Dave Zeltserman - Killer

After leaving the movie house, I stopped off at a bar for an early dinner and several beers. I could’ve had several more easily enough, but I had my job to go to later that night.

Later, when I showed up at the office building, there was a different man working security. He was just as tight-lipped as the kid who was usually there, and like the kid, didn’t say a word to me as I checked out the keys. He wasn’t any kid, though. He was at least my age, probably older, white hair framing a face that was as wrinkled as any turtle’s.

Work went by fast. I had left my radio back in the apartment, not wanting to risk the rain damaging it. That night, though, I didn’t mind the silence. It helped having all those menial tasks to focus my thoughts on, and I ended up finishing an hour early. I spent the extra hour sitting in a third-floor office and watching the rain come down. At two o’clock, when I checked the office keys back in, the old man filling in at security avoided eye contact with me, and I left the building without the two of us exchanging a single word.

The streets were desolate as I made my way back to my apartment. The only sign of life were some rats in an alleyway that had converged by an open garbage bin. I stopped to watch them for a while, then continued on.

That night I had an erotic dream about Sophie. The two of us were alone in an unfamiliar room. Sophie stood shivering in front of me, an uneasiness in her eyes, although she didn’t say anything as I undressed her. My mouth became dry as I studied her thin but still near-perfect naked body; her slender hips, the slight bulge to her stomach, the small patch of pubic hair, her breasts – no bigger than a handful, but the sight of them making my head pound. While I looked her over, her olive complexion brightened to a crimson. I ran my thumb over her perfect pink nipples and felt them as they hardened.

I could see the pleading in her eyes as I lifted her and carried her to a bed, but she didn’t say anything and any objections she might’ve had stayed buried in her throat. I positioned her so she was on her knees. Her skin was hot, nearly burning, and the feel of her small hips made me breathless. I penetrated her from behind and I pushed myself over and over again into her, the only sound coming from her being soft gasps, maybe sobs, I wasn’t sure which.

I woke up having stained my underwear. My erection grew soft, and I lay frozen, desperately trying to hold on to the way it felt in my dream being with Sophie and the way she had looked naked, but it was gone.

It was dark in my room. I stared bleary-eyed at my alarm clock until I could see that it was only four in the morning. I pushed myself out of bed, stripped off my underwear and washed it in the bathroom sink. After hanging it up to dry, I took a shower, then, after dressing, sat in my recliner and tried to read one of my books. My mind kept drifting too much to pay any attention to what I was trying to read, but I needed to do something to kill time until the sun came out.

Fred Marzone’s in the motel room next to me screwing the shit out of a hooker. I can hear them through the cheaply plastered wall, which is probably no thicker than a piece of cardboard. I know she’s a hooker. I was watching Marzone’s room from across the street when she arrived. Just a kid, really. Not much flesh on her, not enough anyway, her arms and legs looking like broomsticks with her dressed up in hot pants, a tube top, and cheap gold stiletto heels. Way too much makeup on her as well. It made me think of my daughter when she used to play dress-up.

It was lousy timing her showing up when she did. Marzone must know there’s a hit on him; it’s the only thing that explains why it’s been such a pain in the ass tracking him down, and why he’s holed up now at a fleabag roadside motel in Lynn. I’d only just found Marzone and was preparing myself to kick down his motel room door and put a few bullets in his head when I saw the hooker coming out of nowhere. I slipped back into the shadows then and watched as she walked hesitantly to his door and knocked on it, and then Marzone letting her in. After that I checked out the neighboring room, found that it was empty, and was able to easily pick the lock. Now I’m settled in and listening to her moaning while Marzone’s grunting away like a rutting pig.

Lombard would probably be putting a hit on me if he knew I was sitting here waiting for them to finish up and for that hooker to leave instead of just busting in and icing the both of them. I can imagine what Lombard would be yelling at me if he knew what I was doing now. Why the fuck you sittin’ on your ass? For Chrissakes, who the fuck’s going to give a shit about some crack addict whore? Do your goddamned job!

It’s almost like I can hear him growling in my ear. But the thought of taking out this skinny hooker with way too much makeup on makes me sick to my stomach, especially given that the kid’s last few minutes are going to be taking Marzone’s five inches up her ass. No one should have to die with that being their last few moments on earth. What’s the harm in showing a little patience? So Marzone’s brains will be blown out later tonight instead of right now, what’s the harm in that?

They’ve been going at it over an hour. My stomach’s knotting up more each minute as I sit there. I can’t help worrying that the room I’m camped out in will be rented and I’ll be forced to take out more victims than just Marzone. The smart play is to go in there now and take care of the situation, but I sit paralyzed thinking of how young the girl is and the sad, almost despair-ridden look I saw on her while she waited outside Marzone’s door.

It hits me that I’m not hearing bedsprings squeaking any more, and that I haven’t for a while now. There’s still grunting and moaning and occasional voices whispering through the wall, but none of the squealing that the bed was making earlier. My blood runs cold as I strain to hear more of the voices coming from the other room and realize that’s not Marzone in there – at least it’s not the same voice I heard earlier.

A sweat dampens the back of my neck as I run out of the room. I check to make sure no one’s watching, then while holding a. 40 caliber subcompact in one hand, use my burglar’s pick to unlock Marzone’s door. The room’s empty. The noises I’d been hearing are coming from the TV set. The sonofabitch had ordered up a porn movie and left it running while he took off.

I give the room a quick search. There was nothing personal left behind. Marzone’s not coming back. That paranoid fuck must’ve left that porn movie running as a precaution. He couldn’t have known anyone was next door listening in, because if it was anyone with half a brain they wouldn’t have given a shit about the teenage hooker he was pounding away on.

I use the one clean towel in the rat-trap of a bathroom to wipe the sweat off the back of my neck and forehead, and try to think of what I’m going to tell Lombard. I know he paid good money for the tip off of where Marzone was, and I know he’s not going to be happy when he finds out Marzone’s still alive.

I curse myself out as I leave the room, and just hope Lombard will buy the load of bullshit I’ll be giving him later.

present

Sunday was just one of those days to get through like all those days during my fourteen-year prison stretch. It was still raining hard, and I was sick of the wet and cold, but was feeling too antsy to stay caged inside my studio apartment. By noon I had to get out, and I made my way to Moody Street and found a cheap bar to camp out in. From one o’clock to ten in the evening football was on the TV, and I nursed a half dozen beers, had a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and stared vacantly at the TV. It wasn’t quite the same watching football without having any action on the games, but at least it killed the day. At times I noticed people staring at me, but I didn’t care whether they recognized me. They gave me a wide berth, and that was all I cared about.