Running down the stairs, Tony thought of how much of an idiot he was. Machete! Of course, Patrick’s death hadn’t been random. Of course, Kirsten would have gotten greedy. Of course, she had her big bodyguard take him out. How stupid of him to just walk into her house with no plan.
Now if he could just survive long enough to fully appreciate the depths of his own stupidity.
He opened the door to the street and, stepping out, he halted. In front of him flowed a bloated sea of people on Bedford Avenue. Of course. It was close to lunchtime on a nice day on the most crowded street in Williamsburg, a hundred feet from the Bedford Avenue train station, Ground Zero for hipness. The hipsters, the yuppies, the deliverymen, the waiters, the busboys, the workers, the tourists, the tourists, the tourists, they moved past Tony like a never-ending, achingly slow-flowing mass of molasses.
He had no choice. He dove in.
The crowd was so thick he was forced to shuffle, squeezing here and there but unable to move much faster than the pace of the mass. He had froggered himself this way ten feet down the block, waiting for a phalanx of people staring at their phones to move just a little bit over to the right, when he looked back to see Gunnar glaring at him from the doorway. Dressed now but with the ginger beard, a bit askew on his face.
“Somebody call the cops!” Tony yelled and then realized how ridiculous he sounded. No one even looked up.
He ducked and spun and elbowed, got some rude looks, but for the most part the people of the mass were trapped in their bubbles. He looked back and saw Gunnar trying to navigate through the mass as well. At least he wasn’t trying to slash his way through. At least not yet.
Tony and Gunnar made their way slowly across North 9th Street.
Tony figured Gunnar was about half a block behind him.
It was the world’s slowest foot chase.
Tony worked his new cell phone out of his pants. Maybe he could quickly dial 9-1-1. But he turned again to look behind him, and an immensely fat man dressed head to toe in black leather bumped into him, and the cell phone flew out of his hands. He heard but did not see it crack on the pavement. “Crap.”
He turned. Gunnar had lost his patience and was elbowing people aside. He held the machete in his hand.
Seriously, Tony thought. Does no one see that? Does no one care?
Out of desperation, Tony ran onto Bedford Avenue, onto the blacktop, the weight of his messenger bag banging against his back. Gunnar got the same idea. The cars were lined up, practically parked on Bedford Avenue. Gunnar was close. Tony jumped and slid over the hood of a car. Someone gave him a long honk.
He ran down a side street—there would be fewer people to run around, less of the mass, but that went for Gunnar, too. He’d have an easier time catching up.
A bell jingled. A woman was just coming out of a shop on his right. Tony ducked past her into the open shop door.
It was a narrow, cramped jewelry shop. Black walls and black floors. Headless torsos and necks with expensive necklaces, disembodied hands with rings and bracelets. Glass cases filled with shiny objects.
“Well,” Tony said. Sweat covered his face. His shirt was stuck to him. He breathed as heavy as a pervert. He realized he was probably making a poor impression.
Two women ogling a case did not look at him, but a sour-looking, cyan-haired salesperson behind the counter noticed him and smiled. She seemed about to ask him how she could help him, when, with a jingle, Gunnar walked in. And stood there.
“Shopping for earrings, too?” Tony said. He stepped behind a horizontal display case.
Gunnar looked around. He held the machete down, tapping it against his thigh. The two women continued to look at the jewelry. The saleswoman looked confused, as if she suspected something, but she still kept her smile on. “Is there something I can help you with today? Our nose rings are on sale at thirty percent off.”
Gunnar nodded and smiled at her. Then he held up the machete.
“Holy shit!” the salesperson said.
Gunnar stepped toward Tony and slashed. Tony moved to the side and bumped against a display case. The machete caught him on the left arm and cut just above his elbow. A long cut but not deep. He put his right hand on it to apply pressure.
The oglers were screaming now, too, along with the sour salesperson. Gunnar stood between them and the door.
“Get out of here!” the salesperson yelled. “Get out of my store!”
“Call the cops,” Tony said. “It’s the slasher!”
“My phone needs juice!” one of them yelled.
Gunnar took another step forward. His beard was just holding on by a few whiskers now. Tony looked for something, anything as a defense. He grabbed a neck mannequin with his bloody right hand and tossed it. The silk scarf around it flowed in the air. Gunnar tried to slap the mannequin away but the machete got caught in the flowing scarf, and he had to chop in the air a few times to dislodge it, finally getting through and cracking into the glass of the horizontal display case.
Tony swung his messenger bag off his back and put it in front of him as a shield. Gunnar swung again, cutting open the messenger bag. The pétanque balls clunked to the floor.
“Give it up. The cops will be here any minute,” Tony said. “Tell me somebody is calling the cops!”
“What’s their number?”
Gunnar came forward. Tony went back behind the broken display. Gunnar stepped to the right, Tony went left. Gunnar stepped left, and Tony went right.
“Why did you kill Patrick?” said Tony. “Did she make you do it?”
Something rolled at his feet. A pétanque ball. Tony picked it up and hurled it right at Gunnar’s head. He tried to swat it away with the machete, but missed. It connected with a crack. A different kind of carreau.
Gunnar slashed wildly in the air, knocking the display case over. Glass and bracelets and charms flew. More screaming.
Tony heard someone behind him, the salesperson.
“These two guys are having a fight. One of them has a big knife. I think they’re on drugs. One of them is Mexican, I think. No, not the one with the knife.”
Tony smirked. Then he said, “You hear that, Gunnar? The cops.”
Gunnar’s eyes went wild. He was a trapped animal.
“Put the machete down. Maybe—”
Gunnar kicked the display case. It came forward with a force that knocked Tony back. He fell on to the two customers, who had been crouching behind him.
Tony looked up. Gunnar put a foot on the toppled display case and raised the machete. Tony felt something in his right hand. Must be jewelry. He didn’t think about how it hurt his hand to hold it. As Gunnar began to slash, he threw whatever it was in Gunnar’s face.
Gunnar screamed at the same time Tony winced. Glass. It was glass.
Gunnar grabbed at his face. Blood seeped through his fingers. The beard was completely off now, stuck to Gunnar’s pants. One muffled word came through the fingers. “Bastard.” Then he turned and ran out of the door.
Tony slowly picked himself up off the two customers. “Sorry about that.”
He looked down to see his right hand was bleeding—a lot. Blood flowed down his left arm as well. He wouldn’t be donating at any blood drives soon.
The salesperson pointed her phone at him. “Get out! Please! Please leave my store!”
Tony ran outside the store. Nothing. He ran to the corner. Into the molasses-slow mass of people. From horizon to horizon. Molasses. Slow. And no sign of Gunnar.
Tony walked back into the store.
“Did you call the cops?” he said to the salesperson.
“Oh my god. You’re back.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“Pretty bad, huh?” Tony said to the nurse as she stitched up his hand. There was blood all over his jeans. “At least the scar will make me look more macho.”
“O-M-G,” Gabby said. “That is the stupidest thing you could say.”
The nurse snorted. “I seen three fingers hangin
g off just an hour ago. That little girl is macho.”
“Thanks,” Tony said. He turned to Gabby. “And thank you. I owe you.”
“Somebody has to help you pay the bills. Why didn’t you call your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my…I tried to reach her, but no answer. I’ll pay you back.”
“You have to. Sucks to have no insurance. Sucks worse to have no savings. What do you do with your money?”
“I’ve been going to a lot of hospitals lately. It’s great fun, but it adds up.”
“Sorry, right. Listen, do I even have a job anymore? Bobbert left me a weird message. He said not to come in today or anymore. Totes cryptic.”
“I’m not sure myself what’s going to happen, Gabby. But you should be looking for another job.”
“Me? I’m always looking for another job. What about you?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Patrick always used to say you could be a great reporter. He said you had the stubbornness you needed.”
“Maybe I—”
“Hey, you think I could get a job at Vogue?”
Just then, Detective Petrosino walked in. “You okay to talk now?”
Petrosino held out a hand to be shaken, but Tony held up his bandaged right hand.
“Right-o. Looks bad.”
“They tell me it’s no more than a mosquito bite around here.”
Tony asked Gabby to wait for him outside, and then he said, “Hey, did you get the package I left for you this morning?”
“Yes, very interesting video there,” Petrosino said. “And the rest. Did you read it all?”
“I didn’t have to. I finally had a chance to look through the drives when I was in Puerto Rico. I got curious—well, I was bored—and I finally took a look at the other documents on the drives. And then I saw one was Patrick’s novel.”
“A novel that was all about the gangs of Williamsburg.”
“Yep. Which was why he wanted to talk to Eladio Cortés, not for an exposé.”
“I talked to Cortés. He says he never heard of Patrick Stoller, and I believe him.”
“I expected as much. But Patrick thought he was in touch with him. I think that’s how he was lured out to that spot by the waterfront.”
“By his ex?” Petrosino said.
“Yeah, that’s what I think. Kirsten Waters, the person who knew most about Patrick’s literary ambitions. She exploited that to get rid of him. Contacted Patrick with a burner phone pretending to be Cortés.”
“Because of this blackmail scheme you mentioned.”
“Right. She wanted all the money for herself. But I think she didn’t trust Patrick not to snitch on her about the blackmail and the disappearance and murder of Rosa Irizzary. She says Patrick did it by accident, pushed Rosa down the stairs, but from the way she told the story I’m not sure Kirsten didn’t do it herself and on purpose.”
“Jeepers. She sounds like an angel.”
“She said they dumped her body in Newtown Creek.”
“Oh christ,” Petrosino said. “I’ll talk to the harbor patrol guys. They’ll have to drag the creek. Fact is, they find a body in there about every other day, so they may have discovered her previously. We’ll look to see if a Jane Doe answering her description turns up. Now, you think it’s possible this boyfriend of hers, this Gunnar Neumann, did all the slashings?”
“I mean, it could be. But it’s a hell of a lot of trouble to slash all those people just to get to Patrick. No, I think it’s more likely she took advantage of the situation. She saw all these slashings happening and figured, what’s one more? The police’ll never catch the slasher or slashers anyway—sorry, no offense—”
“None taken.”
“—and extrapolating from that, I think Gunnar had to kill that Erin Cole woman, the one who was pregnant. The papers say she and her husband witnessed Patrick’s murder. I’d bet Kirsten sent Gunnar after her, to keep her quiet.”
“Could be, and that would be pretty sad and pretty nasty. I’m looking forward to talking to Ms. Waters and Mr. Neumann. We’re on the lookout for both now. We’ll get ’em.”
Tony looked for a pen and paper but saw none. “Listen, if you don’t mind, I’d love to get some of this written down, and maybe get an exclusive interview with you, but my recorder is still back at Kirsten’s house. Can I call you in a little?”
“We’ll try to get that recorder back to you. I’ll give you some quotes, but, um, an exclusive is a no-go. I already talked to three news types on the way over here.”
“Just my luck.”
“Well, you did survive an attack by a man wielding a machete. That’s pretty lucky.”
“There is that,” said Tony. “Oh, one more thing for you. I have a source that tells me the slasher rides a funky-looking red bike, one that looks like it was made of different parts. I don’t suppose you found Gunnar’s bike.”
“No, but we’re looking. We’ve heard so many different things about the look of the bike, but thanks anyway for the tip.”
Petrosino went to shake Tony’s hand, but Tony waved his bandaged hand again, so Petrosino gave him a friendly smack on his other arm.
“Take care,” the detective said. “Stay out of trouble.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A week later Petrosino was enjoying a cigarette in peaceful solitude. It was one of those surprisingly balmy late August days in New York City where a person could actually enjoy being outside. He paced back and forth and inhaled and exhaled with pleasure. He was considering lighting up a second one when his phone rang. It was Hadid.
“How’s it going?” Petrosino said.
“They got me on desk duty at Police Plaza. Better than sitting in my own stink.”
“Right-o. I heard.”
“But that’s not why I’m calling. Remember you wanted me to keep an eye on that phrase ‘hipster death rattle’ online.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, the Twitter page with that name blew up about a week ago. Just about the time the news was breaking on the story of that ‘Hipster Slasher’ Gunnar you guys have been looking for.”
“Blew up how?” Petrosino inhaled as he listened.
“Whoever it is started posting. Remember it had just sixty-something followers. Now he’s got more than a thousand. And, get this, apparently there’s a T-shirt going around with the phrase on it. Can you believe it? Capitalism never sleeps. Zamorano is going to try to find one, so I can trace the manufacturer.”
“I believe it, jeez. So, what was posted? Anything useful?”
“I think so. I’ll start at the oldest, dated August 12, 10 a.m.: ‘hello, world!’ 10:02: ‘nice to meet you.’ Following that is a retweet of the Daily News piece on the slasher, then a retweet of the Post article, then a retweet of the Gothamist.”
“Get to the good stuff.”
“Just wait. Then at 11 a.m. same day: ‘it’s time you met the real me.’ 11:02: ‘the more the merrier was fine for a while, but it’s time to take credit.’ Then he posts a YouTube video on how to make a homemade machete.”
“Jeez Louise. Anything else?”
“Well, it looks like he ‘Liked’ just about every other post about the slasher, and there were a few thousand. And then people starting retweeting him. Just this past hour, the hashtag started trending.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means it’s popular. But his last three posts are from yesterday: ‘it ain’t over til it’s over,’ ‘as always, die hipster-yuppie scum die,’ and, get this, ‘bye bye brandon boy.’”
“As in Brandon Taylor, our last vic. Dammit. Is there any way to trace—”
“Through the IP address, yes. We’re working on it now.”
“Good,” Petrosino said. “Let me know. I’ll be back at my desk in a minute.”
“No rush. It’ll take a while. Enjoy your cigarette.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Yogi Johnson breathed out and eased himself into a flyin
g crow position on his mat.
His hands were planted in front of him, holding his entire weight. His right leg was tucked under his torso and lay loosely on his triceps, while his right leg was thrust straight toward the ceiling. His graying dreadlocks hung in his face, and sweat soaked his headband and rolled like worms down his forehead, down his arms, beaded on his hands. He did not believe in air conditioning, and he couldn’t afford it anyway, so he kept window fans going at both ends of his railroad apartment. He considered it his cheap bikram.
His arms began to tremble but he held the pose, counting to 1,010…1,011…1,012. He was glad to be able to hold the pose for so long, especially as he was nearing fifty-six years on the planet. He knew he should just be enjoying the pose but he couldn’t help challenging himself.
He exhaled with a grunt and gently moved himself out of the pose. He should have moved into less stressful positions from there, but instead he stood up and wiped the sweat off with a towel. Usually, an hour of yoga would exhaust him in the right way, calm his nerves. But it wasn’t working anymore.
He went into the kitchen to get some water from the tap.
His homemade machete lay there on the table.
He paused, for the thousandth time that day, to admire it. It was a work of art.
The steel was almost thirty inches long, two and a half inches wide, and just under an eighth of an inch thick. He’d found the steel piece in an abandoned lot in Greenpoint, one of the last abandoned lots in the neighborhood. Sitting right there on a pile of bricks and debris. It had stood out like a sign, something he had looked for his whole life.
The blade made perfect sense, a perfect analogy. The hipsters in the neighborhood had proliferated like wild, turning the once-peaceful neighborhood into a noisy, overgrown, fetid jungle. They needed to be weeded, and a machete was the perfect tool for the job.
Following an instructional YouTube video, he had outlined the shape he wanted in pencil and then in marker, so he could see it better in the dim basement light of his building. He had used a metal cutting disk to create the shape he wanted. Sparks flew, lighting up the basement, illuminating thick layers of dust on the workbench, the rusty tools, the old laundry machines. The blade did not have to be perfect, but he did want the rounded nose to look right.
Hipster Death Rattle Page 26