Dave Zeltserman - Killer

“What do you want?”

She raised an eyebrow at that, her grin growing more amused. “It’s not enough that a somewhat attractive woman wants to sit at the same table with you?” she asked.

Somewhat attractive didn’t do her justice. Even as skinny and unkempt as she was, there was real beauty in her. Someone like her wasn’t about to sit down at a table with a guy like me who was thirty years or so older than her, especially looking the way I did, unless she wanted something from me. After the stories broke about me six months ago I started receiving letters and photos from wack jobs who wanted to correspond with me in prison, a few even offering marriage proposals. Maybe it’s a sadomasochism thing, maybe some bizarre attraction to death, or maybe just plain mental illness, but I discovered first hand that there are plenty of sickos out there who are attracted to serial killers, and I guess some of these looked on a professional hit man as being even more of a prize. Maybe this woman was one of them, except she didn’t look it. With the prison letters I received, you could tell right away how insane these women were.

“Again, what do you want?”

Her lips pursing, she asked, “I have to want something?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” she said. Her eyes glistened several degrees brighter as she studied me. “What you went through in that diner yesterday was rough. I felt for you, but I also liked the way you handled yourself.” She looked away for a moment, a solemnness momentarily weighing on her features. “I guess I also felt empathy. I’ve done plenty of things in the past that I’m not proud of, things that weren’t so nice and that I wish I could take back. I wouldn’t be happy if complete strangers kept throwing them in my face. Fuck that guy yesterday, you know. From what you said, it sounds like you did the world a favor killing his scumbag rapist of an old man. Was what you said true? He really did that to that girl?”

I nodded.

“Well, good for you then.”

“I don’t have money stashed away, if that’s what you’re after.”

More of that throaty laugh, her eyes shining again. “You don’t trust people much, do you?”

“Not too much.” I gave her a long hard look, trying to figure out what she was after. “I’m not killing anyone else, if that’s what you’re here for.”

She didn’t say anything in response to that, but the amusement in her eyes and smile showed that wasn’t it either.

“You want to write a book about me, don’t you?” I asked.

She shook her head and told me that she wasn’t a writer, but there was a hesitation when she did so. So that was it. A wild stab in the dark, but I had figured her out. Another hopeful author who wanted to sell my life story for fame and fortune. At least this one was nice to look at, and more than that, had some personality. I felt comfortable with her.

She stood up, an impish smile still on her lips. She told me she had to get going, but that she lived in the area and she was sure she’d run into me now and again. She warned me if that happened for me not to get all paranoid and think she was following me. I had no doubt that I’d see her again. She’d make sure of it. She was smart enough where she’d give it some time before making her sales pitch about me writing a book with her, but I didn’t much mind the prospect of that.

I watched as she walked away, noticing how nice her curves looked with her dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. Although she probably weighed no more than ninety pounds, I realized her build was more athletic and slender than skinny. Usually I liked a woman with more meat on her bones, but she was still stunning enough to stop your heart, especially with the way she smiled. It was almost a shame watching her slip on a bulky cotton jacket, but it didn’t do much to hide how beautiful she was.

When she reached the door, she stopped to look back at me and give me a few more seconds of that shit-eating grin of hers. I almost called out to ask her her name, but I knew next time I saw her she would make sure to give it to me.

I felt an uneasiness after she left, and sat back and finished my muffin and coffee without really tasting much of either. When I was in prison I made sure to avoid other people and lived a mostly solitary existence. It wasn’t safe otherwise, and the fight to stay alive and survive my stretch so I could someday walk out of prison gave me enough to focus on to make it easy. Now that I was out I found myself needing some sort of human interaction, and was looking forward to when I’d see this dark-haired beauty again, even if she was nothing but a con artist. And that was really what she was. Her plan was to befriend me, even hold out the promise of sex – not that there was any real chance of that happening – and eventually wear me down so I would agree to writing a book with her. I’d been around more than enough con men to know how this was going to work, but what she didn’t understand was as much as she was trying to play a game on me, there actually was a connection between us. Not enough so that we’d ever end up romantically involved, but there was something there. Right now she was on too much of a high in working her game to get the book deal, but at some point she’d see it also.

My cell phone rang then. I stared at it, frowning, seeing that the caller ID was once again unavailable. I wasn’t in the mood for a vague threat from some wannabe tough guy, so I turned off the phone instead of answering it. I was still stopping by the cell-phone store each day, but so far my salesman hadn’t shown up again, and I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to, that for some reason he must’ve quit his job.

I put the call out of my mind, and instead thought more about the woman who had just left me, and found myself anxiously looking forward to when I’d see her again. I knew it would be soon – she wouldn’t let too much time go by, not with her just starting her game.

It turned out I was right. That Saturday I went to the same coffee shop and she was already camped out there with a dog-eared paperback in one hand and a large cup of coffee in the other. I’d done the same plenty of times when I was waiting for a target.

She glanced up shortly after I’d walked into the shop, and as she saw me her eyes grew exaggeratedly large. With a wicked grin, she accused me of stalking her. I shook my head, but that grin of hers was infectious enough to crack a smile from me, which doesn’t happen often. She waited until after I bought a coffee and slice of lemon pound cake and had been sitting alone for a few minutes before getting up from her table and asking if she could join me.

“It looks like you could use the company,” she said, her grin even more wicked.

“Yes, sure, I’d like that.”

I felt a pang of guilt knowing that I wasn’t going to be agreeing to write a book with her. I should’ve told her point blank there wasn’t any chance of it happening and let her drop her game, but I couldn’t. Like the other day, she was strikingly beautiful, but also unkempt. Her hair was the same tangled hornet’s nest and her clothes were badly worn and tattered. She probably bought them from a similar thrift store to the one I had shopped at earlier, except in her case she had worn them to near threads. She was clearly in the midst of a bad stretch, and had latched on to this book idea as a way to pull herself out. As beautiful as she was she could’ve made a nice income as a stripper, and an even nicer one as a high-class hooker, but I guess no matter how hard up she was for money she wasn’t about to resort to either of those, and that just made me like her all the more.

She took the seat across from me and showed me the paperback she had been reading, The Godfather by Mario Puzo. “I bought it for twenty-five cents at a garage sale,” she told me. Either she was doing research or she was trying to send me some sort of subtle message that I wasn’t getting.