Shade of Pale (22 page)

“What are you doin' there?” he said menacingly.

O'Connor stepped forward. “I'm lookin' for somebody.”

“You a cop?”

O'Connor shook his head and took another step. He moved like a cat, light for person of his size, up on the balls of his feet as a dancer would.

The man he was talking to had a Mohawk haircut and two muscular arms covered with tattoos. The shaven sides of his scalp rippled as he addressed O'Connor. “This is private property, man. You're trespassing. You can avoid trouble by leaving now.”

“I'm lookin' for somebody,” O'Connor said again.

“Hey, man! I'm not gonna tell you again! Get the fuck outta here!”

O'Connor smiled. Mohawk came forward.

“I'm lookin' for a guy named Bobby Sudden.”

Mohawk came threateningly close and poked his finger sharply into O'Connor's chest. “OK, last time, asshole. Move it!”

O'Connor casually raised his hand and grasped the offensive finger. He expertly bent it back until it cracked. Mohawk shouted and brought his other arm up, fisted and ready. O'Connor pushed the elbow of the arm attached to the finger he had just broken into the man's face. As he did this he pivoted, drawing Mohawk down in a swift circular motion.

O'Connor's attacker went down hard, uttering a short profanity as the breath went out of him on impact.

In one smooth motion, O'Connor pulled Mohawk's arm back and inserted his thumb on the small fleshy pad between Mohawk's thumb and first finger on the outside of his wrist. He twisted the hand back into his body and applied pressure.

Mohawk tried to roll onto his side, but O'Connor countered. With a grunt he screwed Mohawk's arm 360 degrees counterclockwise. This time the sound was more like that of branches breaking on a dead tree.

Mohawk screamed, blocking out the satisfying crunch of breaking bones to O'Connor's ears.

The Irishman leaned over and spoke quietly, directly into the side of Mohawk's agonized face. “I just broke your arm in three places and your wrist in two, and I've only just started. Do you understand?”

Mohawk nodded, wincing back all manner of tortured sounds.

“I said I was looking for somebody. I think you know who it is. Now where is he?”

“I don't know,” barked Mohawk through the pain.

O'Connor's voice rose in anger. “Don't piss me off!”

He twisted again; there were a few more sounds like rubber bands snapping; then Mohawk began to shriek.

“You broke my fuckin' arm! You broke my fuckin' arm!”

“Shut up!” O'Connor put his foot on the man's neck and pressed down. “I'll take the cracked bone and shove it up your ass.”

“No! Please … don't! I'll talk. I'll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Somewhere, a few blocks away, a car alarm went off. O'Connor looked up and down the alley.

“I'm not convinced. I'll have to do some more damage. You see, what I want from you is your undivided attention. The only way to get it is with pain. Lots and lots of pain.”

“No! Please, I'll tell you anything! Just let go!”

O'Connor released Mohawk, who rolled over in pain, whimpering like a child.

“All right, let's try again. I'm looking for Bobby Sudden. I have reason to believe he rents a studio here. Which studio is it?”

Mohawk looked on the verge of passing out. “Bobby's in the secret studio in the back, last room in the corner. There's a black dog painted on the door.”

O'Connor picked up Mohawk by his pants and heaved him into the dumpster, where he collapsed among the garbage. The physical exhilaration of the violence had invigorated O'Connor. He'd been fallow too long. He believed a warrior must fight to remain himself.

Padraic entered the building stealthily, threading his way down the corridors, past the doors behind which thrashing rock bands of every description played at deafening volume. As he approached the corner, he heard a ska band playing louder. O'Connor's face tightened.

The door with the black dog painted on it was at the end.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

George Jones found Tony Brooklyn entertaining. After George bought him a hamburger and fries, the diminutive street dealer became talkative and spoke at length on a great many topics. George shut him up periodically, directing his wandering attention back to finding the red-haired man. But the conversation was lively and George actually laughed out loud several times.

Panelli failed to see the humor in anything Tony had to say and was anxious to get back to the station. “Come on; let's get on with the hunt,” Panelli said.

George had a peculiar expression when he answered, one not quite as bemused as annoyed. “This is the hunt, Panelli. Relax. I think Tony's about to come up with the big break any minute now. Right, Tony?”

“That's right, boss.”

“Just remember, Tony, Rikers Island needs men, nice-lookin' boys like you, with nice tight buns. I know some old cons up there; they send me out recruitin' new prospects all the time. I do them a favor, they do me a favor. Right now, I'm doin' you a favor by not draggin' you in for that dope we found. So don't forget it.”

“I won't.”

George's voice became stern. “There's places this guys hangs out around here?”

“I've checked 'em all, man. I told ya, I've been lookin'.”

George looked up at the ceiling, as if the answers to his questions were written there like graffiti. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Another moment of intuition passed and he made a connection that had been building for hours. “How about the movies?” he asked. “Did he go to the movies?”

Tony's eyes opened wide. “Hey, man! Wait a second.… You know, there was a place.”

“Where?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I remember once, he went to the movies right after we jazzed. We just scored some excellent brown and he took a taste. After he got buzzed, he says he's goin' to the movies. I thought it was kinda strange, you know? But he said it was nice and dark in there and he could nod and nobody would hassle him. Makes sense, when you think about it. I asked him why he just didn't go someplace free and he said he dug the art when he was high.”

George listened intently. “What do mean ‘he dug the art'?”

“The art, you know.…”

“The films?”

“Yeah, he dug the films. I thought he'd be into some porno or some other heavy shit. But the dude liked cartoons, those corny old Disney cartoons, you know?”

George looked at Panelli with an expression like he'd just fitted two halves of a peach together. “I got a hunch,” he said. “Popcorn, ticket stub … It's a long story. It just came to me.”

“Are you goin' psycho on me, George?”

George's face flushed; he frowned. “It's psychic, not psycho, and I'm not. You know I don't believe in that shit.”

Panelli folded his arms. “OK, you had a hunch. So spit it out.”

“There's a movie theater down the block; it's gotta be the only one in this neighborhood showing
Cinderella
. I noticed it earlier.”

“Right,” Tony said. “The Temple. That's the place. He dug the art there.”

“How come you never looked there?” George asked.

Tony shrugged. “I don't like cartoons.”

“You don't think he'd be there now, do ya?”

Panelli laughed. “Come on; you're dreamin'. That would be way too easy.”

“That's what you said when you pulled the dope out of my pocket,” Tony said.

George found the Temple Theater box office and showed his badge to the old lady behind the scratched Plexiglas window.

“Police, ma'am. We're looking for a white male, tall, with red hair. Anybody by that description buy a ticket today?”

The old lady squinted at George. “I don't know; my eyes are no good. Ask the ticket taker.”

George found a black teenager named Ray at the door, taking tickets. George held his badge out and smiled. “I'm looking for a guy who may have passed this way. He's tall, has red hair, comes in here a lot.”

The teenager nodded. “Yeah, I've seen that guy. I think he's in there right now.”

George couldn't believe his good luck. “Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

The movie was nearly over. Panelli had handcuffed Tony in the car for safekeeping.

“Let me ask you a question, OK? Let's say a guy comes in here and you rip his ticket in half and then he leaves, like he forgot something in his car, but he wants to come back in. Would you take the half of the ticket the guy had and rip it again?”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes. Like if the guy steps out for a minute, I remember his face and the quarter-ticket.”

“You ever do that for the red-haired guy?”

“All the time, man. I know because he's one of the only people who ever goes out once the show starts. I think he gets high or something.”

George's heart was pounding. It
might be Dolly's killer
.

“How many people are in the theater right now?”

Ray tried to count in his head how many tickets he'd taken so far today. It wasn't that many. “I think about twenty,” he answered carefully.

“How many are kids?”

Ray looked surprised. “Why, most of 'em, I guess. Except for a couple of teenagers and the big guy down in front.”

Shit,
George thought,
a theater full of kids. That's all I need. Why couldn't this guy have gone to the X-rated places like all the other pervos? No, he has to come here, where all the kids are
.

Panelli covered the back exit. George went inside, wondering how he was going to handle this.

First I'll have a look. If I see the guy, I'll call for backup
.

Inside, on the screen, mice were singing. Kids were scattered throughout the cavernous room completely absorbed. Their little faces turned to the screen, eyes wide. A group of teenagers were eating popcorn near the door. George could hear the rattle of their bags.

George's eyes adjusted to the dark slowly. He couldn't see a thing at first, so he took an aisle seat near the door and waited. He wanted to be able to discern the silhouettes of the patrons before he continued toward the front. He had a small penlight flashlight in his pocket, but he dared not use it for fear of alerting his suspect. He had to stay in the dark.

His eyes scanned the old theater, built during Hollywood's golden age. It was an art deco palace, complete with back-lit gargoyles and ornate wooden scrollwork.

At last, his pupils dilated and he slipped out of his seat and stealthily made his way down toward the front. A couple of kids came up the aisle on their way to the refreshment counter or rest room. They looked at George and pointed as he went by. He heard them giggling as they passed, and he found himself wishing they'd stay in the rest room.

This is where I should radio for backup, but the damn radio's all the way in the car. Besides, I'm just taking a look
.

George could see Red's shape clearly outlined against the screen. He was in the third row, his feet up on the chair in front of him. He stood out like a giant among pygmies. Luckily, there were no children in his immediate vicinity.

George slowed to a careful creep and crouched down. He slipped into a seat, about six rows back.

This is as close as I
get.

His heart was pounding now. He was in a theater full of kids with God knows what kind of maniac. He slid his right hand inside his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the walnut grip of his gun.

Can't use that here
.

His foot touched an empty soft drink cup and he kicked it accidentally. It rolled noisily in an arc toward the front.

Red turned.

George slid down in his seat.

Ray the ticket taker watched intently from the rear of the theater. He saw the figure of the guy down in front turn suddenly and face Detective Jones. There was something about the way both men moved that told him there was going to be trouble.

He slipped farther back into the darkness.

Then he saw the guy in front jump up from his seat and pull something from his pocket. Ray knew right away that it was a gun, even before the first shots rang out. He could see its outline against the bright movie screen.

He decided to call the cops on the cops.

George saw Red go for his pocket. He dived to the ground between the seats, jerking his own huge handgun from the holster.

There's too many kids in here; no way do I fire my weapon
.

Panelli was on the rear exit, and to get out the front the suspect would have to get past George. Red was trapped.

Kids started screaming. They jumped up from their seats in a panic and ran for the exits. Everybody in the room had seen the two men square off against the movie screen; their silhouettes were sharply defined. The gun was clearly visible in Red's hand.

Red began to move. He hunched down behind the seats and started to make his way toward the door to the right of the screen. George hoped Panelli was ready.

“Back off, motherfucker!” Red shouted.

George stayed down, crawling through the gum and candy wrappers, working his way toward the door also.

Suddenly Red ran for the exit. George raised his head and called out.

“Police officer! Freeze!”

Lying down behind some seats near the door was ten-year-old Karen Sweeny. Red scrambled down between the seats and almost stepped on her. She was crying vigorously. He saw her and smiled like the devil. He reached down with one of his hands and yanked her to her feet, twisting her tiny arm behind her back. Karen screamed. George could hear the terror in her voice, and his mouth went dry.

“Hold it, cop! I got a kid! So just back off!”

George felt sick. Red began to slide down the aisle toward the exit at the side of the screen.