Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Did she have any trouble with any of her Johns recently?”

“I don’t think so, but I didn’t exactly keep track of her.”

“How about last night?”

“I can’t think of anything last night.”

“How about the night before?”

“I don’t remember. All the nights seem to blend in together here. Oh yeah, something happened last night—I remember now. There was some john of hers who couldn’t get it up, and she made a few remarks when he was leaving. He looked pretty mad.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“I don’t know how good it was, but I saw him. He was a fat guy.”

“How tall was he?”

“About six foot tall I’d say.”

Rackman wrote on his notepad. “What color hair did he have?”

“Dark hair.”

“Like mine?”

“Yeah.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Could it have been a suit?”

“No, he was more like a working guy.”

“Was he wearing a topcoat?”

“It was some kind of jacket.”

“What color?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was he wearing glasses?”

“I don’t remember. It happened very fast.”

“What did his face look like?”

“He was ugly, but I didn’t get that close a look at him.”

Rackman puffed his cigarette and looked over her shoulder. Sylvia Suarez and Reynaldo Pifla had seen a fat guy run out of the alley where Cynthia Doyle was killed. That might not be the same fat guy, and in fact it probably wasn’t, but it was a lead.

He took out one of his cards. “If you think of something else, give me a call.”

On Sunday, Rackman had the day off. No new information had developed in the murder case, and he felt he should go to Queens and see Rebecca, his daughter. He took a quick shower and shave, threw on jeans and a tweed jacket, and left his apartment before the phone could ring.

At the McDonald’s on West Fifty-sixth Street he had eggs and sausages for breakfast while looking out the front window at a black man fishing with a string and magnet through the subway grating for stray coins. After breakfast Rackman strolled to the public telephone on the corner and called his first ex-wife to tell her he was on his way. She told him he should have given her more notice, and that it was about time.

He rode to Forest Hills on the E train, the only detective in Midtown North who didn’t own a car. He didn’t need one, because he lived around the corner from the station, whereas most other detectives lived on Long Island and commuted. He’d owned a car when he was married to his first wife, but she got that in the divorce settlement along with everything else. It had been a 1965 Chevrolet Corvette, the model with the split window in back, very rare. If he could have kept it, it would be worth more now than he paid for it, but his first wife traded it in right after the divorce on a Buick sedan.

He’d met Sheila when he was a rookie patrolman in Brooklyn. Her father owned a big drug store on Flatbush Avenue and she worked there after classes at Brooklyn College. The store had been on his beat, and he often stopped in to buy cigarettes. When they started going together, her parents became unhappy because they wanted her to associate with doctors, lawyers, and CPAs. The marriage lasted four years and produced one good thing, little Rebecca. Sheila now was married to a garment center character who manufactured ladies’ dresses.

Rackman got off the subway at the Jewel Avenue stop and walked down Queens Boulevard past the Chinese restaurants, bagel shops, clothing boutiques, and kosher delicatessens. Forest Hills was the last Jewish gold coast in New York City, and he felt as if he had blipped into another world. The children were clean and well dressed, the adults appeared to be on vacation in Miami Beach, and there were no pimps, whores, or junkies skulking in doorways.

He turned left on 72nd Avenue, a narrow street lined with tall luxury apartment buildings. Late model cars were parked along the curb, and no one had torn off their aerials. Young mothers pushed baby carriages, teenagers flirted with each other, children played Frisbee on lawns, and Rackman thought he must be getting jaded by Times Square, because this looked so strange. He entered the lobby of a building and took the elevator to the twentieth floor, where he pressed the button on a door.

Sheila opened it up. “Hello Danny,” she said with exaggerated friendliness. Her jet-black hair was coiffed so that it made her look taller than her five feet two inches, and her figure still wasn’t bad. She wore too much eye makeup and lipstick, but so did most Forest Hills women.

“Hi Sheila.”

Rebecca came dashing out of nowhere and clasped her skinny arms around Rackman’s waist. “Daddy!”

Rackman bent over and kissed her forehead. “Hi baby.”

Rebecca was almost five feet tall, lanky as a boy, with breasts like tangerines. Her curly black hair was done in pseudo-afro style and her slanted brown eyes were a reminder that Jews are an oriental people. Suddenly she stepped back, wrung her hands, and became shy.

Sheila’s present husband bounded forward, his hand outstretched and a big smile on his face. “Hello Danny,” he said cordially.

“Hiya Sam.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Can’t complain. Come in and have a drink.”

This was the part Rackman hated most, but he couldn’t refuse to sit with his ex-wife, whom he didn’t like, and her husband, whom he pitied, because it might cause bad vibes in the home where his daughter lived. Furthermore, he was afraid of provoking Sheila into getting together with her lawyer and contriving a new horror for him.

So he sat on a stuffed chair and Rebecca plunked herself on his lap although she was nearly full-grown. Sheila went to the kitchen to get food, and Sam stood in the middle of the living room, grinning like a baboon. He wore blue and white checkered slacks, a yellow shirt, and white loafers with tassels.

“What’ll you have?” Sam asked.

“A straight shot of bourbon with a water chaser.”

Sam walked to the bar, which was an elaborate piece of furniture in a corner of the living room. Sheila returned, carrying a platter covered with cold cuts. “Go light with the whiskey, Sam.”

“Oh stop it, Sheila.”

“Don’t tell me to stop it. You stop it. He might look like a grown man but he’s got the mind of a child and I don’t want him walking around drunk with my daughter. I know him better than you. I lived with him for four years.”

She held the platter before Rackman and he put a few slices of white turkey meat between slices of pumpernickel bread. Rebecca took a black olive, put it in her mouth, and made a face.

“She eats like a bird,” Sheila complained, taking the tray to the coffee table and sitting on the sofa.

Sam brought Rackman a big shot of bourbon and a tall glass of water, setting it on a little table next to the chair.

“That’s too much, Sam!” Sheila said.

“Calm down, Sheila,” Sam replied.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! You calm down! You don’t know what he’s like when he’s drunk!”

Rackman lifted the glass of whiskey. “This isn’t enough to get me drunk.”

“I certainly hope not!”

“What would you like, dear?” Sam asked.

“A little sherry, if you don’t mind.”

Sam returned to the bar. Sheila looked disapprovingly at Rackman as he sipped his bourbon. “I hope you’ll remember that you have your daughter with you this afternoon,” she said.

“I won’t forget.”

“I know what you’re like when you’re drunk, you know.”

She was referring to the time he got mad and slapped her twice, after she’d thrown an ashtray at him. “Let’s not have an argument, Sheila.”