Len Levinson - Without Mercy

Rackman took his hands out of his pockets. “I’m going to count to five. If you’re not on your feet by then I’m going to put you on your feet.”

Defiance glittered in Luke the Duke’s eyes.

“One,” Rackman said.

Luke knew that behind Rackman stood the entire New York Police Department, all the district attorneys, and all the judges. The defiance gave way to a look of resignation. “I’m comin’—I’m comin’.”

The whore beside him got up, and Luke slid out of the booth, stood, and adjusted his sombrero. He had a thin mustache, and his eyes were slanted, with delicate facial features tapering down to a narrow chin that sported a little black goatee.

“Let’s go over there,” Rackman said, chinning toward an empty booth on the other side of the restaurant.

Luke strutted to the booth and Rackman followed, passing a junkie tearing a plastic straw into tiny pieces with his trembling, filthy hands. Luke sat facing the door and Rackman sat opposite him. Rackman took out his pack of Luckies and held them before Luke, who shook his head and took a Nat Sherman panatela from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Rackman lit the cigar and his cigarette with the expensive Dunhill lighter given him by his girl friend Francie, whom he reminded himself he’d better call soon. Both men blew smoke around and tried to intimidate each other with their eyes.

“What’s the problem, Rackman,” Luke said at last.

Rackman flicked the ash off his Lucky. “Cynthia Doyle.”

“What about her?”

“Who killed her?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You know the scene here better than anybody else. I thought you might be able to tell me something.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Did you kill her?”

Luke pshawed. “I wouldn’t dirty my hands with the little bitch.”

“I heard you were mad because she wouldn’t go to work for you.”

“I wasn’t that mad.”

“You know Lorenzo Freeman.”

“I know who the little freak is.”

“Think he did it?”

“I don’t think he’d have the guts to kill anybody.”

“Would you have the guts to kill somebody?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think a human life would mean a fuck-all to you, Luke.”

Luke smiled. “Depends on the human life, Rackman.”

“How about Cynthia Doyle’s human life?”

“I told you, man. I wouldn’t dirty my hands with her. People like her don’t exist for me.”

“Maybe you paid somebody to do it.”

“She wasn’t worth the price of a bullet.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“Could have been anybody. She wasn’t exactly a popular person.”

“Where were you at four-thirty this morning?”

Luke closed his eyes. “Four-thirty this morning—lemme see.” He thought for a few moments. “Oh yeah, I was in a bar.” He opened his eyes. “The Reno Lounge on Eighth Avenue. I was there with a few of my hoes. You want their names?”

“They’d tell any lie you told them to.”

Luke smiled modestly. “Well I do have the little bitches trained, don’t I. But believe me, I didn’t give a shit about Cynthia Doyle. The bitch had no class, no style, no figure, no face, no nothin’. Once I realized what she was I put her out of my mind.”

“I’m going to check on all this, Luke.”

“Waste your time if you want to.”

Rackman took one of his cards out of his shirt. “If you hear anything, give me a call.”

Luke let the card fall in front of him. “I don’t cooperate with cops, Rackman.”

“A man in your position can’t afford not to cooperate with cops, Luke. You’re liable to need us some day.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re going to wind up in a tight corner sooner or later. I’d pick up that card if I were you.”

“You ain’t me.”

Rackman slid out of the booth, stood up, and stretched. “See you around, Luke.”

“Go slow, big man.”

Rackman ambled out of the hamburger joint and down Eighth Avenue, passing porno theaters and sleazy bars, junkies, whores, and congregations of small-time pimps. Something told him that Luke the Duke wasn’t mixed up in the murder of Cynthia Doyle, although he, certainly wasn’t one of her fervent admirers. If she’d stolen from him or double-crossed him he would have skinned and boned her alive, but it didn’t appear that the beef he had with her was that heavy.

A washed-out teenaged whore stood in the doorway on the Forty-sixth Street block. “Wanna go out?” she asked Rackman.

He shook his head.

Passing Rackman on the left was a black guy murmuring, “I got ups, downs, hash, and cocaine.”

Rackman ignored him and the guy kept on trucking up the avenue, swinging his arms and bobbing his head. If you arrested him all you’d get was aspirin and powdered sugar. Rackman continued up the garish, sleazy strip on Eighth Avenue, turned left on Forty-fifth Street, and spotted the sign for the Crown Club.

The black hawker in front smacked his leaflets and shot one at Rackman. “Beautiful girls upstairs—check ‘em out!”

Rackman climbed the creaky wooden stairs, saw some big guys in the hall. To the left in the main room was a redheaded guy sitting behind a table with a roll of tickets in front of him. Rackman entered the room, glanced left, and saw the whores sitting on couches smiling alluringly at him. The walls were cheap paneling that bulged and yawned weirdly. The drapes looked like they came from the Salvation Army warehouse.

“Step right up, sir!” said the redhead.

Rackman stepped up and took out his shield. “You the manager?”

The redhead looked at the shield. “What’s the problem?”

“I asked if you were the manager.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name.”

“What do you want to know for?”

“I said what’s your fucking name.”

The redheaded man scowled. “John Genrizi’s my name. What can I do for you?”

“I want to talk to you about Cynthia Doyle.”

“I don’t know anything about her.”

“If she worked here you must know something about her.”

“She just came here and did her work. That’s all I know.”

There were footsteps behind Rackman, and he turned around. Two men in raincoats, who looked like office workers, entered the room carrying attaché cases and sheepish faces. Rackman stepped out of the way.

“Right over here, gentlemen!” Genrizi said in his booming voice, and the whores did their gyrations. Rackman looked at them. They were the usual massage parlor conglomeration of messed up bimbos who thought they were outsmarting society, when in fact society had utterly destroyed them.

The two business faces approached the desk, paid their money, and got their tickets. Nervously they studied the girls, then one headed for a Latin whore with eyelashes so long it was amazing she could hold her lids up, while the other gave his ticket to a chubby little whore who was young and bore a faint resemblance to Sophia Loren. Rackman thought the latter was a good choice and a bargain for ten bucks. The two couples went into the corridor and disappeared.

Rackman looked down at Genrizi. “Is there someplace in here where we can talk alone?”

Genrizi held out his palms and made an exasperated face. “I ain’t got nothin’ to tell you, cop.”

“How’d you like to go up to Midtown North right now?”

“I’m tryin’ to run a business here.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

Genrizi exhaled loudly and turned to the big guys in the hall. “Hey Angie—sit at the desk for awhile, will ya?”

Angie, a big pot-bellied guy, came rumbling to the desk. Genrizi got up and led Rackman across the floor and down the corridor past the private cubicles, from which came moans and sighs. At the back was an old beat-up refrigerator and a toilet with the door hanging open. The area was lit by a bare bulb dangling in front of the refrigerator, and Genrizi’s features were chalky as he turned to Rackman.