Ladykiller

Thanks to Bob and Pat Gussin, Susan Greger, and the entire fantastic team at
Oceanview; to the world's best agent Cynthia Manson; and to Gwen Arner,
Donna Ahlstrand, Nancy Schreiber, Melissa Leo, and everyone who helped
make the short film “Ladykiller” that grew up to become this novel.

“Of course, I know what that is,” snapped the whore. “I went to
college.” She kept walking, irked at having to turn down a trick, but
she had an appointment to keep. She left the forlorn john by the stairs
with his fat wallet in his fat hand. Every time she was too tired or too
sick or — like now — too busy, it was money lost. Money that she
needed. She moved through the disinfectant stink of the lobby of the
cheap SRO she called home. In fact, single room occupancy hotels
were almost exclusively the address of choice for the working girl.
She strode into the jiving maelstrom of 42nd Street. The Deuce.
1991.The beginning of a hopeful new decade.Yeah. Right.

She passed a pizza place and realized how hungry she was. Maybe
on the way back, she would buy a slice. That was all she could afford
since her cash position was on the short side.At the corner was a bank
machine in a claustrophobic enclosure behind a door with a busted
lock. New York had millions of them.This one was full of garbage and
bums. No respectable soul, not even the poor horny bastard she had
just turned down, would venture in there to do any banking. Her
bank, of course, was a shoe box safely hidden in a locker at the bus
station. Direct deposit. That’s what she called her job, too. No withholding, no taxes, no FICA, whatever that was. FICA sounded like
what she did every night. But not now, darling.

The whore wrapped the coat tighter around her against the cool
vapor of the early spring evening. She had borrowed the coat from a
much taller hooker, off duty tonight with a hangover.The coat was so
long it rode down around her shins. The whore figured that guys
wouldn’t bother her if she were covered up. Nevertheless, men she
passed gave her those hard-dick looks anyway. She wondered how
they knew, with her wrapped up like that. Maybe it was the shoes,
high heels of Lucite that looked fragile but were actually as tough as
bulletproof glass. The shoes, which had come in the box that was
her bank, were called fuck-me’s. A tall black dude waggled his tongue
at her. Not now, darling. The whore had an appointment. And she
wouldn’t earn any money from it either.

She smiled fleetingly at the dude and turned her head back to the
direction she was going. And gave a sudden start. A massive moving
presence loomed in front of her. She momentarily wobbled on the
heels, then stepped smartly out of the way. It was a heaping shopping
cart with extra bundles tied to the sides, wide as a truck.

The bag lady ignored the greeting and kept pushing her cart forward on the rutted sidewalk to nowhere. She wore a stained, ripped
overcoat from some Dumpster and Salvation Army-provided running
shoes that had holes in the toes.

The whore playfully jostled one of the bags and heard a muttered
curse.
“What you got in there, girl? Ann Kleins? Ralph Laurens? Naaah.
I figure you for the Bill Blass type. Clothes make the woman, girlfriend.”
The bag lady stopped and faced the whore. “A few more years,
you’ll be me,” she said, her voice an ominous snarl, her mouth full of
snaggled, discolored teeth. “If you live that long.”
“Hey, now. Jackie Why takes care of his girls,” the whore shot
back, stung. “Ain’t nothing going to hurt his girls.” Actually, if Jackie
saw her parading around the Deuce covered up like a nun, he would
probably do some major hurting himself. Maybe her appointment
wasn’t such a good idea. She wasn’t keeping up her cash flow.
The whore resumed her brisk walk, leaving the bag lady, still
muttering, behind. She stepped gingerly around a raw hole in the
pavement, badly protected by broken sawhorses. She glanced at the
yellow and orange clay in the hole and marveled. In the middle of
man-made Manhattan, there was actual dirt so close beneath the surface.The thin veneer of civilization.The phrase popped into her mind.
She chuckled.You can never be too rich or have too thin a veneer.
No, she should call off the meeting and go earn some money. She
reached the corner of 42nd and Tenth, and spotted a pay phone half a
block up Tenth. And what do you know: It still worked. She stuck in a
quarter and punched out a number.
The line was ringing when the homeboys lounging outside a
nearby bar started up. The usual from that kind of crowd in their
stolen leather jackets and boosted Reeboks. Repetitive cries of “
puta
.”
Kissing sounds. Assorted gestures.
“You don’t have to call me, baby,” the biggest one called. “I’m
right here.” They all laughed and grabbed their crotches but made no
moves. She flipped them a weary bird.
A message machine came on. The whore hung up. Shit. She’d
have to go.
The homeboys had vanished, probably into the bar. She walked
up Tenth. Only a block from the Deuce this time of night, Tenth Avenue was empty and silent as a graveyard. Funny how people thought
the Deuce was dangerous. The whore knew that the teeming crowds
meant safety. Filled with pimps, punks, winos, homeboys, homeless,
and assorted other street vermin though it may be, the Deuce was a
damn sight safer that the chilly, lurking emptiness that stretched before her. A parking lot off Tenth Avenue. Great.

The killer strode through the New York night, its brisk, crystal air vibrating with electric bloodlust.The killer had a purpose — a purpose
that the police and the news media could not begin to fathom. As the
killer glided past a newsstand, a tabloid headline whined:
LADYKILLER

On impulse, the killer bought a copy of the paper and stood
reading it under the fierce buzz of a streetlight. An academic expert
with indifferent credentials was quoted on the nature of serial killers:
How they often suffered head injuries as children, came from broken
homes, lacked social skills, were addicted to killing. Some expert. He
probably smoked a pipe and wore a tweed jacket with suede elbow
patches. He probably seduced his most impressionable female student
each year. “This killer is filled with incredible rage,” the expert said.
“In everyday life, he may appear sane. But no one who shoots his victims in the head with a .45 caliber pistol at close range is sane.”

A strange expression wormed its way across the killer’s face. No,
professor, this was not a matter of sanity. It was a matter of purpose.A
purpose you can’t fathom. The shining .45 rode in the killer’s pocket
like the hard stone of salvation.

Tonight, in the shadowy angles of the concrete night, a woman
would die. And another headline about the Ladykiller would tantalize
the fearful hearts of the cretins who read the tabloids. And the professor would pull on his pipe. Oh, yes.

The killer folded the paper neatly and dropped it into a trash receptacle. And strode on to mete out another killing. A killing with a
purpose.

The pretty young blonde left her large, rundown, pre-war apartment
building at a brisk trot. Her long legs fairly loped along the bustling
Broadway sidewalk, on fire to get to her job, the night shift that most
of her colleagues dreaded. Get there and watch and listen. And
maybe, if she was lucky, say or do something to impress the one whose
approval she craved.The night held such radiant possibilities.

She glanced at her reflection in a long store window and made a
face. She was dissatisfied with her looks although any observer would,
did, look twice. She felt barely put together after a two-minute regimen of eye liner to emphasize her blue eyes, mascara to darken her
pale lashes, and a swipe of rose lipstick. The person she cared about
most liked people who made an effort. “Otherwise, you don’t make a
difference.” She hurried on.

The pavement, flashing beneath her determined stride, sparkled
like a thousand diamonds. The sparkle came from quartz in the concrete that caught the city lights, but she had a secret fantasy that the city
had actually imbedded diamonds for her to walk upon on Broadway.

She waved a spirited hello to the counterman at the all-night
doughnut shop that she frequented. It was a virtual home to a potpourri of interesting humanity. Tonight’s group included a jet-fighter
pilot, a jazz musician, and a U.S. congressman.They turned to look at
her bouncing past with her thick, shiny, reddish-blonde hair. Even
though she didn’t like her looks, she knew that men liked her. Several
of the customers in the doughnut shop had made overtures, but she
wasn’t interested. Her life right now revolved around one person and
she rushed through the night to get there.

The elegant woman’s sensible, low-heeled shoes moved briskly over
the piss-stained pavement.They skirted a used condom, lying there like
a dead snake. At least they had used one, she thought philosophically.

She walked past a bearded man with a pot belly and a paper
bag-covered beer can standing in front of a deli. He had the expected
impulses throbbing in what was left of his brain.

She was not one to cringe from some boob’s advances. She
scowled, letting him know she could not be cowed. That usually
worked. Not now, unfortunately.

He fell into step beside her, the beer held in front of him like a
communion chalice. “Some brew, pretty lady?”
“No, thank you,” she replied with a degree of coldness calculated
to freeze the testicles off a saber-tooth tiger.
The oaf persisted. “It’d warm you up.”
She said nothing.
“Don’t you like beer?”
She stopped and faced him. “Get lost.”
Her resistance inspired him. “You seem like a lady who would
benefit from male companionship.” She assessed him. He was large
and possibly dangerous.
“I’m not interested,” she said levelly, without the slightest trace
of fear. She glanced behind him. The nearest other person was a
half-block away. He stepped closer, menacingly.
“Before you say that, check this out.” He unzipped his fly.
“Why, that looks remarkably like a male penis,” the elegant
woman said with a laugh. “Only smaller.”
The old joke worked. He snarled but backed up and slunk away
with his beer can dribbling.
She resumed her purposeful stride. She briefly considered suggesting that the man seek counseling. But the man had lurched off
across the street.
Her smile died abruptly. Footsteps. Behind her, nearly matching
her own. Careful not to change her pace, she frowned in concentration. She tightened her grip on her bag and kept walking purposefully
into the dark night.

The whore turned into the deserted parking lot. The expanse of asphalt was empty and unlit. A chain stretched across the entrance. No
one was on duty at the shack, which sat in the middle of the lot. The
dark cold seemed more intense here.

She paused, getting used to the darkness, shivering in the coat
that now seemed too lightweight. Then she struck out across the
lonely lot. Her heels clattered on the paving. The abandoned guard
shack had trash heaped up against one side. There was one discarded
Christmas tree, dripping tinsel. She caught a movement around the
plastic garbage bags and thought,
rats
. She hated this.

The pretty blonde’s gaze searched the shadows.What was that sound?
A scuttling rat? She looked over her shoulder. No one was behind her.
A brief wind off the Hudson sent a shower of grit against her face.
Crumpled paper swirled down the street, an unholy, whirling white
phantom.

She turned a corner. No one else on this block either. Her heart
fluttered like a trapped bird and she walked a little faster. Her destination wasn’t far.A hand shot out of the ground and swiped at her ankle.

Dodging awkwardly with an ineffective squeal, she stumbled and
almost fell. Then she began to run. When she looked back, panting,
she saw the dirt-caked face of a wino, who crouched in a stairway
down to a basement entrance. He laughed maliciously but made no
move toward her.Too wasted on bad wine.

The footsteps were close. Right behind her. The hair bristled on the
back of the elegant woman’s neck. Alarm sparked up and down her
spine. She tensed for the hand on her shoulder, the knife at her throat,
the junk-soaked breath hot on her cheek. If she turned around now...?

She rounded the corner. Up ahead shone the beacon of a neon
beer sign on a deli. It was open, a sanctuary in the forbidding expanse
of limestone facades and gated shop fronts. The footsteps seemed to
fall back.

She slipped into the deli.The beer cooler exuded a rank smell of
unwashed refrigeration. As the front door closed, she turned. There
was no one behind her.Without opening the door, she leaned close to
the dirty glass and checked out the street in either direction. Nothing.
Where had her pursuer gone? Had she imagined it? Was she paranoid?
Was she insane?

“What’ll it be?”
The guttural growl made her start.
The stooped, bent gnome behind the counter was leering at her

with dark malice. “What’ll it be, honey?”
“Excuse me?” Another dysfunctional member of society.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, get the hell out of my store then.”
“I’ll go when I’m ready,” she snapped. Could her pursuer be hiding outside, waiting for her to emerge? She hated not being in control.