Len Levinson - Without Mercy

As he crossed Fifty-first Street, an excited male voice came on the radio, “Signal ten-eighteen… signal ten-eighteen… Car three-four-seven reporting confirmation of homicide at 757 Eighth Avenue… Requesting backup services … over.” Rackman turned on his siren and stomped on the gas. He’d had a hunch the homicide was real. The Polka Dot Lounge was a camouflaged whorehouse on the worst block in Midtown North, and people could be expected to get killed there. When the airwaves were clear he picked up his mike and reported that he was on his way over.

Cars and taxicabs pulled out of his way as he sped down Seventh Avenue, his siren wailing. Drivers and pedestrians looked at him curiously, wondering where the action was. He thundered down the center of the avenue hunched over his wheel, a Lucky dangling from the corner of his mouth. At Forty-third Street next to the big OTB parlor he screeched a right turn, shot like a cannonball to the end of the block, and turned left. Four patrol cars were parked at different angles in front of the Polka Dot Lounge, and policemen held back a crowd. Rackman parked parallel to the curb, left his car, and pushed through the crowd. When he got near one of the policemen, he showed his shield and was let through.

Rackman entered the dark, seedy bar. A bunch of hookers and two men sat at tables nervously smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. A patrolman was a few feet away, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt.

“Where’s the body?” Rackman asked.

“In one of the back rooms.”

Rackman walked through the bar, passed the pool table, and saw a patrolman standing in the rear corridor. The patrolman knew Rackman and nodded toward an open door. Rackman went inside the tiny cubicle and saw the woman lying on the floor. Her throat was slashed, his mind clicking as he flashed on Cynthia Doyle in the alley on West Forty-fifth Street. It looked like the same kind of murder.

“Nobody touched anything I hope,” Rackman said to the patrolman.

“None of us did.”

“How about the people who work here?”

“They said they didn’t either.”

Rackman knelt beside the body. She was an old whore with bags under her eyes. The right side of her throat had gotten the worst of it, just like Cynthia Doyle. She lay on her back with her legs spread apart, one hand on her breast and the other twisted at her side. She probably had been unconscious before she hit the floor. Her eyes were wide open and glazed over. There was no murder weapon in view and the sheets on the bed were stained with blood. The killer had evidently wiped the murder weapon off on them.

Rackman stood up and looked around. There were footprints of men’s shoes in the blood. He left the cubicle and walked to the main room of the bar where the employees were sitting. They watched him and quieted down as he approached. He took out his shield and showed it to them.

“I’m Detective Rackman from Midtown North,” he said. “Did any of you see the killer?”

They nodded their heads, raised their hands, or said yes. The girls looked as hard as granite and the men would mash in your face for a dime.

“Who’s in charge here?” Rackman asked.

“I am,” said one of the men, a gorilla with thinning black hair and a bruise on his mouth.

“You saw the killer?”

“Yeah.”

“How close was he when you saw him?”

“Close enough for him to tag me.” He pointed to the bruise on his mouth.

“Come with me.”

Rackman led him to one of the booths to the rear of the pool table and told him to sit down.

“Can I smoke?” the man asked, settling himself in the chair.

“Go ahead.” Rackman sat on the bench against the wall, took out his pack of Luckies, and offered one, but the man shook his head and took out a pack of Chesterfields.

“What’s your name?” Rackman asked.

“Albert Pancaldo.”

“You’re the manager of this place?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see the killer when he came in?”

“Yeah.”

“Where were you?”

Pancaldo pointed to the front of the bar. “Sitting at one of those tables up there.”

Rackman took out his notepad and pen. “What did he look like?”

“He was a big guy, around six feet tall. Weighed maybe 250 pounds or more. He had a big gut and big arms.”

“What color hair?”

“Black.”

“Curly or straight?”

“Straight, I’d say.”

“Not wavy?”

“Straight.”

“Eyes?”

“Regular eyes.”

“You see what color they were?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“He was a white man?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever see him before?”

“Never.”

“Did he know anybody who worked here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What makes you think not?”

“Because nobody acted like they knew him.”

“How about the dead woman?”

“I don’t think she knew him either.”

“Did they talk?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“At the bar.”

“Where was she when she came in?”

“At the bar.”

“He sat next to her?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it appear that they knew each other?”

“I told you that I didn’t think she knew him.”

“Was anyone near them while they were talking?”

“The barmaid and a couple of other girls.”

“What’s the barmaid’s name?”

“Barbara Leary.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

“Rene LeDoux.”

Sirens howled in the distance as Rackman questioned Albert Pancaldo. Personnel arrived from the photo unit, the fingerprint unit, and the medical examiner’s office. Pancaldo didn’t appear happy to have his bar crawling with cops, as he continued answering Rackman’s questions. He told of how the killer came in, sat at the bar, and went to the back room with Rene.

“And then all of a sudden the guy came out of the room,” Pancaldo said. “I thought something was wrong right off because the girls are supposed to come out first. Mackie went back to check on Rene while I tried to hold the guy up, but he sucker-punched me and ran outside. Then Mackie came back and said that Rene was dead. I told the barmaid to call the cops.”

Rackman puffed his cigarette and ran Pancaldo’s story through his mind again. “This wasn’t some kind of rub-out, was it Pancaldo?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Rene LeDoux did something wrong and maybe you guys wiped her?”

Pancaldo slitted his eyes. “If we wanted to wipe her, we wouldn’t have wiped her here.”

“Did she have any enemies that you know of?”

“I don’t know much about her personal life. She’s just been down from Montreal for about a month.”

“Where does she live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Give me the address and a phone number where you can be reached, and then tell that barmaid I want to talk to her.”

Pancaldo gave Rackman the information, then he rose and lumbered toward the tables where the girls were sitting. He said something and a pale blonde got up, looked uncertainly at Rackman, slung her bag over her shoulder, and came toward him, swinging her bony hips. Cops and lab technicians scurried back and forth through the bar, carrying equipment and pieces of paper, looking intensely for any clues.

“You wanted to see me?” the blonde asked Rackman. She had front teeth like a rabbit.

“Are you Barbara Leary?”

“Yes.”

“Have a seat.”

She sat and crossed her legs, looking surly and suspicious.

“Is Barbara Leary your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live?”

“Four twenty-nine West Twenty-eighth Street.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Two months.”