Len Levinson - Without Mercy

A pucker appeared between her eyebrows. “What made you decide that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. This and that.”

“This and what?”

He looked at her, getting annoyed. “Do we have to talk about this? Why can’t we just go out?”

“Because we have to talk about this.”

“Why?”

“So that we know what’s going on. So that we won’t be in the dark about things.”

“You mean so that you won’t be in the dark about things.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were more in the dark than I am. You do everything you can so you won’t have to think about things.”

“I think about things.”

“Evidently you have been lately. Tell me what’s going on, Danny. I don’t mind being unhappy, but I don’t like to be confused. What’s the big miracle?”

“It’s no miracle. I was just thinking that I shouldn’t be so rotten to you.”

“It’s finally occurred to you that you’ve been rotten to me?”

“Yes.”

“You admit that?”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“My goodness,” she said. “It must be the second coming of Christ.”

“It couldn’t be,” Rackman replied, “because I’m Jewish.”

The phone rang for the first time at five o’clock in the afternoon.

“Should I answer it?” asked Dorothy Owens.

“No,” said Jenkins, looking at her over his half-moon reading glasses. “The ad said after six o’clock and I think we should stick to that.”

Rackman came running into the office. “Is that the phone?”

“Yeah,” said Jenkins, “but she’s not answering it until six o’clock like the ad said.”

“What if it’s the Slasher?”

“What if it ain’t? Suppose she answers it and makes a date to meet some other pervert? While she’s out, the Slasher might call. I think we should stick to the six o’clock schedule, because that way at least we won’t miss him if he calls.”

Rackman looked at his watch. “Mind if I hang out in here.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Jenkins said, “as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

Rackman sat on one of the chairs near Dorothy Owens, who was wearing tan slacks and a dark brown jacket. Rackman had on his gray slacks and blue blazer combination with a white shirt and no necktie. He had the copy of the New York Review of Sex that had the ad in it, and read the review of a hot movie playing on Forty-ninth Street. Dorothy craned her neck to see over his shoulder, so he angled the page toward her. It showed a photograph of two women going down on a guy, and she made a face. Rackman laughed.

Jenkins looked up. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.”

“I think you like that paper.”

“It really isn’t that bad.”

The phone rang again. The three of them looked at it. Olivero and Dancy came to the door of the office, curiosity and anticipation on their faces.

“It’s ten minutes to six,” Rackman said.

“Oh what the hell,” Jenkins replied. “Answer it.”

Dorothy picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Kim?” asked the deep voice of a man. They all could hear him through an amplifier in the base of the phone.

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m calling about the ad in the paper.”

“Oh?”

“I weigh almost two hundred and fifty pounds—is that enough?”

“How tall are you?” she asked.

“Five foot eight.”

“Sounds fine to me,” she said cheerily, crossing her eyes and making a weird face at Rackman.

The caller breathed deeply a few times; he obviously was a little nervous. “Would you like to get together?”

“Sure.”

“My place or yours?”

“Why don’t we meet outdoors first, so we can kind of get to know each other a little first.”

“Outdoors?” he asked.

“Yes. You won’t mind, would you?”

“I thought you wanted to have sex.”

“I do—I really do, but I’d like to relax with you a little bit first. I just couldn’t take off my clothes and start doing it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d have to feel comfortable with you first, and the only way to do that is to meet someplace and talk for fifteen minutes or so. We should feel sure that we like each other.”

“I feel sure that I like you already,” the man said.

“Well you seem nice too, but I’d like to meet you first.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“I live near Lincoln Center. Could you meet me at the fountain there at seven-thirty?”

“Okay. How will I know you?”

“I’ll be wearing tan slacks and a brown jacket.”

“What color hair you got?”

“I’m a light brunette. How will I know you?”

“I’ll be wearing a black raincoat and one of those big apple caps—you know those big apple caps?”

“Yes. What color is it?”

“Black and white checks.”

“What’s your name?”

“What’cha wanna know my name for?”

“You mean we’re going to have sex together and you won’t even tell me your name?”

“Carl.”

“Okay Carl. See you at seven-thirty.”

“I’m real clean,” Carl said.

“Good for you.”

“The ad said that you’re clean.”

“I am.”

“I hope so.”

“I’ll see you at seven-thirty, Carl. Okay?”

“Okay Kim.”

The caller hung up, and so did Dorothy. “I can’t believe that phone call,” she said.

Jenkins scratched his head. “It takes all kinds to make a world.”

Rackman chortled. “But only one kind to make a phone call like that.”

“You’re a helluva one to talk. You’ve had your nose in those sex magazines all week.”

The phone rang again. Dorothy picked it up. “Hello?”

“Kim please,” said a man.

“This is Kim speaking.”

“Are you the Kim who put the ad in the New York Review of Sex?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady,” the man said in a strident voice. “You’re going to burn in hell for the terrible things you do if you don’t accept the teachings of our Lord Jesus. It’s still not too late, you still can—”

Dorothy interrupted him. “I guess you don’t want to meet me.”

“Meet you?” the man asked, taken aback.

“Yes, meet me.”

“You dirty Jezebel!” he cried. “You cruel sinner! How can you suggest such a thing to a man like me!”

Dorothy hung up the phone and shook her head.

“The weirdoes are coming out of the woodwork,” she said. “Anybody got a cigarette?”

Rackman held out his pack of Luckies. “Hang in there, kid.”

Jenkins grunted. “You should’ve tried to make a date with that last joker.”

“Are you serious?” Dorothy asked.

“He’s just the type of sick son of a bitch who might kill somebody.”

“I did try, didn’t I?”

“I don’t think you tried hard enough. Don’t get salty with these guys. Just make dates with them.”

“Sorry,” Dorothy said.

The phone rang again. She puffed the Lucky and picked it up.

“Hello?” she said.

“Are you Kim?” asked a man.

“Uh huh.”

“Well listen, I read your ad in the New York Review of Sex, and I’m not a fat guy but I got an eight-inch cock and I know I could show you a good time.”

Dorothy looked at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, but I specified fat guys and that’s what I want.”

“Aw, come on, baby. I’ll even go down on you.”

“Sorry,” she sang.

“Aw shit,” the man grumbled.

Dorothy hung up, and almost immediately the phone rang again. She brought it to her face.

“Hello?”