Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Right there’s fine.”

He stood with his legs far apart and his knife in his hand, watching as she removed her raincoat and lay it over the bottom of the bed. Underneath she wore a blouse and a skirt, and she began unbuttoning her blouse with unsteady hands.

“Relax, Evelyn,” he said. “I’m just going to get what you should have given me before, and then I’m going away.”

She took off the blouse, revealing a white slip that covered a brassiere and her large motherly breasts. Embarrassed and frightened, she unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Picking it up, she folded it and lay it at the foot of the bed. Then she took the bottom of her slip in her fingers and pulled the garment over her head.

Kowalchuk’s erection throbbed as he gazed upon her in her brassiere, underpants, garter belt, nylon stockings, and high-heeled shoes.

He thought she was much sexier than the young girls in the Times Square porno movies, because he often saw young girls naked and in erotic poses, while Evelyn was a grown woman, full breasted and big-assed, and you never saw women like her in those porno movies.

She reached behind her back and unhooked her brassiere, then took it off her round low-hanging breasts. Kowalchuk had masturbated many times over thoughts of those voluptuous breasts, and now he was seeing them for the first time.

Avoiding his eyes, she sat on the bed and took off her shoes. She unhooked her nylons and rolled them down. Standing again, she pushed down her underpants and garter belt together, laying them atop the other clothes at the foot of her bed. Her skin was smooth as vanilla pudding and he stared at her black pubic hair.

“Do you want me to get onto the bed, Frank?”

“Come over here, Evelyn, and get on your knees.”

She hesitated a moment, then bit her lip and stepped toward him, dropping to her knees as he unzipped his fly and took out his erection.

“Suck it, Evelyn,” he said, “and if I feel any teeth I’ll smack you.”

“I didn’t know he had a girl friend,” Jenkins said, sitting at his desk looking at the photos of Evelyn Ditchik lying naked on her bed with her throat slashed.

Detectives Olivero and Dancy sat on the chairs in front of him. Olivero wore a fedora on the back of his head and Dancy smoked a pipe.

“She wasn’t exactly his girl friend,” Olivero said. “They just used to go together a couple of years ago.”

“It’s too bad nobody told us about her, or that she never stepped forward herself.”

“Those Ukrainians are awfully close-mouthed,” Olivero replied, “or at least they were. Now everybody who ever knew the son of a bitch is calling for police protection.”

“Her boyfriend,” said Dancy, “wants to move into the Ninth Precinct until they catch Kowalchuk. He thinks Kowalchuk might want to kill him.”

Jenkins shrugged. “He might. There’s no telling where he’ll turn up next. Does Rackman know about this yet?”

“Yeah,” said Olivero. “I called him as soon I found out about it myself.”

“What’d he say?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

“No. He was quiet for a few moments, then he said thanks for telling him and hung up the phone.”

Jenkins scratched his eyebrow. “He’s counting on the stakeout to get the Slasher. The ad will be in the paper next Wednesday?”

Dancy removed his pipe from his mouth. “Next Thursday.”

Jenkins sighed. “Let’s hope the Slasher doesn’t get anybody else before then.”

It was night and Kowalchuk was walking down a street in South Brooklyn. Three-story buildings with long stoops lined the sidewalks and on the corner at Wykoff Avenue a bunch of Italian kids were horsing around in front of a candy store. Kowalchuk passed them by, his hand on his switchblade, and kept walking, looking at the numbers on the buildings, most of which were identical to each other. After a few more blocks the sidewalks were deserted of pedestrians, and an occasional moving automobile was the only sign of life. Kowalchuk remembered a movie he’d seen about a city that was deserted because all its people had died of atomic radiation. It had looked something like this.

Finally he saw the number he was looking for. It was on the other side of the street and he looked both ways before crossing over. The building was like most of the others, three stories with a long stoop leading up to the second floor. Kowalchuk went to the side of the building and saw an Anchor fence with a car behind it. Attached to the building beside the fence was a sign that said: Please ring bell twice. If there is no answer, please go away and come back later. Please do not hang around in front of this house. Thank you. Kowalchuk pressed the button twice and put his hands in his pockets, waiting. He’d called first to make the appointment, and the fucker had better be here. A door opened at the side of the building and a stout man with black hair came out wearing overalls and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Joe?” asked the man.

“Yes,” said Kowalchuk. “Are you Tony?”

“Yeah. You’re a little late, aren’t you?”

“I got a little tied up.”

“There are a few people in front of you. You’ll have to wait.”

“That’s okay.”

Kowalchuk followed Tony into the building and down a flight of stairs. They passed through a dark corridor and finally came to a small room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Tony said.

Four young guys and one young girl were standing around in the room, smoking cigarettes and looking suspiciously at Kowalchuk. On the walls were tattoo designs: ships at sea, pirate ladies, skulls, and hawks. In the adjoining small room a girl straddled a chair, her arms crossed over its back and her face cradled in her arms. Tony sat behind her and lifted one of his tattooing machines off the table. He wiped the half-finished tattoo on her shoulder with a paper towel and went to work on it again.

Kowalchuk watched through the glass window that separated the rooms, and was fascinated by the needle zigging into her skin, spitting out blue ink that mixed with her red blood. The girl had her fists balled up as though it hurt. Kowalchuk wondered why such a pretty young girl would want to get a tattoo on her back. Tony wiped it off again and Kowalchuk could see that it was a butterfly.

Tony looked up at Kowalchuk. “You know what you want?”

Kowalchuk pointed to his forearm. “I want a knife here.”

“I got some knives on the wall in the corner. Pick one out.”

Kowalchuk went to the corner and found the drawings of knives. There were long ones and short ones and some said “Death Before Dishonor” underneath them.

“Gonna get a knife?” asked one of the young guys, who was wearing tight jeans and had slick black hair.

“Yeah,” said Kowalchuk.

“I got a knife right here.” The young guy rolled up his sleeve and showed a three inch knife on his bicep. It was made to look as though it pierced his skin, and drops of blood were tattooed around the wound.

“That’s a nice one,” Kowalchuk said. “You get it here?”

“Naw, I got it in Hoboken. Don Kelly done it— ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“He’s pretty good, but I don’t think he’s good as Tony here. How many tattoos you got?”

“I don’t have none,” Kowalchuk said.

“No?”

“Uh-uh.”

“This’ll be your first one?”

“Yuh.”

“Shit,” the kid said, smiling. “I got one here,” he rolled up his other sleeve, “and here,” he unbuttoned his shirt and showed an eagle on his chest, “and here,” he pulled up a pant leg. “I’m going to get another one here.” He pointed to his other bicep.