Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  She giggles. She really is adorable.

  “Stand over here,” I say, pointing to an area at the foot of the tub.

  She obeys. She vamps for me. “What do you think?”

  I look her up and down. “You look perfect. You look just like a movie star.”

  “Sweet talker.”

  I step forward, camera raised, and push her gently backward. She falls into the tub with a great splash. I need her dripping wet for the shot. She flails her arms and legs wildly, trying to get out of the tub.

  She manages to rise to her feet, soaking wet, appropriately outraged. I cannot blame her. In my defense, I made sure the water in the tub was not too hot. She turns to face me, rage in her eyes.

  I shoot her in the chest.

  One quick shot, bringing the pistol up from my hip. The wound blossoms on the white dress, spreading outward like small red hands offering benediction.

  She stands quite still for a moment, the reality of it all slowly dawning on her pretty face. There is that initial look of violation, followed quickly by the horror of what has just happened to her, this abrupt and violent punctuation of her young life. I look behind her to see the thick impasto of tissue and blood on the venetian blind.

  She slides down the tile wall, slicking it crimson. She sinks into the tub.

  With the camera in one hand and the gun in the other, I walk forward, as smoothly as I can. It is certainly not as smooth as it would be on a track, but I think it will lend a certain immediacy to the moment, a certain vérité.

  Through the lens, the water runs red—scarlet fish struggling to the surface. The camera loves blood. The light is ideal.

  I zoom in on her eyes—dead white orbs in the bathwater. I hold the shot for a moment, then—

  CUT TO:

  A few minutes later. I am ready to strike the set, as it were. I have everything packed and ready. I start Madame Butterfly at the beginning of atto secondo. It really is moving.

  I wipe down the few things I have touched. I pause at the door, surveying the set. Perfect.

  That’s a wrap.

  18

  BYRNE CONSIDERED WEARING a shirt and tie, but decided against it. The less attention he called to himself in the places he had to go, the better. On the other hand, he wasn’t quite the imposing figure he once was. And maybe that was a good thing. Tonight he needed to be small. Tonight he needed to be one of them.

  When you’re a cop, there are only two types of people in the world. Knuckleheads and cops. Them and us.

  The thought made him consider the question. Again.

  Could he really retire? Could he really become one of them? In a few years, when the older cops he knew had retired, and he got pulled over, they really wouldn’t know him. He’d be a just another knucklehead. He’d tell the scrub who he was, and where he’d worked, and some stupid story about the job; he’d flash his retirement ID and the kid would let him go.

  But he wouldn’t be inside. Being inside meant everything. Not just the respect, or the authority, but the juice. He thought he had made the decision. Obviously he wasn’t ready.

  He decided on a black dress shirt and black jeans. He was surprised to find that his black peg-legged Levi’s fit him again. Perhaps there was an upside to being shot in the head. You lose weight. Maybe he’d write a book: The Attempted Murder Diet.

  He had made it through most of the day without his cane—having steeled himself with pride and Vicodin—and he considered not bringing it with him now, but soon banished the thought. How was he supposed to get around without it? Face it, Kevin. You need a cane to walk. Besides, maybe he would appear weak, and that was probably a good thing.

  On the other hand, a cane might make him more memorable, and that was something he didn’t want. He had no idea what they might find this night.

  Oh, yeah. I remember him. Big guy. Walked with a limp. That’s the guy, Your Honor.

  He took the cane.

  He also took his weapon.

  19

  WITH SOPHIE BATHED and dried—and powdered, another one of her new things—Jessica began to relax. And with the calm came the doubts. She considered her life as it was. She had just turned thirty. Her father was getting older, still vibrant and active, but aimless and alone in his retirement. She worried about him. Her little girl was growing up by the moment, and somehow the possibility loomed that she might grow up in a house in which her father did not live.

  Hadn’t Jessica just been a little girl herself, running up and down Catharine Street, a water ice in hand, not a care in the world?

  When did all this happen?

  WHILE SOPHIE COLORED a coloring book at the dining room table, and all was right with the world for the moment, Jessica put a videotape in the VCR.

  She had taken a copy of Psycho out of the Free Library. It had been quite awhile since she had seen the movie start-to-finish. She doubted if she could ever watch it again without thinking about this case.

  When she was in her teens she had been a fan of horror movies, the sort of fare that took her and her friends to the cineplex on Friday nights. She remembered renting movies while she babysat for Dr. Iacone and his two little boys—she and her cousin Angela watching Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, the Halloween series.

  Her interest faded the minute she became a cop, of course. She saw enough of the reality every day. She didn’t need to call it entertainment at night.

  Still, a movie like Psycho certainly transcended the slasher fare.

  What was it about this film that made the killer want to reenact the scene? Beyond that, what made him want to share with an unsuspecting public in such a twisted way?

  What was the mind-set?

  She watched the scenes leading up to the shower sequence with a dark anticipation, although she really didn’t know why. Did she really think that every copy of Psycho in the city had been altered? The shower scene passed without incident, but it was the scenes directly afterward that got her added attention.

  She watched Norman clean up after the murder—spreading the shower curtain on the floor, dragging his victim’s body onto it, mopping the tile and tub, backing Janet Leigh’s car up to the motel room door.

  Norman then carries the body to the open car trunk and places it inside. Afterward, he returns to the motel room and methodically collects all of Marion’s belongings, including the newspaper containing the money she had stolen from her boss. He stuffs all of it into the trunk of the car and drives it to the edge of the lake nearby. Once there, he pushes it into the water.

  The car begins to sink, slowly being consumed by the black water. Then it stops. Hitchcock cuts to a reaction shot of Norman, who glances around, nervously. After an excruciating few seconds, the car continues to descend, eventually disappearing from view.

  Cut to the next day.

  Jessica hit PAUSE, her mind racing.

  The Rivercrest Motel was just a few blocks from the Schuylkill River. If their doer was as obsessed with re-creating the murder from Psycho as he appeared to be, maybe he took it all the way. Maybe he stuffed the body into the trunk of a car and submerged it in water, the way Anthony Perkins had done with Janet Leigh.

  Jessica picked up the phone and called the Marine Unit.

  20

  THIRTEENTH STREET WAS the last remaining seedy stretch of downtown, at least as far as adult entertainment was concerned. From Arch Street, where it was bounded by two adult bookstores and one strip joint, to about Locust Street, where there was another short belt of adult clubs and a larger, more upscale “gentleman’s club,” it was the one street the Philadelphia Convention and Visitors Bureau told visitors to avoid despite the fact it ran smack into the Convention Center.

  By ten o’clock, the bars were starting to fill up with their strange smorgasbord of rough trade and out-of-town business types. What Philly lacked in quantity, it certainly made up for in breadth of depravity and innovation: from under
wear lap dances to maraschino cherry dances. In the BYOB places, the law permitted customers to bring their own liquor, which allowed full nudity on the premises. In some of the places where alcohol was served, the girls wore a thin latex covering that made it look like they were nude. If necessity was the mother of invention in most areas of commerce, it was the lifeblood of the adult entertainment industry. One BYOB club, the Show and Tell, had lines around the block on weekends.

  By midnight, Byrne and Victoria had visited half a dozen clubs. No one had seen Julian Matisse or, if they had, they were too afraid to acknowledge it. The possibility that Matisse had left town was becoming more and more likely.

  At around one o’clock, they arrived at a club called Tick Tock. It was another licensed club that catered to that second-tier businessman, the guy from Dubuque who had concluded his business in Center City and found himself drunk and horny and diverted on his way back to the Hyatt Penn’s Landing or the Sheraton Society Hill.

  As they approached the front door of the freestanding building, they heard a loud discussion between a big man and a young woman. They were in the shadows at the far end of the parking lot. At one time, Byrne might have intervened, even off duty. Those days were behind him.

  The Tick Tock was a typical urban strip club—a short runway bar with a pole, a handful of sad and sagging dancers, a two-watered-down-drink minimum. The air was dense with smoke, cheap cologne, and the primal smell of sexual desperation.

  A tall, skinny black girl with a platinum wig was on the pole when they walked in, dancing to an old Prince song. Every so often she’d get down on her knees and crawl the area in front of the men at the bar. Some of the men waved money; most didn’t. Every so often she’d pick up the bills and hook them on her G-string. If she stayed in the red and yellow lights she looked passable, at least for a downtown club. If she stepped into the white light, you could see the mileage. She avoided the white spotlights.

  Byrne and Victoria stayed at the back bar. Victoria sat a few stools away from Byrne, giving him his play. The men were all very interested in her until they got a good look. They did their double takes, not entirely ruling her out. It was still early. It was clear they all felt they could do better. For the money. Occasionally a business type would stop, lean in, whisper something to her. Byrne wasn’t worried. Victoria could handle herself.

  Byrne was on his second Coke when a young woman approached, sidled up next to him. She wasn’t a dancer; she was a pro, working the back of the room. She was on the tall side, brunette, wore a charcoal pin-striped business suit and black stiletto heels. The skirt was very short, and she wore nothing under the blazer. Byrne figured her routine was to fulfill the secretary fantasy a lot of these visiting businessmen had for their office mates back home. Byrne recognized her as the girl being pushed around in the parking lot earlier. She had the flushed, healthy complexion of a recently transplanted country girl, perhaps from Lancaster or Shamokin, someone who hadn’t been at this long. That glow will certainly fade, Byrne thought.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Byrne replied.

  She looked him up and down, smiled. She was very pretty. “You are one big guy, fella.”

  “All my clothes are big. It works out well.”

  She smiled. “What’s your name?” she asked, having to shout over the music. A new dancer was up, a chunky Latina in a strawberry-red teddy and maroon pumps. She danced to an old-school song by the Gap Band.

  “Denny.”

  She nodded, as if he had just given her a tip on her taxes. “My name’s Lucky. Nice to meet you, Denny.”

  She said Denny with an emphasis that told Byrne she knew it was not his real name, and, at the same time, that she didn’t care. Nobody at the Tick Tock had a real name.

  “Nice to meet you,” Byrne replied.

  “Whatcha up to tonight?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for an old friend of mine,” Byrne said. “He used to come here all the time.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

  “His name is Julian Matisse. Know him?”

  “Julian? Yeah, I know him.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “I can take you right to him.”

  “Right now?”

  The girl looked around the room. “Gimme a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  Lucky made her way across the room, over to where Byrne figured the offices were. He caught Victoria’s eye and gave her a nod. After a few minutes, Lucky returned. She had her purse over her shoulder.

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I generally don’t provide such services for free, ya know,” she said with a wink. “Gal’s gotta make a living.”

  Byrne reached into his pocket. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, tore it in half. He handed one half to Lucky. He didn’t have to explain. She grabbed the half, smiled and took him by the hand, said: “Told ya I was Lucky.”

  As they headed to the door, Byrne caught Victoria’s eye again. He held up five fingers.

  THEY WALKED A block to a crumbling corner building, the type of structure that was known in Philly as a Father, Son and Holy Ghost—a three-story row house. Some called it a trinity. Lights burned in a few of the windows. They walked down the side street and around back. They entered the row house and walked up the rickety stairs. The pain in Byrne’s back and legs was excruciating.

  At the top of the stairs, Lucky pushed open the door, entered. Byrne followed.

  The apartment was crackhead-filthy. Stacks of newspapers and old magazines lined the corners. It smelled like rotting dog food. A broken pipe in the bathroom or kitchen had left a damp, briny odor throughout the space, warping the old linoleum, decaying the baseboards. There were half a dozen scented candles burning throughout, but they did little to mask the stench. From somewhere nearby a rap song played.

  They walked to the front room.

  “He’s in the bedroom,” Lucky said.

  Byrne turned toward the door to which she was pointing. He glanced back, saw the infinitesimal tic on the girl’s face, heard the creak of the floorboard, caught the flickering reflection in the window overlooking the street.

  As far as he could tell, there was just one coming.

  Byrne timed the impact, silently counting down as the heavy footsteps approached. He sidestepped at the last second. The guy was big, broad-shouldered, young. He slammed into the plaster. When he recovered, he turned, dazed, came at Byrne again. Byrne planted his feet and brought the cane up and out with all his strength. It caught the guy in the throat. A clot of blood and mucus flew out of his mouth. The guy tried to regain his balance. Byrne hit him again, this time low, just below the knee. He screamed once, then folded to the floor, scrambling to get something out of his waistband. It was a Buck knife in a canvas sheath. Byrne stepped on the man’s hand with one foot, kicked the knife across the room with the other.

  The man was not Julian Matisse. It had been a setup, a classic ambush. Byrne had all but known that it would be, but if word just happened to spread that a guy named Denny was looking for someone, and that you fucked with him at your own peril, it might make the rest of the night and the next few days move a little more smoothly.

  Byrne looked at the man on the floor. He was clutching his throat, gasping for air. Byrne turned to the girl. She was shaking, backing slowly toward the door.

  “He … he made me do it,” she said. “He hurts me.” She pushed up her sleeves, revealing black-and-blue bruises on her arms.

  Byrne had been in this business a long time, and he knew who was telling the truth and who wasn’t. Lucky was just a kid, not a day over twenty. Guys like this guy preyed on girls like her all the time. Byrne rolled the guy over, reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, took his driver’s license. His name was Gregory Wahl. Byrne rummaged his other pockets and found a thick roll of cash in a rubber band—maybe a grand. He peeled off a hundred, pockete
d it, then tossed the money to the girl.

  “You’re … fuckin’ … dead,” Wahl managed.

  Byrne pulled up his own shirt, revealing the butt of the Glock. “We can end this right now if you like, Greg.”

  Wahl continued to stare at him, but the threat was gone from his face.

  “No? Don’t want to play anymore? Didn’t think so. Look at the floor,” Byrne said. The man complied. Byrne turned his attention to the girl. “Leave town. Tonight.”

  Lucky looked side-to-side, unable to move. She had noticed the gun, too. Byrne saw that the roll of cash had already been spirited away. “What?”

  “Run.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes. “But if I do, how do I know you won’t—”

  “This is a one-time-only offer, Lucky. Good for another five seconds.”

  She ran. Amazing what women can do in high heels when they have to, Byrne thought. In a few seconds he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Then he heard the back door slam.

  Byrne knelt down. For the moment, the adrenaline negated any pain he may have felt in his back and legs. He grabbed Wahl by the hair and pulled his head up. “If I ever see you again this will seem like a good time. In fact, if I even hear about a businessman getting rolled down here in the next few years I’m going to assume it was you.” Byrne held the driver’s license in front of his face. “I’m going to take this with me as a memento of our special time together.”

  He stood up, grabbed his cane. He drew his weapon. “I’m going to look around. You are not going to move an inch. Hear me?”

  Wahl remained defiantly silent. Byrne took the Glock, put the barrel against the man’s right knee. “You like hospital food, Greg?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Byrne walked across the front room, edged open the doors to the bathroom and bedroom. The windows were wide open in the bedroom. Someone had been in there. A cigarette burned in an ashtray. But now the room was empty.