William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

"I guess so. Are you available?"

"Sure thing, honey. I'd almost pay you just to get out of this cold. Almost!" She emphasized the word, indicating it was only an attempt at humor.

She got in the car and gave directions to her apartment. Directions were followed by an itemized listing of services. ". . . Well, honey, what's your pleasure?"

He was silent. She studied him. One couldn't be too careful.

There was nothing about him to cause anxiety in the casual observer. He was wearing a black coat, hat, trousers, shoes, and gloves.

So he liked black. Not particularly unusual. Lots of people favor dark colors in the winter. Dark doesn't show slush marks as such. Dark helps trap and retain the heat of what little sun there might be.

She got a strong and unmistakable tobacco odor. He wasn't smoking just now, but he had to be a heavy cigarette smoker. And booze-there was the distinct smell of alcohol, though he did not appear to be drunk. He was wearing gloves, but she would bet her last buck that the index and middle fingers of one or both hands bore the telltale yellow nicotine stains.

Half-turned in the passenger seat, she had a clear view of his profile. He looked to be younger than she. But not by much. Maybe in his late forties. He was clean-shaven and, judging from what little hair she could see below his hat, he was either blond or gray-haired.

"I don't know," he answered at length, "I kind of thought of spending about twenty-five dollars."

"Sounds fine to me, honey." Most Johns specified just what land of action they wanted. Some, as this one, settled on the amount of money they were willing to invest. Nothing very unusual in that. And twenty-five dollars probably represented the amount he'd been able to squirrel away from his wife. "But I've got to have it up front."

"Huh?"

"I need it now."

"Oh, okay . . . sure." He had stopped at the light on the corner of Third and Selden. They were but two blocks from the apartment. He would turn left and they would be there. He opened his coat and reached into his breast pocket for his wallet. For a brief moment, his coat was open at the throat.

Louise gasped.

He took a twenty-dollar and a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed them to her. As he did, he noticed that she was staring at his collar. He smiled. "Something wrong?"

"You a preacher?"

"You might say so. That a problem?"

"Well, I'll say this for you: You don't try to hide it."

"Why should I?"

"I dunno. Most guys at least try some kind of masquerade. They claim they're single . . . but they're wearing a wedding ring. Or they're married but the wife won't give them any. There've been some I knew were preachers, though they wouldn't let on. But you-"

"My money not good enough for you?"

"No, no! It's just that . . . what kind of preacher are you, anyway?"

"Huh?"

"I mean . . . Baptist or what?"

"What do you think?"

"Anglican?"

"Why would you guess Anglican?"

"'Cause of your collar."

"Oh?"

"I guess it has to be Anglican or Catholic."

"Not necessarily. But you're right: It's Catholic."

"You a priest?"

"Uh-huh."

"A Catholic priest?"

"Uh-huh."

Louise paused. He was parking on the corner of Selden and Cass, in front of the apartment. "I don't believe I've ever screwed a Catholic priest before . . . that I know of."

The car was parked but since she showed no inclination to get out, he let the engine continue to run and pump heat in.

"I mean, I used to be a Catholic . . ."

"Did you?"

"Yeah." Louise sat facing front. "A long time ago. I still go to church once in a great while. But I haven't been to confession or Communion in . . . God, I don't know how long."

"I didn't come here to hear your confession, you know."

"Right. Business before pleasure. Let's go, honey."

She led the way up to the second floor. Her apartment was at the head of the stairs. She unlocked the door and they entered.

It wasn't quite an efficiency. The most prominent article of furniture was the less-than-sanitary bed. There were a couple of chairs and a coat rack, a minuscule kitchenette, and a small table. He correctly concluded that this was only her workplace, not her residence.

She removed her coat and dress and hung them on the rack and sat on the bed. She kicked off her shoes and began removing her pantyhose, then stopped. "Aren't you gonna get comfortable, honey?"

"Sure. I want to watch you first."

"Whatever turns you on."

She continued taking off her pantyhose. Something about him made her nervous. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something . . . For one thing, he hadn't even taken off his gloves. You'd think he'd at least take off his gloves. The room was plenty warm. She fought periodic battles with the landlord over the heat. Today, at least, it was working fine. But he hadn't taken anything off.

There was something about his expression, too. He would not take his eyes off her. And there was something very hard about his expression. She began to have misgivings. But it was too late to call things off now. Best get on and get it over with. At very least, she promised herself, this would be the last one today. She would gather up Arlene and go someplace nice for a good warm dinner.

But first, she'd have to get through this one.

"Come on, honey." She'd almost said, "Father." "You just got to get into the spirit of things. Why don't you get rid of those clothes?"

"You're right," he said. He removed his hat and coat and placed them on one of the chairs. He took off his jacket, placed it on a hanger and hung it on the rack.

"Oh, it hasn't got any back," she exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"That thing with your collar on it: It hasn't got any back."

"This? It's called a clerical vest." He unsnapped the catch that joined the two bottom edges of the vest at his waist. Then he undid the collar at the nape and removed the vest.

"All this time," she said, "I always wondered who buttoned your shirts up the back."

"Now you know: nobody." He removed the belt from his trousers. "Come on, now; your turn."

She seemed dubious. "What about your gloves?"

"I've got Raynaud's. It's a syndrome. Hands get cold and stay cold. It's not important. Until we get down to it, the gloves are more comfortable. I'll take 'em off in a minute."

She shrugged.

She rose and turned her back to him. Perfect.

She unsnapped her bra and let it drop to the bed. He fitted the end of his belt through the buckle. She slipped down her panties. He noticed that the skin of her buttocks sagged, betraying her age.

It was only a momentary impression. As she stood on one leg, slipping the other out of her panties, he acted. He let his belt, now formed into a noose, fall over her head. She started, but as it reached her throat, he yanked . . . tight. She tried to suck in air as he pushed her face down onto the bed. He knelt on her back as he pulled the belt as tight as he could. She clawed at it. There was no way she could reach him. She struggled for a few minutes. He had expected that. But he held on implacably, sweating profusely. Then it was over. She was still.

He took a small mirror from her purse and held it before her mouth, her nose. No sign of breath.

He took the belt from around the dead woman's neck, reinserted it through his trouser loops and buckled it at his waist.

He donned his hat and coat and returned to his car, checking to make sure there were no witnesses. He saw none. He expected none. On a cold Sunday in this neighborhood, one could reasonably expect empty corridors and near-deserted streets.

He removed an object from the car, inserted it in his coat pocket, and returned to the apartment. He turned on a stove burner and placed the object on it.