John Lutz - In for the Kill

A woman who looked like an Eastern version of Madonna smiled at Quinn and led him to a table on the other side of the arch. This room was more expensively and tastefully decorated. The chairs around the tables matched, and there were framed landscapes on the walls rather than old movie posters. At the far end of the room was a slightly raised stage, and in front of it a small dance floor. There was a microphone and some sound equipment on the stage-two gigantic speakers-and a taped-up white banner on the wall with THE DEFENDANTS spray-painted on it in red block letters like gang graffiti.

Most of the tables were occupied. The Eastern Madonna led Quinn to a table toward the end of the room farthest from the stage and supplied him with a tall, narrow menu.

A small man of indeterminate ethnicity and wearing a pointed dark beard appeared and took Quinn's order. Soon Quinn was settled in with a glass of Pakistani beer and something called roghni naan, from what he assumed was the appetizer section of the menu.

It turned out to be bread sprinkled with sesame seeds and was tasty. The beer could have been colder, but it was good, too. The clientele appeared respectable enough and typical of the Village. A democratic mix of ages, races, and sexes, neighborhood people with a few obvious tourists here and there.

When the server with the pointed beard returned and asked if Quinn wanted dinner, he said the roghni naan would be plenty and it was delicious, but he'd have another beer. The man smiled as if privately amused that Quinn had mispronounced something, and it wasn't "beer."

"You're here for the band," the man said.

Quinn glanced at the stage, where a scroungy-looking young black man in a sleeveless T-shirt-his muscular arms covered with tattoos-was tinkering with the speakers.

"The Defendants," the server said.

"Ah!" Quinn said. "Sure. What time do they start to play?"

"About ten minutes."

Quinn hadn't quite finished his…bread, and he'd just ordered another beer. He was stuck.

Halfway through beer number two, there was a smattering of applause, and an older man with graying hair who might have been one of the owners introduced the Defendants with a good-natured flourish, as if they were opening at Vegas for Wayne Newton.

There were four of them: a drummer, two guitarists, and a guy with some kind of keyboard attached by a strap slung around his neck. Wires ran from the keyboard to the speakers. Wires ran everywhere.

Then a fifth member of the band arrived, to heightened applause. Apparently this band was having a good run at the Hungry U.

Quinn figured the new guy must be the front man and singer. At first he appeared almost shy, then he seemed to shake off any inhibitions and took his place at the mike. He grinned, signaling with his skinny right arm to the backup musicians poised behind him.

Quinn had never seen anyone skinnier. The kid, who probably wasn't even in his twenties, was about six feet tall and had shoulders and waist of about the same narrow dimension. What there was of his chest was concave beneath his faded red T-shirt, and his torn jeans clung to long, pipe-cleaner legs. He had wide blue eyes and a head of corkscrew red hair that lent him an amiable, startled expression. Quinn thought he resembled an anorexic Harpo Marx.

Unlike Harpo, he could talk. He confidently introduced the band's first piece, something called "Lost in Bonkers."

The band tore into it like starving men in a lifeboat, and the skinny kid began to sing.

Quinn wished he could arrest them for auditory assault.

The kid shouted incomprehensible lyrics while bounding around the stage as if there were springs in his feet, as if he were a spring, his long, skinny body rhythmically contorting in an undulating S shape. Then he produced a harmonica and began to play, somehow getting the instrument to make wheezing sounds like a damaged bagpipe.

But "Lost in Bonkers" was getting to the crowd. They were clapping in time and stamping their feet. Quinn caught some of the lyrics:

Lost in Bonkers on familiar ground.

Lost in Bonkers an' I don't wanna be found.

Gone pure crazy lookin' out for you.

'Cause I know you're lost in Bonkers too.

What the hell did it mean? Quinn wondered, and took a swig of Pakistani beer.

His shirt pocket came alive.

His cell phone was there, the ringer set to vibrate so it wouldn't make noise and disturb anyone in the restaurant. Hah!

He drew the phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Said hello. Didn't even hear himself.

"Quinn, that you?" Renz's voice.

"Me."

"Where the hell are you? What's that racket?"

"Lost in Bonkers."

"Yonkers?"

Quinn turned his face toward the wall and talked louder. Still didn't make much of a dent in the din. "I'll explain later, Harley."

"I want you outta Yonkers and on the Upper West Side. I got a call…"

"Hold the line," Quinn said. He laid down enough money to cover his check and tip, then stood up and edged his way between tables and off-key notes toward the beaded arch. After getting slightly tangled in the strings of colorful beads, he freed himself and avoided the crowded bar to make a circuitous detour to the door. The smiling, exotic-looking woman who'd led him to his table nodded a good night to him and Quinn nodded back, the phone still pressed to his ear, and made his way outside into the quiet night.

"Harley?"

"Yeah. Wherever you are, get your team here." He gave Quinn a West Side address. "Uniforms are there already, got the scene frozen."

"The Butcher?"

"'Fraid so. Another victim. An anonymous call came in twenty minutes ago."

"Sure it was our guy?"

"Take a barf bag."

"I'm beyond that, Harley. And I'm on my way."

"Where are you? What was all that goddamn noise?"

"I'm not sure myself," Quinn said, and broke the connection.

On familiar ground but in Lauri's new world, feeling lost.

Bocanne, Florida, 1980

"Sherman, is it? You got a great name, so you got a responsibility to live up to it. Know that, boy?"

"I guess," Sherman said. He'd had some history and remembered the name, but even though it was his name, he couldn't quite recall who it was the new boarder, Sam Pickett, was talking about.

They were sitting in cane-backed chairs out on the plank porch, leaning almost too far back with their feet up on the rail. Sherman had his ankles crossed and was sipping a warm pop. Pickett was messing around with the big, dirty briar pipe he smoked. Before them the swamp loomed green and lush, buzzing with life and smelling of rot. Something moved out there, causing dozens of blackbirds to rise screaming in a panic, and then settle down near their point of takeoff.

"My feelin' is he was the greatest Civil War general of 'em all," Pickett said, using his yellowed thumb to tamp tobacco firmly into the bowl of the odorous briar. "Ol'William Tecumseh Sherman."

That was why he hadn't stuck in Sherman's memory. Sherman was his last name. Would Pickett remember everybody famous named Sam?

But Sherman liked it that Pickett must have realized Sherman didn't know who they were talking about, yet he hadn't pointed out Sherman's ignorance or made fun of him, just went on talking as if they both knew.

"Marched through the south tearin' up Ned all the way, burned an' killed an' left nothin' to eat neither on nor in the miles of scorched earth left behind him." He glanced over and gave Sherman a slight smile and a look that might have meant anything. "You think that was great?"

"Dunno," Sherman said. "Maybe. He was a general, so that was his job." He was choosing his words carefully, wary of Pickett, who seemed smarter and more interested in Sherman than any of the other boarders. Pickett was always doing this when they talked, asking questions right out of the blue, as if testing to see if Sherman was paying attention. Sherman didn't mind. Even kind of liked it.