He had thought she looked about twenty from a distance, but up close he noticed that she was wearing a bit too much makeup, thirty maybe. “I’ll take tequila then please, for starters, anejo if you have it. Will you join me?”
“Very sorry sir, drinking is strictly forbidden for me in flight. Unless,” she paused for effect, “that is what you were asking me to join you in, wasn’t it?” She winked again and fixed her eyes on his. When he didn’t answer right away, she let her eyes wander down to the bulge in his jeans and then back up to his eyes.
Oh my god, he thought, she’s coming on to me strong. “Call me Jimmy, baby, not sir or mister.”
“Okay, Jimmy baby it is,” she said with a smile and headed for the bar.
He was sufficiently aroused to stand and follow her to the bar. He liked this woman a lot. When he reached her, she turned quickly and bumped right into his approach. He half caught her and for a moment they stood with their bodies together and no sound but the roar of the engines. “Careful dear, what’s the hurry,” he said, releasing his hold.
She held on, pressed her body in tighter for a second, and then let go. She had felt the legendary bulge. “Rocks or no rocks?”
He could swear she had opened a couple more buttons on her blouse because now the lace fringe of a beige bra peeked out where it cut across two smooth pale breasts. Fuck you doggy, he thought and pulled her back. When he put his lips to hers they parted, allowing his tongue in, to play with hers. She tasted of toothpaste or mouthwash, or something clean and minty like that. She drove her pelvis into his aggressively and began to grind against him in a slow music-less dance. He had one hand on her cheek and one on the soft silky hair that flowed down the back of her head. Her two hands were on his butt, pulling him in against her. A low guttural moan came out with her breath.
Jimmy began to open the few remaining closed buttons on her blouse, pulling it up and out of her skirt. She took it off and started on his belt and jeans as he kicked off his Sperrys. He unhooked her front closing bra and ran his hands over the smooth skin of her breasts, pausing to twist the nipples gently between his thumbs and forefingers. She was attacking his jeans like a thirsty woman at a well. When his pants slipped down and fell to the floor, she gasped finding no underwear, and his hard penis stood straight up to greet her searching hands. She dropped to her knees and allowed him to rub it on her face and in her hair. She looked up at him, he knew she wanted him to watch as she took him in her mouth. He tried to hide it, but he could tell that she saw something in his eyes she had not expected to find, he was afraid, even terrified of where this might go.
He took a step back, “only your hands,” he said. He would allow himself the release, but nothing more. If his semen got inside her, she would die. Not that he cared about her life, no not at all, but he cared about her death. A dead body, whatever the cause, would create the type of scandal and scrutiny that he could not allow a light to shine on.
The stewardess seemed eager to please, she followed his direction. She was watching his face carefully now, had she seen the fear there? Was she confused, she worked to rub that look off his face. “How’s this?” she said, smiling a most seductive smile. She leaned in to lick him and he pulled back. Reading him wrong she became more aggressive. She reached beneath her skirt, revealing beige lace panties, and then removed them but kept the skirt on, all the while stroking him with one hand, but he was getting softer. Confusion crossed her face briefly replacing the smile, a fox whose den was suddenly gone, she struggled to find her way. She leaned in again and this time he let her take him in her mouth. She looked up at him, he closed his eyes relishing her expertise. When he opened them her smile had returned, merging with her busy mouth as he began to harden again. She started to rub herself, he watched, she seemed to want him to watch her.
He was weak and knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. She was a dead woman. A smart detective would connect the dots, he would be a dead man. What would he say happened? His brain started working up scenarios and the distraction showed almost immediately in his response to her. She paused. “What’s wrong Jimmy?” she asked. It was the pause he needed. He stepped back and reached down to grab his jeans from the floor. “Get dressed, get my tequila, and shut the fuck up.”
Chapter XV
Chris sat on a bench in Central Park, just before the tunnel that led to the Chess House. His cargo shorts were baggy, and his Pink Floyd tee shirt was two sizes too big, but they had been a dollar each at the thrift store on Lexington. He was waiting for José and realized he did not even know his friend’s last name. This man, on whom now rested the entire burden of the successful conclusion of all his efforts for the last six years, he only knew by his first name.
It was a cool day for mid-July and a slight breeze blew through the Oak and Maple trees that lined the path. A cloudless blue sky was the canvas on which a bright yellow sun had been painted. Runners came by, pretty, young moms pushed strollers, men, and women dressed for success in the city that built fortunes headed to work. Chris envied them their ignorance. Certainly, some of them feared the devil, or what they conceived it to be, but in reality, they had no idea. Some perhaps feared God and his retribution for their transgressions, but most of them also had faith that in the end, he would prove to be a merciful God. Chris doubted that. He feared neither God nor the devil, he feared only It.
He recognized that his plan was anchored in fiction and legend, popular culture, and Hollywood imaginings. But there was just a small part of it that was based on research, his research, and he hoped it was enough. He had found, in multiple locations, various versions of a Native American legend about a famous Algonquin hunter and his special bow and arrow. This legend provided him most of what he needed to at least make an opening gambit. Chris was reasonably certain that he knew where to go, not so sure about the, “what to do when he got there,” part.
It was a Thursday morning and he was a bit uncomfortable with the cash he had in his pocket. Thursday was the day that he always went to the bank to put his earnings in and since this had been a really good week, he had $600, one hundred in each of six different pockets of his cargos. There were men on the street that would kill him for one pocket, less even. He would head there right after this.
His friend came bouncing through the tunnel and his whistle echoed back and forth across its walls heralding his progress. He recognized the tune but could not remember the name, it reminded him of Conner, something about wishing on a star. José wore a long sleeve, pale yellow Old Navy tee, over blue jeans, with work boots on his feet. Chris thought he was lucky it was cool today or that poor man would be dying. A Yankee cap was on his head and the straps of a nylon backpack ran down from both shoulders and disappeared under his arms. He stopped whistling when he spotted Chris on the bench and looked guiltily from side-to-side as he exited the tunnel. José slowed his gait and turned around, surveying the cavern behind, before continuing his journey. He held his hand out to shake as he neared Chris. Chris stood and they shook.
“Hola amigo, ¿que pasa?” José said, but the cautious look in his eyes did not match the happy tone of his words.
“Hey, my friend, nothing much. How’s by you?”
“A little tired, I worked the graveyard shift, but I’m good.”
“Want to play?” Chris asked politely, nodding at the tunnel and the Chess House beyond, although he wanted to get this over with and move on.
“Gracias, no, I need a little sleep. Back on at three today,” he said.
“Wow, crazy man, guess you better hit the hay then,” Chris said.
“¿Que?” his friend asked, a creased brow punctuating his word.
“Just an expression, it means get some sleep.”
“Ah, yes, hay,” José answered, and his raised eyebrows swept away the furrowed brow. He pointed at the bench in a motion meaning ‘want to sit?’ They both sat. José took the backpack off and laid it on the seat between them, a white Nike swoosh faced up from the bla
ck nylon bag.
“Everything work out okay?” Chris asked.
“My friend, we do not talk about such things,” José said in a conspiratorial hushed tone, as he looked around them like he was expecting Martians to jump out from behind the trees. “We just do.”
Chris nodded and followed the man’s gaze around their area, not certain what he was looking for. He shrugged his shoulders at his friend as if to say, so then do. José gestured with a fish mouth at the bag that lay between them and a light of understanding shone in Chris’s eyes. “Got it,” Chris whispered. “Thanks.”
José stood up, indicating that their brief meeting was over, and Chris rose with him, grabbing hold of the backpack and slipping it on. It was heavier than it looked. “For Kelly…and your chico,” José said.
Chris nodded, holding back a tear, and they shook hands. When José was just about back to the entrance of the tunnel, Chris shouted after him, “Hey, what’s your last name?”
“Salvador,” the man yelled back.
Chris thought for a moment, and then said quietly aloud, “savior.”
Chapter XVI
God, it was hard to look inconspicuous for hours, Kimberly thought, standing at a small white counter in the lobby of Country Bank, on Second Avenue. She was dressed to not stand out: long striped shorts, flats, and a white polo with a little pig above the left breast. The branch was small compared to many Manhattan banks, but the beautiful Oak woodwork gave this one a warm, homey feel, unlike the sterile, impersonal feel in some of the larger branches with their aluminum and smoked glass interiors. Even the bulletproof partitions looked less foreboding when attached to the oak counters.
She had pretended to write a hundred deposit slips, another hundred withdrawal slips and on several occasions, had changed the date on the calendar that was on the countertop and then changed it back. She had walked outside, down the block, past the nail salon, the Red Mango, the Morton Williams, and then back and inside again. Every time a male customer came in, and there had not been many, she glanced over at the manager sitting in his office, and he shook his head from side-to-side.
She had arranged to meet with him before the branch opened, the FBI had a very special relationship with banks. They sat in his office having coffee at just after eight and Kimberly had told the man what “The Bureau,” needed. It was nothing more than a nod, to identify a patron. The manager actually knew Chris personally and he was relatively sure that his brief description for Kimberly would negate the need for identification; but he would oblige. “The red bandana is always on his head, add to that the mountain man beard and he’s quite a standout,” he had said. Kimberly agreed but perfectionist that she was, still insisted on the nod. She assured the manager that she would wait until he was out of the branch to speak with him.
Forty-seven of the last fifty Thursday’s, he had come to the bank, and always before eleven. His deposit record confirmed that. It was now a quarter to, and he was a no-show. Funny thing was, he never went on any day other than a Wednesday. If he wasn’t there, that meant it would be another week before she would be able to get the chance to talk to him. Meanwhile, the trail leading to Jimmy had gotten a little hotter. Emily Rovey had just become the twenty-eighth girl on her list, she was the third girl of the group to vanish from the state of California. Not so coincidentally, she thought, in the same city that Mr. Vale lived, although L.A. was a big place. The circumstantial evidence was now at least a mole hill.
She had been fiddling with the calendar again, wrapped up in her thoughts, and had not noticed the man who was now standing in front of one of the teller windows. His back was to her, but he had a red bandana on his head. She looked over at the manager and he was furiously nodding his head up and down, exasperated that she had not been paying attention. He stopped when she finally looked over. Kimberly Watson winked her left eye at him and then walked out of the bank.
She had originally thought to speak with him as soon as he came out of the bank, but she was curious about this man now, what kind of life was he leading, that it did not allow for contact with his brother or even his own son. She decided she would tail him for a while. New York City was an easy place to do that if you were following an amateur, there were so many people for you to blend in with. It was an almost impossible place to follow someone if they were a professional, so many people for them to blend in with. She hoped he was the former.
He walked a curious path west a block, then north for ten, then east for two and then north for another twenty. He appeared to be going nowhere and was certainly in no hurry to get there. Just past 96th Street, he headed west again, and this time went all the way to the park. He entered and walked north along a path that outlined a great meadow, past several fountains, and ended at a large lake about a mile further up. “Harlem Meer,” the sign said. It was a beautiful spot and the smooth lake mirrored the skyscrapers that surrounded the park, blue sky floated down the center on its surface.
Kimberly sat on the grass with her back against a tree and watched him on line at a concession stand. He walked away with a can of soda and a hot dog and exited the park onto Fifth Avenue where he continued his northward trek. It was just past two in the afternoon and the cool of the morning had given way to a stifling late day sun, baking down from a cloudless sky. Despite her conditioning as a runner, the sweat had soaked the back of her shirt and the heat had slowed her pace, but not his.
At last, he walked beneath a trestle that supported the FDR Drive and settled down in the shade. He pulled a notebook from somewhere and began writing in it. Then, he took off the black backpack he had been wearing and started examining its contents. He pulled out what looked to be some old clothes, and walked behind a cement tower, reemerging after a minute or two, without the clothes, but with a pillow. He laid it down and then put his head on it. It appeared as if he was going to sleep.
She watched from her vantage point, concealed about thirty yards away, and then decided he had indeed gone to sleep and she decided to get a closer look. He was facing away from her and as she approached, she had a sudden but unmistakable moment of fear, and her hand went to the gun concealed in the small of her back. That’s when he rolled over to face her.
“Bout time,” he said.
She looked him up and down, making an instant assessment, and concluding that danger was non-existent. She pulled her hand out. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been tailing me for hours, wondering if you were going to ever make contact. Feds?”
She took her ID from her front pocket and held it towards him. “FBI, yes, Special Agent Kimberly Watson,” she said, her curiosity about this man increasing moment by moment.
“Watson, that’s rich, where’s Holmes,” he chuckled.
“You’re not the first to ask me that, trust me.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Watson?” Chris asked, sitting up with his legs crossed in front of him and his back against the cement trestle.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing towards the ground.
“Sure, can’t offer you tea or anything.”
She sat cross-legged on the ground and spent a moment looking around before speaking. “Is this… home?” she asked, searching for that last word, and indicating the area around them, small word, but such a big, big, thing.
“Home, sweet,” Chris said.
“You’re a very curious man, Mr. Carter, but that’s a story for another day, I suppose. I’m here to ask you about a friend of yours, Jimmy Vale, you know him, right?” The constant hum of the cars above was somehow settling, calming.
More Jimmy Vale and out of nowhere. How strange. Again, he thought, someone or something was stirring this cauldron. “Used to know him, yeah, he’s a different guy now,” Chris said, droning with little emotion.
“He’s a rock star now, right? Left all his friends behind when he made it big. You resent that?” she asked, beginning her methodical probe. A horn above broke the hum momentarily, but it soon returned.
“Nope. I mean, yeah, he’s a rock star, but he doesn’t owe me anything.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Vale?” she asked.
“Can I ask you what this is about?” Chris said, finally showing a brief vocal inflection.
“My questions first, then I’ll answer some of yours if you cooperate. Same question.”
“Yesterday,” Chris said, matter-of-factly but she sensed it was anything but.
“I’m sorry, yesterday what?” Kimberly asked.
“I saw Jimmy in his hotel room in New York yesterday,” he looked her in the eye for the first time. She felt she was being measured, appraised. He must have seen enough to continue. “We didn’t talk long, it didn’t go well.” He looked away.
“I see,” she said, still looking at his eyes, waiting for him to look back. “How often do you guys meet?”
“Before yesterday, it was 1989.”
Dead Girls Page 8
