Sinner's Ball (13 page)

“I had the same deal with blow,” he said. “I'm clean now, but a day doesn't go by that I don't miss it.”

“The junkie's lament. Ain't an addictive personality grand?”

“A bitch, ain't it? Fuck it! Let's go see a stiff.”

I followed Cholo a few yards under the boardwalk to to where the victim—or what was left of him—was lying on his back. I couldn't count the puncture wounds that covered his body. And the slashes that crisscrossed his face looked like someone had used it for a demented game of tic-tac-toe. The snow between his legs was dyed vermillion.

“There he is in living color,” Cholo said.

“Holy shit!” I said.

“Tell me about it. Makes the Top Ten list of the worst I ever saw. When I first laid eyes on him I nearly puked.”

“Eminently understandable.”

“You know the first thing that jumped into my mind?”

“Better him than you?”

“OK, the second thing. Remember that poem about Lizzie Borden? Took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks?”

“And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.”

“Yeah. Only whoever turned this guy into tatters used a knife as sharp as a scalpel. And check the crotch. Lot of anger here, Steeg.”

I noticed there was no blood spatter, and mentioned it to Cholo.

“Good eye,” he said. “We found a shitload of blood at the bottom of the stairs, and drag marks leading here.”

“Footprints?”

He shook his head.

“The doer cleaned up after himself. We also ruled out robbery. Guy had over five hundred in his wallet.”

“Who found him?”

“A bum.” Cholo pointed at a large carton deep under the boardwalk, about twenty yards away. “Lives over there. Spent the night scavenging. Found him when he got home. Flagged down a patrol car. And here we are.”

“So he saw and heard nothing.”

“Absolutely nada.”

Cholo jerked his chin at the body. “Word is you have an interest in these guys.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“One Police Plaza is a regular yenta fest.”

“I do.”

“Any help would be appreciated.”

I clapped Cholo on the shoulder.

“If I manage to stumble across something in my wanderings, you'll be the first person I call,” I said. “Count on it.”

“Sure you will,” he snickered.

“So tell me, when did you become so callous, Cholo, my friend?”

“Comes of years cleaning up after psychos.”

I turned to leave, but Cholo's voice stopped me.

“By the way, we found sticks topped with cotton candy and arranged like a bouquet of flowers next to the body. Nice touch, huh?”

“Very creative. It seems like the guy was going for romance.”

“Sometimes being a romantic has its downside,” Cholo said. “Guy brings his true love a cotton candy bouquet. She was expecting diamonds. It pisses her off, and he winds up being reduced to a mess of Kibbles.”

“Love is a bitch.”

A
lot of anger here
.

That had to be the understatement of the eon.

Six packing crates. Six men. And then there was the fire. The ME's report said that a couple of the men were alive when the fire started. Why bring them to the warehouse? That one was easy. For the same reason Angela and the guys she was with picked it for a Christmas Eve party. It was abandoned, therefore private. But why would the killer torch the place and destroy his perfect hidey-hole?

And that left the latest victims. The guy in a West Side hotel. Walter Cady, the Bowery flop manager. The man in Coney Island. And who knows how many others waiting to be discovered. The murders were getting closer in time, and the killer's rage was increasing. Once the warehouse was gone, the killer was out of his comfort zone. And
more prone to mistakes. And that meant nailing the son of a bitch was just a matter of time.

It was speculation. But there was logic to it, and it felt right. But there was one more issue that needed to be resolved.

I called Luce.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “And Cholo sends his regards.”

“Could be the last heads-up you'll get from me.”

“Meaning?”

“My boss told me I may be facing a departmental trial.”

“For what?”

“Conduct unbecoming. Lifestyle issues, he said. Translation… being gay.”

Dave's warning rumbled in my head.
They'll come at you in ways you didn't think possible
.

“And the specifics?”

“Internal Affairs is poking around my life and trying to come up with some.”

“I'm sorry I got you into this, kiddo. I'm the one they should've dropped the hammer on.”

“If you can't help a friend…”

“Somehow I'll make this right.”

“That's real sweet, but screw
right!
I want to see all those fat cat bastards go down. So, what can I do for you?”

“Got a new theory.”

“Lay it on me.”

“The doer's gender may be wrong.”

“We've been through this already and rejected it.”

“I know. But we didn't take the killer's occupation into account. Think gay and on the stroll.”

“A gay hustler?”

“Yeah,” I said. “So far none of the vics—even the married guy—seem to be into women. Given the sexual nature of the crime, a male prostitute fits the bill.”

A few seconds passed while Luce considered this new wrinkle.

“Plausible,” she said. “Even when you throw in the Rohypnol.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. Everything remains the same, except gender.”

“It does,” she said. “And wouldn't hurt to check it out. Let me reach out to my connections in the community. I'll get back to you.”

I dropped the phone in my pocket, looked up, and saw Kenny Apple walking up to me.

“I've got to hand it to you, Steeg. When you take a road trip, you manage to hit all the high spots,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“There's nothing to be said for Coney Island this time of year. Or most other times, either. Cold. Dreary. And bloody.”

“You followed me? What the hell for?”

“Heard about the shooting. Figured you could use some backup.”

I loved Kenny Apple.

“See anything interesting?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Like what?”

“Spotted him right away. When you left your apartment. Big guy with close-cropped hair. Driving an old, gray Ford. Trying to blend in, I guess. Was with you every step of the way. When you dropped the car off, he took off.”

“That sounds like Riley. I don't suppose you followed him?”

“Tried to, but lost him in rush-hour traffic.”

“Terrific.”

“Look, I do two things really well. Make numbers sing and shoot people. And that's about it. But not to worry, he'll be back again.”

“This is turning into a fine kettle of fish, isn't it?”

“Certainly is.”

I looked at my watch.

“Haven't eaten all day. Want to grab a bite?”

“I'm going to take a nap. Promise me you'll stay pretty much close to home for the next day or so.”

“Consider it a solemn oath.”

I walked the few blocks to Feeney's, looked through the window, saw the usual suspects eating the usual slop, and lost my appetite.

The night was still young. And Ennis and Riley were somewhere out there.

And that rankled.

But not for long.

I headed back to my apartment. A gray Ford was parked at the pump, right out front.

The snakes in my head snapped awake.

Riley was behind the wheel. Ennis sat in the passenger seat. His eyes were black, and his nose was heavily bandaged. The mystery lady sat in back.

I walked over.

Martine rolled the window down. She had a deck of tarot cards in her hand.

“What am I going to do with you, Steeg?” she said.

“The bullet through my window says you pretty much made up your mind.”

“If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“Lucky me.”

“I could make you rich, Steeg.”

“Maybe. But then I wouldn't have anything to bitch about.”

“Final offer.”

“Dawn said you two had a history.”

Her lips curled into a smile.

“Whores don't have a history. No future, either. Only a now.”

“What happened to her?”

“Could be anywhere,” she said. “Or nowhere. Who knows what's in a whore's mind?”

“What's in yours, Martine?”

“Touché.”

Her fingers worked the cards. Fanning them out, then
squaring them. Over and over. Making sure the edges were perfectly straight.

“You ever been to Haiti?” she said.

“Nope.”

“Makes the rest of the shitbox countries in the world look like luxury resorts.”

“Poor
don't get you a Get Out of Jail Free card. And selling the services of women you're supposed to be helping isn't going to earn you a spot in heaven.”

Her face tightened. “I worked hard to get to this place. And I won't let you ruin it.”

“You're not the first who's ever said that.”

“But I'll be the last.” Her face contorted into a tight, ugly mask. “I'm not going back, Steeg.”

“What do the cards have to say about that?”

She fanned them one more time and held them out.

“Let's see,” she said. “Pick one.”

I plucked a card from the center.

Riley started the car up and shifted it into gear.

“No more warnings, Steeg,” she said.

When they pulled away, I turned the card over and looked at it.

It was a skeleton riding a pale white horse.

Just a bit of sleight of hand on Martine's part, I was sure. Well, almost sure.

M
e and John Walker parted ways a long time ago. Long enough that by now, the days are OK. But the nights are still a bit problematic. Some are worse than others. And a few make it to Category Five.

It starts with an icicle working its way into the base of my brain. Then it's an electric slide to tremors, nausea, and sweat so cold the heat of a thousand suns wouldn't even begin to warm me.

Thanks to Martine, this was one of those nights.

So I did what I usually do when a meltdown is roaring in on a bullet train. Scooted over to see Allie. For some reason Johnny moved on to easier pickings when I was with her.

She reached up and cradled my face in her hand.

“You sounded terrible on the phone,” she said. “And you look worse. What's wrong?”

“Remember the evil monkeys from
The Wizard of Oz
? Well, they've taken over my bedroom. I closed my eyes and clicked my red slippers, but …”

“When you opened them you weren't back home in Kansas.”

“I am now.”

She took my hand and led me to the sofa, drew me down beside her, and put my head on her lap. Her hand felt warm on my skin.

“Want to talk about it?” Allie said.

“And ruin a perfectly good rest of the evening? Let's talk about happy things. Like your job.”

“I'm off suicide watch. My new boss is now my fired boss.”

“Get out!”

“Happened in the twinkle of an eye. Something about a YouTube video.”

“And the subject matter?”

“A Roman orgy kind of thing complete with togas and drugs.”

“And your fired boss was the leading sybarite?”

“Caligula, actually. The link was sent to agency management, and clients.”

“Was the sender anyone we know?”

“Hand to God it wasn't me, but it could've been anyone. His enemies were legion. When security escorted him
out the door, a collective cheer went up on Madison Avenue.”

“So, all's well that ends well.”

“Very well,” she said. “Enough about me. How's DeeDee doing?”

“What's that they say about first loves?”

“You never forget them,” Allie said.

“Do you remember your first love?”

“Herbie Aronson. He was twelve. I was ten. Lived in my apartment house in Canarsie. Sixth floor. I lived on the fifth. I could see his apartment across the courtyard. I remember sitting at my living room window for hours just waiting for him to appear at his window. When he did I would melt. Of course, he would have nothing to do with me.”

“What made you so smitten?”

“His clear complexion.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh, it was. I even became friendly with his sister, a despicable little trollop, just to get close to him.”

“Did it work?”

“Do things ever work when you're ten and in love?”

“I guess not.”

“Herbie would tickle the ivories for hours on end. How they ever managed to schlep a piano up five flights of stairs and wedge it into that tiny apartment was always a mystery. But somehow they did, and Herbie would bang away until the neighbors complained. I thought it was glorious.”

“I take it Herbie wasn't the athletic type.”

“Sports were for goons. Herbie was
sensitive
. In fact, I spent a lot of time imagining our life together. We'd have our own apartment in our parents' apartment house. Herbie would be a concert pianist, and I would be his bookish but clever impresario. Arranging concert dates. Handling interviews with the press. Writing his biography. That sort of stuff.”

“All this when you were ten. Who'd have thought?”

“I was a very precocious child.”

“Whatever happened to Herbie?”

“Dropped out of Brooklyn College, dealt weed for a time, and wound up selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door.”

“Ah. The promise of youth dashed against the jagged rocks of life.”