The Helper (23 page)

‘Hello?’

‘Pizza delivery.’

A pause. Then: ‘Mikey?’

‘No. This is Pete. I’m the new guy. You ordered a pizza, right?’

‘Yeah, but you’re too early. The order was for eight o’clock.’

‘Eight o’clock? Oh crap. I am so gonna get it for this. Yours is the second one I got wrong tonight. My ass is fried. Sorry to bother you, miss. We’ll bring the order at eight,
like you asked. Looks like it’s not gonna be from me, unfortunately, but you’ll get it on time. Really sorry about that.’

That’s it, he thinks. Lay it on thick.

‘Wait!’ she says, and he knows he’s got her. ‘I guess it won’t hurt to eat a little early. Bring it on up.’

He hears the buzz and the click of the lock opening. He’s in.

He takes the stairs up to the third floor, then raps on the door to her apartment. She opens it in an instant.

She’s wearing a powder-blue bathrobe, belted tightly at her waist. She has removed her make-up. From somewhere behind her he hears the sound of running water.

He expects a look of mild annoyance, and he gets it. But he also expects that it will quickly evaporate, and he gets that too. This tall handsome biker giving her his most disarming smile is
causing her practically to melt into a puddle on the floor.

He says, ‘Thanks for agreeing to take this now. It’s really kind of you. To be honest, I don’t think I’m much good at this job. I feel like I’m really in over my
head, you know?’

She opens the door wider now. It’s amazing how much a girl can allow her hormones to override her instinct for self-preservation.

‘No problem,’ she says. ‘I know what it’s like to be out of my depth.’

He almost laughs. You do, huh?

She continues: ‘Here, let me take that off you.’

She grabs the box, then carries it into the apartment, leaving the door gaping, her back unprotected. What the hell does she think she’s doing? Doesn’t she know how dangerous this
city can be?

She puts the pizza down on the kitchen counter, then comes back with a fistful of cash. She passes it to him. Says, ‘Keep the change.’

‘No way. The way I screwed this up, I should be paying you.’

‘No, seriously. Keep it. Buy a beer or something.’

‘Well, only if you’re sure. I could do with some parts for my Harley, so it all helps.’

He waits for her eyes to widen, and is not disappointed. Suspects that he could soon have the space between her legs widening too if such was his aim.

‘You have a Harley?’

He nods. ‘Two, actually. Not tonight, though. I have to ride the piece-of-shit lawn mower that Peppe provides. Makes me feel such a dork. If my friends saw me on that . . .’

‘I used to have a Harley.’

‘Get out of here. Really?’

‘Really. A 2002 Sportster.’

‘That’s the same as mine. Which engine? The 1200?’

‘Nah, just the 883.’

‘Still, that’s pretty cool. You got any pictures of it?’

He sees her waver, but only for a second.

‘Sure. Come on in.’

He stays put. He wants her to feel that she’s making all the moves here. She has no idea he’s pulling all the strings.

‘No,’ he says. ‘That’s okay. I should get back to Peppe’s.’

‘Come on. Two minutes, okay?’

He shrugs, walks on in. Casually closes the door behind him. Just the two of them, alone in this apartment. So fucking easy.

‘Be right back,’ she says. She skips off to the bedroom. When she comes back he notices that she has loosened her robe, that it is patently lower in the neckline. And when she stands
next to him and holds out the picture of her pathetic hunk of shiny metal, he knows that she’s doing so in such a way that he can see right down her cleavage.

‘Beautiful,’ he says, because that’s clearly what she’s hoping for: a compliment that is ambiguous enough to apply either to her or her stupid bike. He wonders if he
could have been even more daring – something about massive twin carbs maybe – but he has no idea whether motorcycles even have twin carbs, let alone whether it is meaningful to talk
about their size. He has limited his research strictly to what he needs to achieve his aims.

‘Hell of a ride,’ she says, and he realizes she’s continuing the game. Leaving it to him to decide whether it’s the bike or her that’ll give him the biggest throb
between the legs.

He shifts his gaze from the photo and sees that she is looking straight at him. Guesses that she has in fact been watching him throughout to see where his eyes rove. Right now her own eyes are
wide with anticipation and excitement. She is loving this game. Getting off on the subtle foreplay.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he says.

She smiles knowingly. Even though she knows shit.

‘Sure. What is it?’

‘Are we in danger of getting a little moist here?’

Her mouth drops a little. Like she can hardly believe her ears. The nerve of this guy! The sheer temerity!

But he knows he hasn’t overstepped the mark. Far as she’s concerned he’s just upped the stakes. Made the game even more electrifying.

‘Excuse me?’ she says, because she has to. Because she needs to appear to be the shocked prim virgin instead of the oily slut she really is.

‘Is there a bath or something being filled back there?’

There you go, he thinks. You want
double entendre
? Beat that one.

‘Huh?’ she answers, her meager brain not coping well with the sudden context switch. ‘Oh, yeah.’ And then: ‘Oh, shit!’

She races for the bathroom. He doesn’t wait for an invitation to follow. The bathroom is where this was always destined to play out. And Tabitha has acted her part to perfection.

He watches her fight with the faucets. He can’t see where the water level is, but a mound of foam is already several inches above the rim of the bathtub. When she finally shuts off the
water and turns around, she jumps when she sees him standing in the doorway, holding the pizza box.

For the first time, he’s not sure how she’ll react. Is she thinking, ‘Whoa, fella! Who said you could come in here?’ Or is this fulfilling her most outrageous porn
fantasy? The one where the handsome biker drops in on the frustrated and helpless single woman and offers to tune up her sump with his crankshaft, or whatever the hell the terminology is.

Frankly, he no longer gives a shit. The game has become tiresome. It’s time to bring it to its inevitable conclusion.

‘You want some of this pizza? It’s cold, and there’s a slice missing, but you’re welcome to have some. Personally, I think it tastes like vomit.’

She tries a smile, then seems to realize it doesn’t fit the circumstances and drops it again.

‘I think you should go now,’ she says.

He hears her nervousness. Sees her discomfort.

‘You don’t want me to go. You’ve been waiting for this for a long time.’

She folds her arms. Trying to appear strong, decisive. But he sees only her admission of vulnerability.

‘Forget it, fella. Whatever you think this is, you got it wrong.’ She snaps an arm out, aiming her finger toward the apartment door. ‘Out!’

He doesn’t budge. Of course not.

‘I can’t. Not before I give you what you need. I have to help you.’

He sees the confusion on her face, but he understands. Her prayers for aid have remained unanswered for so long that she finds it almost beyond belief that they have finally been answered. It
must be such an assault on one’s perception of how the universe works.

‘I don’t need your help.’

He gives her what he believes to be a beatific smile. ‘You need help. You just didn’t expect it to come now, and from someone delivering pizzas.’ He laughs. ‘But
don’t be fooled by appearances. Help is finally here. All you have to do is accept it.’

Her eyes dart, and he realizes she isn’t going to take his advice. Sadness overwhelms him. She is so fucked up, she is incapable of appreciating the significance of this moment.

‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I want you the fuck out of here. Now!’

He stands his ground. Maintains his smile of serenity.

She storms toward him. ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’

He sidesteps a little, creating an opening in the doorway she can squeeze through. He waits for her to increase her pace toward the escape route he has just made for her. Waits for her to come
almost level with him . . .

His left hand leaves the pizza box. He brings it upwards at great speed, his palm open. He drives the V-shape formed between his thumb and his index finger hard into her throat.

She staggers back, clutching at her neck. She opens her mouth and makes sounds like a cat with a furball as she sticks out her tongue and gasps for air.

Sorry, Tabitha, he thinks. No air today.

He drops the box and closes the gap. Puts a hand to her face. Forces her backwards. Her legs connect with the edge of the bathtub and over she goes. There is a massive splash as she plunges into
the water, and a huge foamy wave rolls over the sides of the tub and onto the floor.

He thrusts his hands into the water. Finds her shoulders and leans on them. But she fights him, and she is much stronger than he expected. She draws on those reserves of
in extremis
strength that only those who are fighting death itself can tap. It surprises him that she actually manages to raise her face above the suds and push her legs and buttocks over the rim of the tub.
He grunts as he applies more force to her shoulders, driving her under again.

Her legs still protrude from the water. They kick wildly and with force. Her robe comes open, exposing her nakedness. Her arms flail. He has to hold his face away from those clawing fingers. Her
hands scrabble for purchase, but all they find is the smoothness of the wall tiles. Her nails break as they catch on the grouting.

She takes an age to die.

When he is certain she has gone, he removes his arms from the water. Rivers gush from both sleeves of his leather jacket. He looks down at himself and sees that he is sopping wet. In hindsight,
he thinks maybe this wasn’t the best way to do things.

He grabs two white fluffy towels from the rail and spends a few minutes drying himself off. He knows he cannot hang around much longer because the real pizza delivery guy will be arriving
soon.

He takes one last look at his handiwork. Tabitha’s naked lower half still hangs over the edge of the tub, the rest of her buried beneath the bubbles.

He tried to tell her why he’d come here.
I’m really in over my head
, is what he said. But what was really ironic was the way she came back with an even better line:
I
know what it’s like to be out of my depth
. Priceless!

He picks up his motorcycle helmet and pizza box and heads for the apartment door. His shoes squelch with each uncomfortable step.

Great, he thinks. You try to help someone, and this is what you get.

Some people are so damned ungrateful.

‘Nice position,’ says Kravitz.

‘Nice,’ says Folger.

The two Homicide detectives are staring thoughtfully at the visible half of the murder victim, draped over the edge of the bathtub. Around them, other cops and techs swarm like ants –
busy, busy, busy. But Kravitz and Folger manage to rise above it all. They see their roles here as ones of authority. They need to be seen as calm and in control. The fulcrum of all the activity,
if you will. Or the hub. Or the linchpin. In any case, the bit that doesn’t waste energy flapping around like the lesser mortals here.

‘I don’t think I ever saw a DOA in this particular position before,’ says Kravitz.

‘Me either. Certainly draws the eye, don’t it?’

‘That it does. Quite the focal point. I’m thinking of suggesting it to my wife.’

‘You are?’

‘Certainly. For one thing, the height is exactly right.’

As he says this, Kravitz puts his hands out in front of him, as if imagining holding onto his wife’s hips, and gently pulsates his groin. In and out. In and out.

‘Yeah, the height,’ says Folger with obvious distaste, since any use of the word in his presence tends to be pejorative. His own contribution to the pleasure of any woman in the
position now under discussion would have to be strictly oral, unless he brought a stepladder.

‘And the angle is perfect. Both for me and for her.’

‘For your wife too?’

‘Absolutely. She’s suffered from lower back pain for years. I think this would do her the world of good. Much better than those balls she keeps rolling around the house
on.’

‘Your wife rolls around the house on balls?’

‘Well, ball, singular. You know, one of those big-ass balloon things for exercises? I’m convinced that regular adoption of the bath-based posture being demonstrated for us by this
young lady here would be much more beneficial than any amount of ball-supported locomotion.’

Folger nods with enthusiasm. ‘Plus,’ he says, perhaps too hastily, ‘you wouldn’t have to look at her face.’

Kravitz turns a stony glare on his shorter compatriot.

‘What are you saying about my wife?’

Only then does Folger seem to realize what he has just said. ‘Uhm, I have a thing about people looking at me while I’m doing it.’

‘An audience, you mean?’

‘No. I mean the female. I don’t like to make eye contact. I find it puts me off my stride. For you I’m sure it’s not a problem. Especially with someone as attractive as
your wife.’

Kravitz maintains his stare for a while, as if unsure whether to take offense.

‘You should talk to somebody about that problem. Some women, they like to see what’s going on when they’re in the sack. Could be the reason your relationships are always so
short.’

Folger merely nods, even though he resents the return insult. Resents, too, the word ‘short’ being thrown at him like that.

Standing a few feet behind the two Homicide dicks, Doyle tries to avoid being distracted by their inane drivel. He watches while Norman Chin, the Medical Examiner, performs some initial
scrutiny, directs the taking of numerous photographs from various angles, and supervises the extraction of the body from its watery grave. Then he concentrates on what Chin has to say about the
victim.