Len Levinson - Without Mercy

The girl raised her head, and the man had become half hard. She went to work on him again and the theater was so still you could hear her suck sounds and the occasional beep of a car out on Forty-second Street. The black guy rolled his hips and held one arm over his face to shield his eyes from the overhead floodlights, while his other hand caressed the girl’s breasts. She raised herself up again, and this time he was a little harder. She rolled onto her back and the guy crawled onto her, still not looking at the audience. Kowalchuk felt sorry for him. The poor bastard probably wanted to disappear into the woodwork, but the girl didn’t care at all. In fact, she probably was having fun.

The guy mounted her and she inserted him inside her the same as she’d inserted the swizzle sticks, chain, and silk handkerchiefs. She pointed her toes at the ceiling and wiggled them as the black guy screwed her awkwardly, burying his face in her shoulder as if trying to block out what was going on all around him.

Kowalchuk watched, feeling sick and uneasy. The poor black guy is so nervous he can hardly fuck, but the girl is enjoying it. The guy must be doing it for the money, but she’s having a good time, getting fucked in front of all us men. That’s a woman for you. Sick and depraved. And for that she shall die.

It was nine o’clock at night at the Crandon Hotel on the Bowery, On the second floor, the guests were getting ready for bed. They were a raggedy bunch, most hadn’t shaved lately, and many stank of alcohol.

Jackie Doolan sat on his cot, his bare knobby feet on the linoleum. He had on his filthy brown pants and gray tee-shirt, and was looking at the front page of the Daily News. “The Slasher Claims Third Victim, Times Square Porno Queen Found in Alley.”

Two photographs were on the front page. The one on the left showed the victim lying bloody and twisted against a stone wall, and the one on the right was a head shot of a man. Doolan squinted his eyes and read that the man was Frank Kowalchuk of East Ninth Street, and that he was believed to be the Slasher. If anyone spotted him they were to notify the nearest policeman. The photograph was taken of Kowalchuk when he was a cab-driver.

“Well whataya know about that!” said Doolan.

“Whataya know about what?” said the man in the bunk behind Doolan, trying to read over his shoulder.

“They got a picture of the Slasher here,” Doolan said, turning around and pointing at the picture. “Ugly fucker, ain’t he?”

“He ain’t no uglier than you,” replied the man, who had a scar on his right cheek and no teeth in his mouth.

Doolan squared his shoulders and raised his chin a few inches. “I been workin’ with the police on this case, y’know.”

“Yeah sure.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“You’re fuckin’ right I don’t believe you.”

“They probably wouldn’t even know who the guy is if it wasn’t for me.”

“What’d you do?”

“I helped ‘em find out where the guy lived.”

“How’d you do that?” asked the man as others bent their ears toward the conversation.

“I found the Slasher’s jacket in a trashcan. ‘Course I didn’t know it was the Slasher’s jacket at the time, but it had blood on it and the cops must’ve been lookin’ for it because when they saw it on me they picked it up. I told them where I found it, and that’s how they figgered out where he lived.”

An old bum on another bunk pshawed.

“Take that shit on down the line, buddy.”

“It’s the truth!” Doolan insisted. “You just ask any of the detectives workin’ on the case. They’ll tell you.”

“Sure they will.”

“They will!”

“I think you’re fulla shit.”

“Aw, fuck you guys,” Doolan said, turning the page of the Daily News.

He brought his face close to the page, because his eyes were bad, and read about Barbara Collins, the Slasher’s third victim. Bums streamed back and forth from the communal toilet and shower stall at the end of the room, and the lights would go out in about a half-hour.

In a cot against the wall, a heavyset man in a beard glared ferociously at Jackie Doolan.

Rackman sat in a chair in his darkened apartment, smoking a Lucky and sipping bourbon. He wore jeans and a tee-shirt and had the television set on, although he wasn’t watching it. It was eight o’clock in the morning and he’d just come off duty. He and Olivero had spent the night rousting people out of their beds in the cheap Times Square hotels, hoping to find Kowalchuk. They hadn’t.

Now Rackman was trying to wind down so he could go to sleep. His insomnia had worsened, and when he found time he intended to see a doctor and get a prescription for some sleeping pills. He was tense and anxious about the Slasher case, because he knew the longer the Slasher was on the loose, the more victims he’d claim.

There was a knock at the door. He got up and looked through the peephole. A man in a sport jacket was standing in the hall. Rackman opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Daniel Rackman?” the man asked.

“That’s me.”

The man took out a shield. “I’m a New York city detective and I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

Rackman stared at the shield and wondered if he was dreaming.

“Sorry to wake you up,” the detective said apologetically.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Rackman said, “and by the way, I’m a detective too. I’m with Midtown North.” He took out his wallet and showed his shield.

The man looked at it, surprised. “I’m Tommy Randazzo from the Ninth Precinct.”

“Come on in.”

Rackman led Randazzo into the living room and motioned for him to have a seat. He turned off the television set and turned on a light, then sat opposite him.

“What’s the problem?” Rackman asked.

Randazzo reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a folded crumpled piece of paper. “Gee, I feel strange asking you about this because you’re a detective too,” he said with a self-conscious smile.

“Just do your job and don’t worry about me.”

Randazzo unfolded the paper. “This is a Master Charge receipt. It was found in the jacket pocket of a man who was killed in a Bowery hotel early this morning, and it’s got your name and Master Charge number on it.” He handed the receipt to Rackman. “Do you remember it?”

Rackman looked at the receipt and recognized the address of the men’s store on the Bowery. “I remember it,” he said, his voice a few octaves lower. “It’s for a wool jacket I bought for a bum named Jackie Doolan. He gave me some information in the Slasher case.”

Randazzo blinked his eyes twice and thought for a few moments. “That’s very interesting,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because the victim was found in the toilet with his throat cut just like the Slasher’s victims.”

“Did you see the victim yourself?”

“Yes I did.”

“Was he about five-four, real skinny, in his late fifties, sandy hair turning gray?”

“That’s the one.”

“Let me get dressed,” Rackman said. “I’ll go downtown with you.”

Kowalchuk awoke under a bush in Central Park near the Seventy-second Street Transverse Road. His hair and beard had become quite long, effectively obscuring his features, and he’d lost thirty pounds since he’d moved out of East Ninth Street. He wore sneakers, jeans, and his blue bomber jacket, all filthy. Standing and stretching, yawning softly so as not to attract attention, he put on his gray cap and walked toward the path that led out of the park.