Without Mercy

by Len Levinson

  “Hey where you goin’!” shouted the woman in the change booth.

  Kowalchuk ran to the subway platform, and the people waiting there backed away from him. He sniffed nervously and looked both ways. He’d have to get down into the tunnel and try to make it to the Fifty-ninth Street station. If he could, they’d never catch him in the maze of lines going into and out of that hub station.

  He jumped off the platform and landed between the tracks. Looking at the electrified third rail, he reminded himself to stay clear of it. His white shirt soaking with sweat, he gnawed at his beard nervously and ran toward the dark tunnel.

  On the street level, Rackman was making his way across the intersection. He waved his shield and service revolver in the air, but that wasn’t enough for New York City drivers. They jammed on their brakes at the last moment and cursed him, and he dodged around them, stopping when a car refused to give way. He vaulted past the ladies in the island and stepped into the downtown side of the street. Uniformed police poured into the intersection blowing their whistles, and cars stopped to see what was going on. Rackman made it to the sidewalk and went down the subway stairs four at a time.

  He charged into the subway station and jumped over the turnstiles. Commuters were leaning over the platform, looking downtown. He checked them over quickly and didn’t see a white shirt and beard.

  He held up his shield. “Anybody see a man in a white shirt and beard come into this station just now?”

  An old woman with a shopping bag pointed downtown. “He went that way!”

  Rackman jumped off the platform and looked downtown into the tunnel. All he could see was blackness and some widely-spaced lights on steel pillars. A hundred Kowalchuks could be down there right now and you couldn’t see them from here. He trotted over the tracks and into the tunnel, dropping the shield into his pocket but keeping his revolver out. He knew the Fifty-ninth Street station was only seven blocks away and if Kowalchuk ever got that far he’d be awfully hard to find.

  He ran down the middle of the tracks, smelling the dank, rotten odor of the tunnel. Looking ahead, peering into every shadow, he tried to spot Kowalchuk’s white shirt. He stumbled over a cross plank, then swerved into the express lane. He could see the distant glow of the Fifty-ninth Street station but no man’s figure was silhouetted against it. Jumping into the next express lane, he heard something skitter at his feet, and looked down in alarm.

  A big black rat had been hiding there, and ran squeaking toward the wall. Rackman’s heart pounded, and then he heard it. A subway train was coming from somewhere. He looked around and sure enough the tiny white dots of a subway train’s headlights glowed from uptown. It looked like the downtown express and Rackman knew if he was Kowalchuk he’d try to jump on the motherfucker. It’d probably be the last train through, because soon somebody would notify the Transit Authority to stop all the trains in the vicinity.

  Rackman passed between the steel pillars and got on the uptown express track again. He looked back and saw the train speed into the Sixty-sixth Street station, which wasn’t an express stop. Crouching, he peered downtown from that angle, hoping it would show him something new, but it didn’t. He wondered where Kowalchuk was hiding. Surely he couldn’t have made it all the way to Fifty-ninth Street by now.

  Kowalchuk was only twenty yards away, hiding in an indentation in the wall beside the downtown local track. Sweat and soot streaked his face and his switchblade was in his fist, the blade pointed straight up. He’d ducked in here when he realized a cop was chasing him, because he thought the cop would be able to see him if he kept moving. It was dark, but not that dark. If only he had a gun. When the cop came closer, Kowalchuk would attack him and try to get his. With a gun, there’d be no stopping him.

  Then Kowalchuk heard the train coming. He saw it enter the Sixty-sixth Street station, and a new plan formed in his mind. He’d hop that train and ride it to Fifty-ninth Street. It’d be dangerous—he might slip and fall—but it was his last chance and he knew it.

  Police swarmed into the station as the train zoomed through. Rackman saw it gather speed. He looked around and decided he was safe in the lane he was in. The train came abreast of him and roared by. Sparks flew from the wheels and lights flashed inside the cars. Rackman held his hands over his ears and looked at the commuters hanging onto straps inside the cars. The train was almost past him, and he got ready. The last car zoomed by and he leapt over onto the uptown track. He got down on one knee, held his revolver in both hands, and got ready. He hoped Kowalchuk would make his play.

  The train receded. Rackman’s breath came in little gasps as he held the pistol steady. He’s not going to do it, Rackman thought, and then he saw the white shirt move onto the track. It was coming from the right and it was moving fast. It crossed the local track in a flash and then it was in the air. Rackman caught him in his sight and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet ricocheted off the metal wall of the train and splintered into Kowalchuk’s face. He screamed and let go, dropping onto the track, where he lay still for a few moments, trying to figure out how badly he was hurt. He blinked his eyes and saw a figure stalking toward him from uptown. It was the cop who’d shot at him; Kowalchuk could make out the revolver in his hands.

  Maybe I can get his gun, Kowalchuk thought. His face stung and felt wet; he didn’t know if it was blood or sweat. Probably it was both. He seemed okay everyplace else except where he landed on his hip. He looked at the cop advancing toward him. It was the one in the blue blazer jacket he’d seen coming after him on the street. Just a little closer, you fuck, Kowalchuk thought, closing his eyes and making his breathing shallow.

  Rackman crept closer to Kowalchuk, his gun pointed at him. Kowalchuk wasn’t moving and Rackman figured he’d either hit him fatally, or Kowalchuk had hurt himself in the fall from the train. Rackman stopped a few feet away from Kowalchuk and heard a commotion in the tunnel behind him. The other cops were coming now, and he glanced around to look. Even as he was doing it, he knew he was making a mistake.

  Kowalchuk saw his chance and leapt for Rackman’s gun. Rackman spun around at the last moment but Kowalchuk grabbed his wrist. Startled, Rackman pulled back, but Kowalchuk had him in a vise grip.

  “Give . . . me . . . your . . . gun,” Kowalchuk growled, holding Rackman’s wrist with one massive hand and reaching for the gun with his other. Their sweating faces were inches apart and Rackman could smell Kowalchuk’s fetid breath.

  Rackman tried to kick Kowalchuk in the groin, but Kowalchuk pivoted out of the way and spun Rackman around, slamming him against a steel pillar. Rackman was knocked cold for a split second, and dropped the gun. Kowalchuk bent over to pick it up and Rackman kicked him in the head. The force of the blow straightened Kowalchuk up and sent him falling backward. Rackman went after him and threw a hard left to Kowalchuk’s face. Kowalchuk grunted as it landed and shot a punch of his own at Rackman’s stomach, but Rackman stepped back out of range.

  Kowalchuk reached into his pocket and pulled out his switchblade. He hit the button and the blade glowed dully in the dim light. “Get away from me, cop,” he said.

  “Drop that knife and give yourself up, Kowalchuk,” Rackman replied. “You haven’t got a chance.”

  Kowalchuk licked his lips and glanced uptown. Policemen with flashlights were entering the tunnel.

  “Just let me get the gun,” Kowalchuk said.

  “I won’t hurt you if you let me get the gun.”

  Rackman moved between Kowalchuk and the gun. “Not today.’’

  “Then you die!” Kowalchuk yelled, lunging at Rackman, but Rackman darted back out of the way. The gun was only a few feet from Rackman now, and he knew he’d have to stand his ground or try to get the gun himself. He decided to try and get the gun. He stepped backward, his eyes on Kowalchuk’s knife, trying to locate the gun with his feet. His face was covered with perspiration and he stared at Kowalchuk’s knife.

  “No you don’t!” Kowalchuk said, realizing Rackman was
trying to get the gun.

  Kowalchuk jumped forward and tried to rip Rackman’s stomach, but Rackman caught Kowalchuk’s wrist in both his hands, lifted it in the air, pivoted, and brought Kowalchuk’s elbow down on his shoulder. Kowalchuk screamed and dropped the knife. Rackman side-stepped karate style and jabbed his elbow into Kowalchuk’s gut, but Kowalchuk had a lot of cushioning there and barely felt it. Kowalchuk slugged Rackman in the ear, and then hit him again, watching him go sprawling down the track. Rackman fell on his knees and knew there was an electric rail somewhere around here. He turned around and saw Kowalchuk bending over the revolver.

  Rackman gritted his teeth and dived at Kowalchuk. The force of his body hit Kowalchuk waist-high and knocked him over.

  Rackman pounded Kowalchuk in the head but Kowalchuk shook off the blows, pushing Rackman away with all his might. Rackman stumbled backward, and Kowalchuk went for the gun again.

  Rackman saw the knife gleaming on a wooden trestle between him and Kowalchuk. Charging forward, he scooped up the knife and went for Kowalchuk’s back. Kowalchuk didn’t see him; he was reaching for the gun, certain he’d get it this time. Rackman rushed him and raised the knife, hesitating for a split second at the awareness of what he was about to do, and then plunged it into Kowalchuk’s back.

  Kowalchuk had the gun three inches off the ground when the knife went in. He bellowed and arched his back, firing the pistol wildly in the air. Rackman pulled the knife out and stabbed it in higher this time. Blood spurted everywhere, and Kowalchuk turned around. Blood dripped from his nose and the corner of his mouth as he tripped over the trestle and tried to gain his footing. He glowered at Rackman and unsteadily raised the revolver. Rackman attacked, smashing the gun out of the way and burying the knife up to its hilt in Kowalchuk’s heart.

  Kowalchuk’s knees wobbled as blood gushed out of the wound. He dropped the gun and staggered backward, trying to pull the knife out. Then his eyes glazed over and he pitched forward onto his face.

  Huffing and puffing, Rackman looked down at him. Rackman was bleeding from a cut on his arm, and the lights were spinning around him.

  Leaning against a steel pillar, he gazed at Kowalchuk lying in a pool of spreading blood.

  The police came out of the gloom with their flashlights and guns.

  “Are you all right?” a sergeant asked.

  “Yeah,” Rackman said, turning his head and spitting out a wad of blood. He looked at Kowalchuk again, then picked his revolver out of the gravel and put it in his shoulder holster.

  “Good work,” the sergeant said, patting Rackman on the back.

  The other policemen kept their distance, looking respectfully at Rackman. He frowned, wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat on a steel rail, burying his face in his hands.

  Painting by Ari Roussimoff

  My So-Called Literary Career

  by Len Levinson

  As I look back at my so-called literary career, which consisted of 83 paperback novels by 22 pseudonyms, I’ve concluded that it all began in 1946 when I was 11, Fifth Grade, John Hannigan Grammar School, New Bedford, Massachusetts.

  A teacher named Miss Ribeiro asked students to write essays of our choosing. Some kids wrote about baking cookies with mommy, fishing excursions to Cuttyhunk with dad, or bus to Boston to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees at Fenway Park, etc.

  But my mommy died when I was four, and dear old Dad never took me anywhere. So Little Lenny Levinson penned a science fiction epic about an imaginary trip to the planet Pluto, probably influenced by Buck Rogers, perhaps expressing subliminal desires to escape my somewhat Dickensian childhood.

  As I wrote, the classroom seemed to vanish. I sat at the control panel of a sleek, silver space ship hurtling past suns, moons, asteroids and blazing constellations. While writing, I experienced something I can only describe today as an out-of-body, ecstatic hallucination, evidently the pure joy of self-expression.

  I returned to earth, handed in the essay, and expected the usual decent grade. A few days later Miss Ribeiro praised me in front of the class and read the essay aloud, first time I’d been singled out for excellence. Maybe I’ll be a writer when I grow up, I thought.

  As time passed, it seemed an impractical choice. Everyone said I’d starve to death. I decided to prepare for a realistic career, but couldn’t determine exactly what it was.

  In 1954, age 19, I joined the Army for the GI Bill, assuming a Bachelor’s degree somehow would elevate me to the Middle Class. After mustering out in 1957, I enrolled at Michigan State University, East Lansing, majored in Social Science, graduated in 1961, and travelled to New York City to seek my fortune.

  Drifting with the tides, in 1970 I was employed as a press agent at Solters and Sabinson, a show biz publicity agency near Times Square. Our clients included Frank Sinatra, Barbra Streisand, Bob Hope, the Beatles, Flip Wilson, Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, Holiday on Ice, Playboy, Caesar’s Palace, numerous Broadway shows, and countless movies, among others. It was at Solters and Sabinson that certain life-transforming events occurred, ultimately convincing me to become a full-time novelist.

  The wheels of the cataclysm were set in motion innocuously enough by press agent Jerry Augburn, whose desk jammed beside mine in a large, open office packed with approximately 20 hustling press agents and secretaries.

  Unusual in that raucous atmosphere, Jerry was a well-mannered WASP from Muncie, Indiana with B.A. in English from Ball State U and Ph.D. from Columbia. Through some trick of fate, instead of becoming a professor, he landed in entertainment publicity. Together we represented the New York Playboy Club, and individually worked for other clients.

  One day Jerry complained he wasn’t feeling well. Soon afterwards he was diagnosed with leukaemia, stopped coming to the office, and left word he didn’t want calls. A few months later he died around age 35. Intelligent, capable, good guy, husband and father—suddenly gone. Wow.

  I never thought much about death until Jerry’s passing. According to Hinduism which I studied at the time, death is a normal stage through which all sentient beings pass on journeys to next incarnations. Perhaps I’d return as a chimpanzee, fish or possibly a cockroach someone would stomp.

  Weeks passed; the office seemed to forget Jerry, like he never existed. Jerry’s desk was taken over by Jay Russell, press agent in his 50s, who spent his days writing column items.

  One night approximately three months after Jerry’s demise, Jay and I worked late. I went home around 9pm, leaving him behind. Next morning, I learned that he died of a heart attack that night sitting on his home toilet, writing column items. I’m not making this up. That’s the story I was told. Perhaps he wrote one so funny, his heart burst with glee.

  After Jay’s funeral, I reflected upon Death striking twice at the chair beside mine. Was I next on the hit parade? Meanwhile, the office returned to its usual pressure cooker atmosphere. After a few weeks Jay was forgotten like Jerry.

  I was 35, looking down the road at 40. If I died at my desk or on the toilet, unquestionably I too would soon be forgotten by co-workers and clients. What was the point of busting my chops if it meant nothing in the end?

  I’m not exaggerating about busting my chops. Competition for clients was ferocious. A press agent was only as good as his last media break. If it didn’t break—it never happened. If you didn’t produce steady breaks—you were on the street.

  In pursuit of my paycheck, I spent substantial time on the phone asking editors and reporters to run my press releases, interview clients, and cover events. All too often they rejected my pleading, because they only had so much space, and their phones never stopped ringing from press agents’ calls, their mailboxes stuffed daily with press releases.

  Gradually it dawned upon me that I was in the wrong job for my personality type. But what on earth was the right job for my personality type?

  Since the fifth grade my grandest ambition remained: novelist. In light of Jerry’s and Jay’s pa
ssing, I slowly came to the life-altering realization that I didn’t want to kick the bucket without at least attempting to fulfil my highest career aspiration.

  I’d already tried writing at home evenings, after working in the office, but my mind was too tired. If I wanted to be a novelist, I needed to approach it like a job, first thing in the morning, four hours on the typewriter, no distractions. That meant I’d need to quit my regular job. My savings would support me for around a year. Surely I’d appear on the bestseller list by them.

  But I wasn’t totally delusional. I knew that substantial risk including possible homelessness accompanied the novelist’s life. I had no family to provide financial assistance if I hit the skids.

  On the other hand, if I played it safe and remained in PR, suppressing unhappiness, I’d probably evolve into a well-pensioned, gray bearded, ex-PR semi-alcoholic residing comfortably in a West Side co-op, or gated community in Boca Raton, happily married to a former Playboy Bunny.

  BUT the day inevitably would arrive when I’d be flat on my back in a hospital bed, tubes up my nose and jabbing into my arms, on the cusp of Death Itself. And knowing how my mind tends to function, I’d reproach myself viciously for not at least attempting to live my dream, since I was going to die regardless. Why not go for the gold ring of the novelist’s life, instead of getting put down daily by journalists?

  After much meditation on death, heaven, hell, destiny, mendacity and art, I resigned my press agent career and threw my heart and brain cells completely into writing novels. It was the bravest, most consequential and possibly most foolish decision of my life.

  You can call me shallow, immature, irresponsible and/or insane. But I never betrayed my ideal. Against the odds, I went on to write those 83 paperback novels, mostly in the high adventure category, about cops, cowboys, soldiers, spies, cab drivers, race car drivers, ordinary individuals seeking justice in an unjust world, and other lunatics, but never rose above bottom rungs of the literary ladder, and probably was considered a hack. Sometimes even I suspected myself of hackery.