Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“I can’t afford these thirty-dollar drinks.”

She gazed soulfully into his eyes. “Oh come on.”

“I just came in to have a beer, that’s all.”

“How come you’re so cheap?”

“I ain’t cheap. I just don’t believe in buying thirty-dollar drinks.”

Sally took her hand off his cock and looked at the buck-toothed blonde behind the bar. “This guy won’t go for a spit,” she complained.

The blonde turned up a corner of her mouth. “What’s wrong with you, man? Got short arms and long pockets?”

“I just want to drink my beer in peace,” the fat man replied, taking another sip.

The barmaid walked away, and the black whore turned to her other side. These lousy whores always try to embarrass you into spending money, the fat man thought. That’s the way women operate. They’re disgusting bitches and they all should be put into prisons. If a man wanted one he could check one out, and if she misbehaved, back she’d go. It made no sense to treat women like equals when they had less honor than dogs.

The woman from Montreal poked her breast into his arm. “Still mad at me?”

“I was never mad at you.”

“But you don’t like me.”

“Who said I don’t like you?”

“If you liked me you’d buy me a drink.”

The fat man squinted at the makeup that looked like washing machine grease around her eyes. This old whore probably has been giving gonorrhea to guys for twenty-five years.

“You said I could buy you a ten-dollar drink?” he asked.

She smiled. “That’s right.”

“And then we go back to one of those little rooms and have a talk?”

“Uh huh.”

He stood, reached into his pocket, and threw a ten-dollar bill on the bar. The woman from Montreal waved to the bucked-tooth blonde.

“A ten-dollar bottle of champagne,” said the woman from Montreal.

The blonde picked the money off the bar and looked at the fat man. “You think you can afford it?”

“Yeah,” he replied, an edge on his voice.

The blonde bent over the cooler and took out a small bottle of domestic champagne, putting it on the bar along with a champagne glass. The woman from Montreal took the bottle and glass in one hand, the fat man’s hand in her other, and led him toward the rooms in back. He carried his beer can and glass, and as they passed the girl dancing on the pool table, she winked at him. They entered the corridor, the whore opened one of the doors, and they entered a small room. A cot was against the wall, its mattress covered by a sheet.

“Have a seat,” she said.

He sat on the cot and she sat beside him, crossing her veiny legs.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

“No.”

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to pretend.”

“I said I’m not nervous.”

She shrugged. “What do you want me to do for you?”

“I want you to blow me, and then I want to fuck you.”

“That’ll be twenty dollars more.”

“Twenty more dollars!”

She smiled slyly. “That’s what I said.”

“What was the ten dollars for?”

“So you could have a drink with me alone.”

“I thought that included everything else.”

“If you want to get sucked and fucked you’ve got to pay extra.”

“You’re just trying to con me,” he said angrily.

“I’m just telling you what the prices are. If you don’t want to pay, we’ll just drink up and go back to the bar.” She stood, placed her hands on her hips, and looked coldly at him.

He stood beside her. “Okay, I’ll pay the twenty dollars.”

She licked her lips. “It’ll be the best twenty dollars you ever spent in your life.”

“We’ll see about that.” He looked at the wall behind her. “What’s that over there?”

She turned around. “What?”

He leapt at her, clasping his big hand over her nose and mouth. She dug her fingernails into his arm and tried to scream, but his hand muffled the noise while he reached into his pocket with his free hand and came out with his switchblade. He hit the button and it snapped open. She struggled frenziedly to get away.

“Your whoring days are over,” he said into her ear, plunging the blade into her throat at the jugular.

She had one massive convulsion, blood gushing out of her throat. Then she went limp and he let her fall to the floor, where a puddle of blood formed around her face. Wiping his knife and his hands on the sheet, he closed the blade and dropped it into his pocket. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed his fingerprints off the glass and beer can. Some blood had splashed on his arm, so he yanked the sheet off the bed and wiped it away. The stain that was left didn’t show up much on his red and black wool jacket. He looked down at her sprawled in her own blood, and his body quivered with the same erotic excitement he’d felt when he’d killed the massage parlor whore. He had to calm himself down and get out of there.

He took three deep breaths and that settled him a little. Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor and walked confidently to the front door of the bar. The girls looked at him curiously, and so did the two bouncers. The two bouncers exchanged glances, then got up from the tables and moved to block his way.

“What’s the hurry?” one of them asked.

“I’m not in any hurry,” he replied in a deadly voice.

One of the bouncers walked toward the corridor to find out why the whore hadn’t reappeared too.

“Look out!” screamed a girl at the bar.

The fat man slugged the bouncer in front of him, and the bouncer swayed on his feet. The fat man pushed him out of the way and ran to the door. On the sidewalk he melted into the crowd that swept him away.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning. The fat man stood on the corner of Second Avenue and Ninth Street, looking at the front page of the Daily News. The headline read, ‘The Slasher Strikes Again.”

Underneath the headline were two pictures. The one on the left showed the whore lying dead in her whorehouse room. On the right was a composite drawing of the suspected killer.

“He looks a little like you, Mr. Kowalchuk.”

Kowalchuk spun around and saw Mrs. Mazepa, who lived in his building. She was a widow in her sixties who lived alone. She spoke with a thick Ukrainian accent.

“You really think it looks like me?” Kowalchuk asked.

“Just a little. Not that much.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips as she looked at the picture. “What a terrible thing to happen, but I suppose women who do that kind of work have to expect trouble.”

“That’s true.”

“If they had decent jobs, it wouldn’t happen to them.”

“Probably not. How are you doing these days, Mrs. Mazepa?”

“Pretty good, except that my back hurts me sometimes. Are you still driving a cab?”

“Once in a while.”

“Be careful, Mr. Kowalchuk. The streets are dangerous. The police arrest criminals and the judges turn them loose. Well, I’ve got to go to the butcher.”

Mrs. Mazepa crossed the street, and Kowalchuk headed back to his apartment. He was in a mild state of shock from seeing a drawing of his face on the front page of the Daily News. Even Mrs. Mazepa thought it looked like him. This was serious. He’d been foolish to let himself be seen that way by so many people last night. Now the police would be on the lookout for him. He’d have to be more careful. But that would make the game more fun.

He had two baloney sandwiches and a bottle of Coco-Cola for breakfast, reading and rereading the story in the Daily News. They’d figured out that the murder of the blonde whore and the murder of the French whore were committed by the same person, and they were calling him the Slasher. He liked that.