right. You?”

  “I’m working like a dog.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am.”

  She looked around the room, and her long eyelashes enchanted him. “You don’t seem to be working so hard now.”

  “I just got up.”

  “You could have called me.”

  “You were having dinner with a girl friend of yours.”

  “I’m home a lot and you don’t call.”

  “I told you that I’m working a lot. You’ve heard of the Slasher, haven’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well that’s a Midtown North case and we’re trying to get the son of a bitch.”

  She looked at him and pointed her long forefinger. “I know you’re seeing somebody else.”

  “I am not seeing somebody else.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “So don’t believe me.” He took a Lucky from his pack on the table and lit it up, his first one of the day, and it was delicious.

  “Somebody asked me to marry him,” Francie said, blowing a column of smoke at the ceiling.

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know him. Do you think I should marry him?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “Well, I’m not getting any younger,” she said.

  “None of us are.”

  “I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  She looked at him angrily. “Don’t you even care!”

  “About what?”

  “If I married somebody else?”

  Rackman thought for a few moments. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you care?”

  “I care, but it’s your life, Francie. I don’t know what’s right for you. I don’t even know what’s right for me. What does he do?”

  “He’s a playwright.”

  “Had any hits?”

  “He had a big hit about ten years ago. Now he teaches at Hunter College, and gives lectures at different places. He makes around forty thousand dollars a year.”

  “Marry him,” Rackman said.

  “I don’t know whether I should or not.” She puffed her cigarette nervously.

  “What does your shrink say?”

  “He says it’s my decision to make.”

  “Why don’t you get rid of that fucking asshole?”

  “He’s not a fucking asshole.”

  “He doesn’t sound like he’s much of a help.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “You’d have forty more dollars a week to spend.”

  “Fifty. He’s gone up.”

  “What a rip-off artist.”

  “He’s not a rip-off artist.”

  “What’s your prospective bridegroom’s name?”

  “Donald.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “I think so.”

  “If you think so, what are you doing here?”

  She looked perturbed. “Because I love you too.”

  He smiled. “Oh come on. You don’t love me.”

  “Yes I do,” she insisted.

  “How could anybody possibly love me? I’m so nasty.”

  “That’s true, but you’re a sexy man. At least I think so.”

  “You’re about the only one.”

  “Who else thinks you’re sexy?” she asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “Other girls don’t tell you?”

  “What other girls?”

  “The other girls you’re with when you’re not with me.”

  “I’m not with any other girls when I’m not with you. I’m either at work or I’m here alone sleeping.’’

  She pouted. “I don’t believe you.”

  “How can you love me when you think I’m a liar?”

  “Sometimes I wonder myself.”

  “But it’s all right for you to sleep with other men,” he said, leaning toward her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Donald and God knows who else?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Why can’t I have other boyfriends? We’re not married.”

  “Then why can’t I have other girlfriends?”

  She pointed her finger at him. “I knew you had other girlfriends.”

  “I don’t, but you have no right to be jealous.”

  “I do too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand this conversation.”

  She placed her hand on his. “Let’s get married, Danny.”

  “I thought you were going to marry Donald.”

  “I won’t marry him if you marry me.”

  “I thought women didn’t want to get married anymore.”

  “We don’t.”

  “Then why do you want to marry me?”

  “Because I want to, but we can live together if you like. I just don’t want to be alone anymore, Danny. I’m tired of going on dates. I want to have just one man.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “You really will?”

  “I told you I will. I’m getting tired of going out on dates too.”

  She frowned. “Who are you going out on dates with?”

  “I’m not going out on dates with anybody.”

  “Then why did you say you were?”

  “It’s just a way of saying that I’m getting tired of screwing around.”

  “Who are you screwing around with?”

  “Nobody. I’m talking about the concept of being single.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked at his watch. “You know, I really ought to go to work.”

  “But Danny,” she protested, “I hardly ever see you. Just a few more minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  “I thought we were going to go to bed together,” she said unhappily. “We haven’t been to bed together for weeks.”

  “Okay, let’s go now.” He stood up.

  She looked at him. “Just like that?”

  “What am I supposed to do—stand on my head?”

  “You could be a little romantic.”

  “I’ll be romantic in the bedroom.”

  She got up and they went into the bedroom. He took off his bathrobe and hung it over the bedpost, while she unbuttoned her dress. She pulled it over her head and then bent over and rolled down her pantyhose. He looked at her, so lithe and graceful, such a lovely body, so utterly desirable. Moving toward her, he clasped her tightly against him, kissing her neck. He felt her hands on his back as she strained against him. Their lips fastened together and tongues intertwined. He was getting very excited. Picking her up, he laid her down on the bed, pulling down her underpants, which was all she was wearing now. He touched his hand to her fluff, and she sucked in air through her teeth, wrapping her fingers around his dong, squeezing it. They kissed again and he caressed her groove, making it hot and moist. His blood was boiling and his ears pounded with lust. He laid on top of her, got into position, and slid it in.

  “Ooohhhhhh,” she whispered as it filled her up.

  Suddenly he froze. “Did you put your diaphragm in?” he asked.

  “I put it in before I came over,” she said,

  “Good girl,” he replied, beginning to work her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was two o’clock in the morning and Rackman lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Francie was cuddled up next to him, fast asleep, and he wondered what to do with her. He didn’t think he was in love with her, but he liked her an awful lot. He certainly enjoyed screwing her once in a while, but aft
er it was over he always felt disgusted with sex and wished he was alone. It wasn’t just Francie—he was like this with other women too. He lusted after them like a horny old billy goat, and then after he had them he was overcome with revulsion.

  He’d been wondering about this for a long time, and had come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t feel such revulsion if he liked the women more as people and less as his little sex bunnies. If he could admire and respect them he thought he wouldn’t be so prone to disgust and loathing after lovemaking, but Francie could be an awful pain in the ass, and so had most women he’d ever been mixed up with. He needed a woman he could love more completely, but where was she? That airline stewardess who’d been his second wife was the absolute worst. She was screwing other guys after they’d been married only three months.

  The phone rang. He rolled over and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing anything,” said Inspector Jenkins on the other end. His voice sounded sleepy.

  “You’re not disturbing anything. What’s going on?”

  Francie had awakened and was trying to bring her ear closer to the receiver. Rackman made room for her so she could listen and know it wasn’t another girl.

  “It’s the Slasher again,” Jenkins said. “He killed a girl on West Ninety-fifth Street. Can you meet me at the morgue?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “You’d better shave if you haven’t recently. The Commissioner will be there and the mayor might even try to get into the act.”

  “Is she another massage parlor girl?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m home and I just got the call. I’m assuming that the detectives on the scene will determine that by the time we get downtown.”

  Rackman hung up the phone and rolled out of bed, groaning.

  “Where are you going?” Francie asked.

  “To the morgue.’’

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  He lumbered to the bathroom to get cleaned up, and she followed him, tiptoeing naked over the floor.

  “What happened?” she asked, her arms crossed over her breasts.

  He began brushing his teeth. “The Slasher killed another girl.”

  “My goodness!” She watched him for a few moments. “How come you have to go to the morgue?”

  “Because I’m working on the case,” he said through the suds.