Without Mercy

by Len Levinson

  Finally he saw the number he was looking for. It was on the other side of the street and he looked both ways before crossing over. The building was like most of the others, three stories with a long stoop leading up to the second floor. Kowalchuk went to the side of the building and saw an Anchor fence with a car behind it. Attached to the building beside the fence was a sign that said: Please ring bell twice. If there is no answer, please go away and come back later. Please do not hang around in front of this house. Thank you. Kowalchuk pressed the button twice and put his hands in his pockets, waiting. He’d called first to make the appointment, and the fucker had better be here. A door opened at the side of the building and a stout man with black hair came out wearing overalls and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Joe?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” said Kowalchuk. “Are you Tony?”

  “Yeah. You’re a little late, aren’t you?”

  “I got a little tied up.”

  “There are a few people in front of you. You’ll have to wait.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Kowalchuk followed Tony into the building and down a flight of stairs. They passed through a dark corridor and finally came to a small room.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Tony said.

  Four young guys and one young girl were standing around in the room, smoking cigarettes and looking suspiciously at Kowalchuk. On the walls were tattoo designs: ships at sea, pirate ladies, skulls, and hawks. In the adjoining small room a girl straddled a chair, her arms crossed over its back and her face cradled in her arms. Tony sat behind her and lifted one of his tattooing machines off the table. He wiped the half-finished tattoo on her shoulder with a paper towel and went to work on it again.

  Kowalchuk watched through the glass window that separated the rooms, and was fascinated by the needle zigging into her skin, spitting out blue ink that mixed with her red blood. The girl had her fists balled up as though it hurt. Kowalchuk wondered why such a pretty young girl would want to get a tattoo on her back. Tony wiped it off again and Kowalchuk could see that it was a butterfly.

  Tony looked up at Kowalchuk. “You know what you want?”

  Kowalchuk pointed to his forearm. “I want a knife here.”

  “I got some knives on the wall in the corner. Pick one out.”

  Kowalchuk went to the corner and found the drawings of knives. There were long ones and short ones and some said “Death Before Dishonor” underneath them.

  “Gonna get a knife?” asked one of the young guys, who was wearing tight jeans and had slick black hair.

  “Yeah,” said Kowalchuk.

  “I got a knife right here.” The young guy rolled up his sleeve and showed a three inch knife on his bicep. It was made to look as though it pierced his skin, and drops of blood were tattooed around the wound.

  “That’s a nice one,” Kowalchuk said. “You get it here?”

  “Naw, I got it in Hoboken. Don Kelly done it— ever heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s pretty good, but I don’t think he’s good as Tony here. How many tattoos you got?”

  “I don’t have none,” Kowalchuk said.

  “No?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “This’ll be your first one?”

  “Yuh.”

  “Shit,” the kid said, smiling. “I got one here,” he rolled up his other sleeve, “and here,” he unbuttoned his shirt and showed an eagle on his chest, “and here,” he pulled up a pant leg. “I’m going to get another one here.” He pointed to his other bicep.

  “Gee, you got a lot of tattoos,” Kowalchuk said.

  “Yeah, I like ‘em.”

  A blond guy with a tooth missing rolled up his sleeve and showed Kowalchuk a skull with a Nazi helmet on it. “I just got this one two weeks ago and now I’m going to get a panther on my other arm.”

  “Panthers are nice,” Kowalchuk said. He turned to the drawings again and tried to figure out what knife to get. The black-haired kid and the blond huddled around him.

  “I like that one,” said the black-haired kid, pointing to a seven-inch dagger. ‘‘Maybe I’ll put one on my leg.”

  “It’s too big,” Kowalchuk said. “I think I’ll get this one.” He pointed to a four-inch dagger with red and green jewels in the handle.

  “Which one’s that?” called out Tony from the other room.

  “Four-twenty-nine,’’ replied Kowalchuk, reading the number underneath the knife.

  “Oh that’s a good one,” Tony said.

  “Hey Tony,” yelled the blond guy, “you should get an assistant in here.”

  “I need an assistant like a rabbi needs a pig,” replied Tony.

  Kowalchuk sat on a chair and twiddled his thumbs. The young girl sitting opposite him had straight black hair and an Irish pug nose. Couldn’t be more than sixteen years old. Above her was a drawing of a little boy peeing. Kowalchuk wondered what kind of an idiot would want that on his arm.

  Tony finished with the blonde girl, and she stood up, looking at her butterfly in the mirror. “How much?” she said.

  “Twenty-five dollars.”

  One of the dark-haired Italian guys paid the money, and the girl came into the room where Kowalchuk was. The other girl got up and looked at the butterfly.

  “It’s nice,” she said.

  “Why don’t you get one?”

  “My mother would kill me.”

  One of the young guys went into the room with Tony, and Kowalchuk got up to watch from the doorway. The guy rolled up his pant leg and pointed to the side of his calf.

  “I want it right here.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “Number three-fourteen. The dancin’ girl.”

  “That’s a nice one.”

  Tony left the room and came back with a sheet of plastic with the outline of the dancing girl on it. Tony’s shirt was open now and Kowalchuk could see part of a big blue tattoo, but couldn’t make out what it was. The lines were faded; it must be very old.

  First Tony shaved the young guy’s leg with a straight razor. Wiping it off with a paper towel, he took the plastic sheet in his left hand and poured black powder into it. He wiped off the excess until only black powder was in the grooves that made the outline of the dancing girl. “Where do you want it?”

  The young guy pointed to a section of his calf. “Right here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tony slapped the plastic sheet against the young guy’s calf, and when he pulled it away, the lines of black powder had transferred to his skin. He cleaned off the plastic sheet and left the room with it. Kowalchuk figured Tony kept the plastic sheets in another room because he was afraid somebody would steal them. Tony came back, sat in front of the young guy, and took up one of his electric needles. Wiping its tip, he dipped it in black ink, then bent over the young man’s calf and hit the button.

  The machine began to buzz. The young man had his leg propped up on another chair, and the muscles in his jaw worked as the needle cut into him. Kowalchuk was fascinated by the way the blood oozed out and mixed with the puddle of black ink on his skin. Tony sketched in the outline of the dancing girl, and Kowalchuk remembered how the blood had gushed out of Evelyn’s throat. She was lying on her back on the bed and he was fucking her when he did it. The blood gushed out and he kept fucking her through her death throes. She hadn’t seen the knife coming; one moment she was alive and the next moment she was dead. She’d bled like a stuck pig, and Kowalchuk kept fucking her, getting smeared with her warm blood. He’d had a huge orgasm at the end.

  Kowalchuk sat back down in one of the chairs and lit a cigarette. The young guys were showing each other their tattoos. Kowalchuk liked them, happy to be with them. He admired their young strong bodies and recalled how fat he was when he’d been their age, but he couldn’t stop eating in those days. He loved food and still did, but now he had to keep his weight down to fool the police.


  Tony finished with the dancing girl and charged the young guy sixty dollars for it. Kowalchuk looked at his watch. He’d only been there a half hour and Tony had already made eighty-five dollars. That was some business he had. The young guy came out and showed his new dancing girl to the others, and whenever he moved his calf muscle the dancing girl wiggled her hips. They all were delighted by it.

  Another young guy went in to get the ship put on his arm, then Kowalchuk would be next. Kowalchuk stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and closed his eyes, dozing a little. He’d spent last night in Central Park but it had started raining so he had to ride the subways to stay dry and get some sleep. But he hadn’t gotten much. Now that he had money he ought to check into a good hotel, but he couldn’t until he had some decent clothes. And he couldn’t try on decent clothes in a store unless he cleaned up first someplace. He hadn’t figured out yet how to solve this problem.

  Tony finished the young guy’s ship and charged him fifty dollars. The young guy came out and showed it to his friends, who thought it was pretty nice.

  “Next,” said Tony.

  Kowalchuk went into the other little room and sat in the chair. He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to his forearm. “I want four-twenty-nine right here.”

  Tony touched his forefinger to Kowalchuk’s forearm. “You got nice skin for tattoos. Who told you about me?”

  “I heard some guys talking. I don’t remember where the hell it was.” Actually he’d heard them in the Metropolitan Garage, but he didn’t want to let on that he’d been a cabbie, because all the newspapers said that the Slasher was a cabbie.

  The young guys and girls said goodbye to Tony and told him they’d be back for more tattoos. They left and Tony went for the plastic sheet of the knife tattoo, bringing it back with him to the little room where Kowalchuk was staring into the pot of red ink, reminding him of the blood of the whores.

  Tony sat opposite Kowalchuk and stropped his straight razor. He pressed the button on a can of shaving cream and smeared some onto Kowalchuk’s arm. With a few strokes he shaved away the hair.

  “I want you to write a word under the knife,” Kowalchuk said.

  Tony wiped Kowalchuk’s arm with a paper towel. “What word?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Capital letters or small letters?”

  “Capital.”

  “Sure thing,” Tony said, reaching for the plastic sheet with the outline of the knife on it.

  Chapter Eight

  Detective Dorothy Owens walked into the detective division at Midtown North and saw three men sitting at desks. They all turned and looked at her.

  “Can I help you?” asked one of them, who was sort of good-looking.

  “I’m looking for Inspector Jenkins,” she said.

  “Are you Detective Owens?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The man stood and smiled; he was over six feet tall. “Hi, I’m Detective Danny Rackman.” He held out his hand. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  She shook his hand. “Hello.” She was wearing green slacks and a brown sweater, her hair was honey-blonde.

  “This is Detective Johnny Olivero and Detective Ed Dancy.”

  “How do you do,” she said, shaking hands with both of the other detectives.

  “Inspector Jenkins is right this way,” said Rackman.

  He led her to the small adjoining office; the two other detectives following them in. Jenkins was seated behind his desk, talking on the telephone. Rackman motioned for Dorothy to sit down, then he and the other detectives sat on the other chairs. They all looked at Jenkins, who was talking so softly you couldn’t make out what he was saying. His desk was piled with correspondence, newspapers, photographs, and fingerprint cards. Finally he hung up the phone and looked at Dorothy.

  “You must be the decoy from downtown,” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I’m Detective Dorothy Owens.”

  Jenkins looked her up and down. “Do you know what we want you for?”

  “To help catch the Slasher,” she said.

  “He’s a pretty big guy, and I’m wondering if you’re strong enough to deal with him if he gets out of hand.”

  “I’ve got a brown belt in karate.”

  “But he’s got a knife, and he’s extremely strong.”

  “Well I’m not going to be all alone, am I?”

  “No, but if he pulls that knife of his you’re going to be alone for a few seconds until somebody can get to you.”

  “I think I could handle anybody for a few seconds.”

  Jenkins shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked at Rackman. “What do you think?”

  “It’s up to her,” Rackman replied. “If she wants to do it, we’ll let her do it. If she doesn’t, we’ll get somebody else.”

  Dorothy was getting annoyed; as usual the experienced men were treating her like a second class cop.

  “I’ll do it,” she said pleasantly.

  “You’re sure?” Jenkins asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” Jenkins picked up a copy of the New York Review of Sex that would hit the stands tomorrow. He opened it to the back pages and handed it to her. “Read the ad that’s marked in red.”

  Dorothy took the paper and looked at the ad.

  W/F, 25, Seeks Big Stout Man for any sexual pleasures you enjoy. I like anything and everything, I am clean, and big heavy guys really turn me on. Call Kim at 757-9424 after 6 p.m.

  She handed back the paper. “There must be a million guys in this city who fit that description,” she said.

  Jenkins frowned as he folded the paper on the pile of junk on his desk. “You got a better idea to catch the Slasher?”

  “No, but you’re going to get a lot of phone calls from that ad.”

  “Correction,” Jenkins said. “You’re the one who’s gonna get a lot of phone calls from that ad.” He pointed to a phone on his desk. “And that’s the phone.” He explained how she’d take the calls and arrange to meet the men in various outdoor public places. Detectives would be close by to take the suspects into custody as soon as they approached her.

  “Got it?” Jenkins asked.

  “What if he wants to meet me in a bar?”

  “Insist on some outdoor public place. Tell him you don’t drink. We don’t want to start any hassles in some poor bastard’s bar. This Slasher is a pretty violent guy, you know.”

  “I know,” Dorothy said.

  “Okay,” Jenkins said. “You can go now, but I want you to report for work here at five o’clock tomorrow. And maybe you’d better bring your gun along in your pocketbook just in case.”

  Chapter Nine

  Rackman knocked on Francie’s door, and when she opened it he handed her the twelve red roses.

  She stared at them dumbfounded. “Are they for me?”

  “No, they’re for the girl down the hall.,,

  “They’re really for me?”

  “I told you they’re for the girl down the hall.”

  “But ...” She looked at him, then at the roses again. “How come?”

  “I thought you might like them. Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  He stepped over her threshold and smiled, seeing how rattled she was. He’d never brought her flowers before and doubted whether many other guys had either.

  She closed the door and bolted it. “I’ll get a vase. There must be a vase around here someplace.”

  “An empty milk container might do.”

  “I think there’s a vase someplace.”

  She went to her kitchen and rattled around in the cupboards. A box of corn flakes fell out and a glass went crashing to the floor.

  He stood in the doorway and watched her. “Are you all right or are you going to have to call your psychiatrist?”

  She put her hands on her hips and wrinkled her nose, the shards of glass lying around her feet. “What’s this all about, Danny Rackman!” she demanded.

  “Y
ou mean the flowers?” he asked.

  “First you call me and say you want to take me to dinner, and then you bring me flowers. This isn’t the Danny Rackman I’m used to. What are you up to?”

  “Who me?”

  “Yes you.”

  “I’m not up to anything.”

  “You must be up to something.”

  “Be careful with your feet there.”

  He took the broom and dustpan from their hooks on the wall and began to sweep up the glass around her feet. She stepped back and looked down at him.

  “This is a new trick,” she said.

  “What’s a new trick?”

  “All this.”

  He emptied the glass into the garbage and hung up the broom and dustpan. “You were looking for a vase, I believe.”

  “That’s right too.”

  She went into the cupboards again and this time knocked down four bottles of vitamin pills but they were made of plastic and didn’t break. He picked them up and set them on the counter. Finally she found the vase, jade green. She filled it with water, put the roses in, and carried them into the living room, placing them on the coffee table.

  “They look very nice there,” he said.

  “What are you up to, Danny Rackman?”

  “I’m not up to anything, I told you. You haven’t even thanked me for the roses.”

  “How can I thank you for the roses if I know you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, showing his forearms. “See?”

  She pinched her lips together. “I think we’d better sit down and talk about this,” she said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I thought we were going out.”

  “We’re not going out until we settle this.”

  “Settle what?”

  “Are you drinking bourbon?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Sit down and don’t try anything funny while I’m in the kitchen.”