Len Levinson - Without Mercy

He turned off the knobs and stepped out of the shower stall. His big YMCA towel was on the hook, and he lifted it off, plunging his wet beard into it. He walked into the locker room and stopped at the locker he’d taken, twirling the dial on the combination lock. The lock snapped open and he unlatched the door. Inside was the suit he’d bought at Macy’s.

First he put on his new underwear, and then the pants of the suit. He transferred the stuff in his jeans pockets to the pockets of the suit pants, looking surreptitiously around before dropping in the knife. Then he sat on the bench and put on his new stockings and shoes. He’d look like a businessman once he had the whole outfit on. Even the salesman at Macy’s had remarked how distinguished he’d looked. Kowalchuk’s plan was to check into a nice midtown hotel and call one of the whores who advertised in The New York Review of Sex that they’d come to your apartment or hotel for fifty dollars. He’d kill her and then move on.

Standing, he put on his new white shirt as other men dressed or undressed around him in the locker room. A man in his sixties who looked more dead than alive sat and wheezed on the bench a few feet down. Various conversations were taking place, and many of the voices sounded gay. Kowalchuk didn’t like gay men. He couldn’t understand why a man would want to act like a woman.

“You check the lockers, and PU check the shower room,” a man said.

Kowalchuk’s ears perked up. What the hell was that? He figured it couldn’t be anything important. He must be getting too jumpy. He put on his tie and walked between the row of lockers to the mirror near the shower room, so he could see what he was doing when he tied it.

As he turned the corner at the end of the lockers, he saw a cop looking into the shower stall! Kowalchuk froze and swallowed hard. Are they looking for me or is something else going on? I’d better get out of here. He stepped back to his locker, his brain tumultuous with alternate modes of action. Should I pick up my stuff or leave without it?

Another cop appeared between the two rows of lockers and his eyes connected with Kowalchuk’s. The cop hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward Kowalchuk, scrutinizing his face.

“Do you have any identification with you, sir?” the cop asked.

“Me?” asked Kowalchuk, looking around.

“Yes.”

The cop was abreast of him now, and Kowalchuk’s heart beat a mile a minute.

“Is there any problem, officer?”

“I don’t think so, but could I see your identification please?”

“Sure, just a moment.”

Kowalchuk reached into his locker, and noticed the cop leaning closer to see what he was doing. Kowalchuk hissed and swung out his elbow with all his strength. He caught the cop on the chin, and the cop went sprawling backward. The naked old man screamed, and in an instant Kowalchuk had his knife out. He hit the button and lunged at the falling cop, catching him on the neck. The cop’s neck yawned open and blood rushed out as he crashed against the lockers. Before he hit the floor, Kowalchuk had taken away his gun.

The other cop jumped into view, saw Kowalchuk with the gun, and darted back behind a locker.

“Drop that gun!” the cop yelled, taking out his own revolver.

Kowalchuk fired at him, and his bullet passed easily through the sheet metal lockers into the chest of the cop. The cop went flying backward and landed against one of the white tile walls. Kowalchuk shot him again, and the men in the locker room were hollering for help and running in all directions. Kowalchuk licked his lips, alone with the dead cops. He realized he shouldn’t have come here, and that there was no safe place for him in New York anymore. Swarms of cops would be here any moment, and somehow he had to get away, There must be a back entrance to the building. It was his only chance.

He ran down the corridor toward the main hallway of the Y. Ahead he heard a terrific commotion, but Kowalchuk was ready for anything now. He’d known that sooner or later it would come to this, and now he was prepared to take things as far as they’d go.

He came to the main hallway. One end led to the street and the other to the rear of the building. The hallway was deserted in both directions, but he heard loud voices and banging in the distance.

“Drop that gun and put your hands up!”

Kowalchuk squinted and saw a cop partially hidden in a doorway, his pistol in the air. Kowalchuk hadn’t noticed him before, nor the cop in the other doorway farther down the hall. Firing a wild shot at the first cop, Kowalchuk turned and ran back to the shower room. He heard footsteps coming after him, and he entered the shower room, deserted now except for the two dead cops. Running through the first opening he saw, he sped down a corridor and found himself in the swimming pool room, which was also deserted. Towels and bathing caps were lying around, and he realized that someone must have passed the word to evacuate the Y. He had to get the hell out of there before the cops surrounded it.

He continued moving toward the rear of the building. There was a door toward the end of the swimming pool, and he opened it, seeing a flight of stairs. Listening for a few moments, he heard nothing. He climbed the stairs and found himself in another locker room that had women’s apparel on the benches and hanging in the open lockers.

He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the stairs he’d just climbed. He ran out of the locker room and down a corridor lined with doors.

“I heard him!” somebody shouted.

Breathing through his teeth, Kowalchuk threw open one of the doors and entered a small classroom. He closed the door and dashed to the windows, smiling when he saw an alley and the rear of the buildings on the next street. Laughing triumphantly, he picked up a chair and smashed out the window panes. When they were clear of glass, he crawled through to the ledge and jumped. He fell one story to the graveled alleyway, rolled over to absorb the shock, and got to his feet. Like a huge crazed animal, he ran down the alley to freedom.

Sirens were blaring all over the West Side as Jenkins stopped his unmarked car beside the Coliseum. Rackman had a fat guy against the wall and Olivero was slapping him down for weapons. Dancy and Dorothy Owens stood by, and there was a crowd of onlookers. Jenkins hit his horn and they looked toward him. He pointed at Rackman and called his name. Rackman said a few words to Olivero and then ran over to Jenkins’ car, bending down to the side window.

“What’s going on?” Rackman asked.

“They’ve got Kowalchuk cornered in the West Side Y! Get in!”

Rackman ran around the front of the car and dropped into the front seat. Before he closed the door Jenkins already was zooming out into the traffic. He turned on his siren and joined the throng of police cars going up Broadway.

“When’d this happen?” Rackman asked.

“Just a few minutes ago. He killed two cops already.”

“Damn!”

Rackman took out his revolver and spun the chamber around. It was loaded and ready to go. He chewed his lower lip and Jenkins weaved through the cars and crowds on Broadway. When they reached Sixty-third Street they saw it was filled with police cars and ambulances. Jenkins started to turn onto the street.

“Go around to Sixty-fourth,” Rackman said. “He’ll never come out this way.”

Jenkins straightened out the wheel and drove one more block, turning right onto Sixty-fourth. It too was filled with police cars parked at the rear of the Y.

“I wonder if there are any side entrances to the building,” Rackman said as Jenkins coasted to the rear of the Y.

“I don’t know.”