Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“You oughta cry. The whole world oughta cry. Why can’t I have back my jacket?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If I buy you a jacket just like the one in the back seat there, do you think you might remember where you found it?”

It took a few seconds for that to sink into Doolan’s alcohol-besotted brain, and then he grinned. “I might. If you was to gimme back the bottle of wine, that might help too. I think best when I got some muscatel in my blood.”

“Okay Doolan, I’m going to give you the muscatel back and I’m going to get you a brand new jacket. If you can’t tell me what I want to know then, I’m not going to throw you in jail.” Rackman took out his .38 and pointed it at Doolan’s nose. “I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

Doolan’s eyes goggled at the hole down the barrel of the gun.

“You wouldn’t do that, would ya, chief?”

“You’re damn straight I would. If you don’t think you’ll be able to tell me where you found that jacket, you’d better let me know now.”

Doolan winked. “I think I’ll be able to tell you something then, chief.”

Rackman didn’t know whether the old bum was jerking him off, but he had no choice but to follow through. He handed Doolan the bottle and then bent over the back of the seat, got the jacket, and placed it between them. “Maybe if you have it right next to you it’ll improve your memory.”

Doolan didn’t reply; he was too busy guzzling muscatel. Rackman started up the car and drove downtown, hoping the bum would remember where he got the jacket.

“Goddamn this is good muscatel,” Doolan murmured as they passed through the garment district.

“I hope it’s clearing out your mind a little.”

“My mind’s workin’ better than ever, chief. Why do you wanna know where I got the jacket?”

“Have you read in the papers about the New York Slasher?”

“The who?”

“The guy who’s cutting up the girls in Times Square.”

“A guy is doin’ that?”

“He sure is.”

“How come?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. He wore that jacket on two of his murders. The stain on the sleeve is some poor girl’s blood.”

“No shit.”

“I’m not shitting you.”

Doolan looked down at the jacket and started to hallucinate entrails and ghosts. “Get it away from me!” he screamed, scratching at the door beside him.

“What’s the matter with you!”

“Get it away! Get it away!”

Rackman stomped on the brakes. Doolan opened the door and jumped out of the car, which fortunately wasn’t going too fast in the heavy traffic. He fell to the pavement and rolled over outside a discount jewelry store on Broadway near Twenty-third Street. Rackman stopped the car and leapt out, almost getting sideswiped by a diaper delivery truck. He ran back to Doolan and knelt over him. A crowd formed out of nearby pedestrians.

“You stupid fuck!” Rackman yelled. “What are you trying to do!”

“Get that jacket away from me!” Doolan screamed.

Rackman was rattled and pissed off. He wanted to kick Doolan all over the street and then toss him down a sewer. “Okay, I’ll put the jacket on the floor in the back seat where you can’t see it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Stay put right here, okay?”

“Right.”

Rackman returned to the car and threw the jacket on the floor of the back seat. Then he went back to Doolan, helped him to his feet, and put the fedora on the back of his head. A patrolman walked toward them. “What the hell’s going on here?”

Rackman showed his shield, and the patrolman backed off. “I was taking this witness downtown and he jumped out of my car.”

“I’ll help you with him.”

Rackman and the patrolman carried Doolan by his arms and deposited him back in the car. Rackman thanked the patrolman for his help, got in the car, and resumed his drive downtown.

Doolan picked the bottle off the floor and took a swig. “I didn’t know the coat belonged to a damn murderer,” he grumbled.

“That’s why I want you to remember where you found it.”

“It gives me the willies.”

“If you can remember where you found it, then I’ll be able to get the Slasher. No more girls will be killed. Wouldn’t you want to save some girls?”

“They gimme some pussy?”

“Doolan, you’re disgusting.”

“Ain’t had no pussy for a long time.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it.”

“I just stick in my dick and move it around. Hehheh.”

Rackman drove through the darkening streets to the Bowery while Doolan finished the first pint of wine. Crossing Fourteenth Street, they came to the area of pawnshops, saloons, and porno movie theaters that comprised the classy part of the Bowery. Rackman parked in front of a store that sold work clothes and camping equipment. Its windows were crowded with denim jeans, boots, jockey shorts, backpacks, and jackets similar to the one in the back seat. Rackman pulled Doolan into the store, which was staffed by Hasidic men in black pants, white shirts, beards, and yarmukles.

One of the Hasids, whose skin was so pale you could almost see his bones, stepped forward. He had a potbelly, skinny arms, and was in dire need of physical exercise. “Can I help you?” he asked in the guttural tones of Eastern Europe. His beard was light brown and his eyes were wary.

“Hi,” Rackman said with a big smile. “I’d like to get one of those nice red and black wool jackets for my friend here.”

The Hasid looked at Rackman and Doolan as if they’d come from another planet. “This is your friend?”

“That’s right.”

The Hasid shrugged and led them past stacks of jeans and racks of shirts, through the tent section and the boot corner, to the cluttered room where jackets of wool and down were piled on shelves.

The Hasid looked at Doolan as though he was a piece of shit. “He should be a thirty-eight.”

“We can try one on him,” Rackman replied.

“If he tries it on he’s got to buy it, because we won’t be able to sell it to anybody else.”

“Give him a forty, then.”

The Hasid climbed the ladder and muttered to himself as he looked in the collars of jackets for sizes. Rackman watched, feeling uneasy as he always did in the presence of pious Jews. He felt guilty for not being more religious, for not upholding the traditions of his people, and believed that Jews like this Hasid despised him for being assimilated, but Rackman had been born and raised in America, as were his parents, who were minimally religious. He couldn’t understand Hebrew, wouldn’t know how to behave in a synagogue, and deep down thought the Jewish religion was a museum of obsolete rituals and beliefs. What did it matter whether a particular edible substance was eaten with another edible substance? How could a person wear two feet of twined hair around his ears and believe that had religious significance?

The Hasid descended the ladder with a size forty red and black jacket of the same brand and style worn by the Slasher.

“You like it?” Rackman asked Doolan as the Hasid held it up.

“Don’t like the color,” Doolan grumbled.

“But it’s the same color as the other one,” Rackman protested. “I’m getting you this one to replace the other one I’m taking for evidence.”

“Don’t like the color.”

“Why the fuck not!”

“It reminds me of the dead girls.”

The Hasid raised an eyebrow. “What dead girls?”

“Do you have this jacket in any other colors?” Rackman asked.

“It also comes in green and black squares, but I don’t know if I got any left in his size.”

Rackman looked at Doolan. “Will you take one in green and black if he’s got any left?”