by Adam Pepper
Victor was in the back of the room. He shared a ‘desk’ with his partner that was really two folding tables pushed together. He was sitting at it, wearing a slick black suit that probably looked good when he put it on, but at the moment looked pretty beat up, along with a white shirt and shockingly bright red tie. Vic was always a sharp dresser. His partner, Detective Jimmy Tate, sat at the other end in a worn gray suit; the same one he wore every day. There were no less than half a dozen empty coffee cups laying about the desks between scattered papers, open files and empty potato chip bags.
“Vic, there is no way. The descriptions don’t match,” Tate said, his voice as cranky as my mother after a few days without a call or a few hours without a smoke.
“Yes, but use your common sense! It’s too coincidental,” Vic replied.
“Come on! We have an eyewitness to our perp. The killer was a woman. The Bronx thing was a hooker. Forty year old, attractive businesswomen don’t kill hookers in the Bronx. Sleazebag johns do. Or pissed off pimps.”
Vic looked up from his partner and smiled. “Hey, Hank.”
“Slow day, guys?” I forced out an awkward laugh, feeling a little weird about interrupting.
Jimmy didn’t laugh. He bit his lip, gave a slight nod and subtle grunt.
“Never slow, Hank. Never slow,” Vic said.
“Aren’t you off the clock like an hour ago?” I asked.
“Yeah, but we’re on a murder case that we thought was dead. But now it’s live again, and we just can’t let it go.”
Part of me wanted to drag Victor out the door. Judging by the bags that were bulging below his bloodshot eyes, I could tell they’d been going around and ‘round about this case for awhile. And judging by the hoarseness of Vic’s voice, the only productive thing they’d done was get their heart rates up. Still, my curiosity got the best of me.
“What’s the deal on this?” I asked.
“Last summer a woman was murdered, Ginny Olsen. Fifty-four years old, pretty well off, but I wouldn’t call her rich. Lives in a nice building off the FDR Drive overlooking the East River. Comes in from walking her little shit dog, and an attractive woman follows her in. Security cameras catch it and everything. Woman follows Mrs. Olsen into her apartment, and kills her. No motive. No one’s ever seen her before or since. Super of the building gets a noise complaint, goes to check it out, and gets run over by the killer as she flees the scene. Eyewitness. Confirms that it’s the woman from the security tape, but we can’t turn up a thing on this broad.”
“Weird,” I said and shook my head.
Tate looked over like he didn’t really approve of Vic letting me in on such privileged information, but he didn’t say anything. I think secretly, he may have wanted a fresh opinion on the case but he’d never admit it.
Vic continued. “Coroner’s report comes back really freaky. Says Mrs. Olsen’s internal organs are partially deteriorated.”
“Partially deteriorated?”
“Yeah, says there is no way they could have decomposed that quickly. So we have no idea what to make of the whole thing. We’re thinking maybe some kind of poisoning. But we check around, and we get word that Bronx Homicide has a similar stiff.”
“No shit,” I said, not sure what else to say.
“Crazy, right? Just a couple days after our murder, they have a murder. The thing is, their stiff is a hooker, and she’s found only two days after being murdered, but in her case, she’s almost entirely decomposed. There’s almost nothing left of her.”
“How can you be sure she wasn’t dead and rotting for longer?”
“We’ve got witnesses that saw her two nights before, including a cop who was real familiar with her, says he busted her a dozen times or more, and swears he saw her and even thinks he knows which john killed her. Middle aged white dude with an Oldsmobile. But we haven’t been able to find him either.”
“That does sound like a crazy case.”
Tate finally added his two cents to the conversation and said, “If you’re going to tell the guy the case, tell him the whole case.”
“Are you holding out on me, Vic?”
Vic smiled and said, “No, just building up to the kicker.”
“Okay, spill.”
“The coroner’s report doesn’t say that the bodies are decomposed, exactly.”
“What does it say?”
“Well, it basically said the bodies were hollowed out, maybe even eaten.”
“What? Maybe it’s some kind of cult thing? Satanic ritual shit?”
“No, it’s too clean. A cult would be messy, blood trails all over the scene, and jagged cuts from dull knives or something. But the coroner’s report says these bodies were partially digested. Like someone ate them from the inside out.”
The room went silent for a minute, then I said, “That is creepy.”
“I’ll say,” Vic said with a nod.
“Maybe some kind of animal ate the body parts, after they were dead,” I suggested.
“Yeah, sure, I’d say it was a gerbil but it’s the wrong hole,” Tate said, laughing at his own joke.
Vic cringed and said, “Come on! Is that necessary?”
“So, that was last summer. Why you guys back on the case?” I asked.
“I don’t know. We could be reaching, but there was another body found upstate a ways outside a diner near Bedford, found after that crazy Indian summer we had. Has some of the same markings.”
“Well, I heard it’s supposed to warm up soon. Maybe he’ll strike again.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like the cold,” Vic offered.
“Yeah, sure,” Tate said. “Maybe he flies south for the winter.”
“You need a drink,” I said. “Come on. Call it a day, Vic.”
“Ah, why not?”
“Yeah, why not,” Jimmy said with obvious sarcasm.
“Why not come along, Jimmy?” Vic asked. “We’ll get a few drinks, watch the Knick game.”
Jimmy looked over at me, then said, “Nah. I’m gonna go over my notes one more time, then go home and get some rest.”
“You can’t go on forever,” Vic said. “Everyone needs a break sooner or later. I know I could use a cold one, or two, or ten.”
“You guys go ahead.”
“You sure?” Victor made one last plea. He was a loyal partner even though I never really saw the two get along. They argued nonstop over every case they worked.
“Get lost! Go on,” Jimmy snapped, half joking. The other half clearly wasn’t.
Victor and I walked out into the cold evening, quickly leaving the stationhouse behind.
“Where we going?” Victor asked. “Dempsey’s?”
“Nah. Anywhere but Dempsey’s!”
“Really?”
“I’m getting tired of that place. Could use a change of scenery.”
Victor looked at me crossly. Every day some poor sap covering up for a friend, or some psychopath accused of murder tried to lie to Victor, and he made his living seeing through them every time. He had a special gift for reading people that made him really good at his job.
“You in some kind of trouble again, Hank?”
“No. Just looking for a change. What’s the big deal?”
I could tell he wasn’t convinced. But he let it go. “Fine. Let’s catch a cab then. Head up to Haley’s.”
“Sure.”
As we stepped into the taxi, my phone rang again. I looked over at Vic and he looked back. He caught me. He could spot a liar. The number on the phone was blocked. It had to be Flip. To be calling for a fifth time meant Flip was pretty pissed. I turned the ringer off on my phone, and slid it into the pocket of my overcoat.
The cab let us out on Thirty-Seventh Street. Haley’s was just up the block. It was easier to jump out there then to have the taxi fight through the traffic and make three left turns to get around the one-way streets. Even on a chilly night we weren’t so spoiled that we needed door-to-door service. We could walk a block up.
&n
bsp; Haley’s was a brighter place than Dempsey’s, had more ambiance for sure. Ambiance attracted women, and women attracted cops and business guys in nice suits. I didn’t really care for either. I didn’t have time, patience or bankroll to chase the kind of women that came into Haley’s, but they were nice to look at when whatever game I was watching went to a commercial break.
Victor saw a woman he liked. I think he already knew her, but it was hard to tell; he was always flirting.
“I’ll be right back,” he said and walked over her way with a wide smile.
I put my coat over a barstool in front of the big screen television, grabbed my cell phone from my coat pocket, then walked to the back. The place was loud, but the back area where the payphones and bathrooms were was a little better.
I called Flip’s “office.” They called it an office, but that wasn’t exactly what it was. It was a dingy room in a tiny apartment off Mott Street where no one actually lived. Inside the eleven-hundred-a-month studio generally sat two or three old guys chewing on cigars, sitting at desks as crusty and old as they were, taking bets over the phone.
“Office,” the voice of a million smoked cigars croaked.
“Yeah, it’s Hank.”
“Flip’s Hank?”
“Yeah. What’daya got on the Knicks tonight?”
“Knicks are minus five.”
“Okay, give me the Knicks four hundred times.” That meant two thousand. They were an old school, neighborhood sports book and still insisted on saying it that way. It dated back to the old days when they thought they were fooling the local cops by not using dollar values. I figured if I could hit the Knicks—and they were an absolute lock to torch the hapless Milwaukee Bucks—then I’d have Flip’s two grand for him. No harm, no foul. He’d be a little ticked off that I didn’t call him back, but he’d get over it quick if I told him I got hammered at Haley’s and couldn’t hear my phone ringing.
I walked back to my seat and a Jim Beam with two cubes of ice was waiting for me. Victor and his lady friend were at the next stool, her sitting, him hawking over her as he worked his magical tongue. The place was loud, and I could barely hear him.
“Hank. This is Marissa.”
I waved. She politely waved back, and they went back to talking. I took a slug of my drink and looked up at the television. The game was just about to start.
The Knicks came out in their home white uniforms, the Bucks in ugly, dark green ones. The tip was controlled by Milwaukee, and they hit the first bucket, and the second, and the third. Before I knew it, the Knicks had fallen into a deep hole.
It just didn’t make sense. The Knicks won eight straight games prior, and Milwaukee hadn’t come into The Garden and won in three seasons. But with each basket the visiting Bucks hit, my two grand slipped away, and I was going from having my foot stuck in a New York pothole to being buried in a Jersey landfill in a hurry. All I could do was order more drinks, and more drinks, and still more.
At halftime, I turned to Victor, who had barely come up for air, he was working her so hard. He looked back at me, then leaned his head over towards me.
“You’re gambling again, aren’t you?”
“Nah. No way.”
Vic just shook his head, both of us knowing I was lying, then he returned his attention to Marissa.
The second half was no better than the first. The Knicks lost by twenty-five points. I downed another whiskey, easily my tenth or twentieth of the night, at that point what was the difference?
“I’m gonna catch a cab home,” I told Victor.
He nodded back as his date said, “Nice meeting you.”
In the cab, the driver had the sports talk radio station on. The hosts were talking about the Knick debacle and a few angry Knick fans called in. Then, they went to a break, and the announcer mentioned the Lakers game was set to tip off on the west coast at ten-thirty local time. I looked at my watch: ten twenty-two.
I handed the cabbie his fare as I called the office.
“Office.” Different voice than before, same amount of cigar mileage to his tone.
“It’s Hank. The Lakers?”
“Flip’s Hank?”
“Yeah, yeah. What are the Lakers tonight?”
“Lakers are minus ten, Hank.”
They were playing the worst team in the league. At least, I thought so. I’d had a few and really didn’t care. I was just chasing a dream of catching a break to settle up with Flip. As I fumbled up the steps to my second floor walkup apartment, that stood just over Jo Jo’s Deli, I tried to figure where I was at. I owed Flip Rory’s two grand, but I had at least a grand of that left. Didn’t I? I gave seven hundred to Sandy, dropped less than a hundred at the bar. I owed two plus the vig on my Knicks bet.
“Hank? You want action? Game goes off in four minutes and I can’t tie up this line. Other people want to get their plays in.”
“Give me three dimes on the Lakers.”
“Lakers six hundred times. Done, Hank.”
I stumbled inside, dropped my coat, kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the couch.
* *
Something hurt. What was it? A shoe in my back.
I shut my eyes tight, blinked a few times, then opened them. My head was pounding something awful, and my mouth was parched. I sat up and grabbed the shoe off my couch and tossed it aside.
A cold glass of water was all I could think about, and I walked as fast as my rubbery legs would take me to the kitchen. I ran the kitchen faucet for a second or two, no time to let it really get cold, then cupped my hand and gulped a few handfuls of water. I took a glass from the cabinet and filled it two or three times, and I started to feel human again.
I walked towards the bathroom, tossing my clothes off as I did. I started the water and then turned on the radio. I needed a score. The Lakers must have pulled it off.
They better have pulled it off.
I showered as the sports talk radio station babbled on. “Just give me the scores dammit.”
Every twenty minutes they ran the updates, and it seemed like I waited the full twenty until the deep-voiced dude started running down last night’s scores. Of course, the west coast games were always announced last.
“I know the Knicks lost. Just get to the scoreboard already!”
“…and finally, in the late game, it was the Lakers one-o-three, Charlotte ninety-four.”
“Fuck!” They won by nine. I was laying ten. I was in trouble.
A whole lot of trouble.
I dressed and walked out the door. Another cold day hit me once I was on the street. My office was just two blocks straight up Avenue A. Somewhere between Second and Third Street I felt a thump on my back and turned around quick. Just as recognition kicked in, Marco backhanded my face; Flip’s muscle-headed cousin was nothing if not two things: loyal, and stupid. He couldn’t tell a steroid from an asteroid except he shot one in his ass and shot the other through my head.
Once the stars subsided, I sat up. Marco was just standing over me, not saying a word.
“Hey, Marco.”
“Flip wants to see you.”
“I was just going to see him.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“What?”
“Give me your phone.”
“I left it at home.”
A silver Mercedes with chrome rims and dark purple tint on the windows pulled up. The door opened.
“Get in Hank.” It was Flip, sitting alone in the backseat wearing a black velour sweatsuit and a large silver link chain.
I took one look at Marco, then stepped into the car. Marco pushed in right behind me, and the three of us crowded the backseat.
“The phone, Marco,” Flip said.
Marco began manhandling me, checking my pockets. I’d honestly left it at home.
“He don’t got it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I know you got my calls last night, Hank. Why didn’t you call me back? You know I don’t like it when you duck me. It insults m
e.”
“I was at Haley’s last night. The place is loud. I didn’t hear my phone.”
“You managed to call the office…twice.”
“I didn’t see you called, Flip. I was hammered.”
“You didn’t have a good night, from what I hear.”
“Freakin’ Lakers…”
“I also heard you went to see Rory.”
I nodded.
“He gave you two grand.”
I nodded again.
“Where is it?”
I thumbed through my pockets and found a thousand. I handed it to Flip.
He shook his head back and forth. “I should beat the living shit out of you, Hank. You know that?”
I nodded. There was no point talking. It would only make it worse. Flip liked to hear himself talk. He had to decide for himself if he was going to drop me off at my office, or drop me in a ditch. Any lobbying on my part would just spark his predatory instincts.
“I don’t understand why you disrespect me. You needed a job, so I let you collect for me. What do you do? Insult me.”
“I should have called. I’m sorry.”
Flip looked at me, then walloped me in the gut. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.
“You’re goddamned right you should have called me!”
The Mercedes stopped in front of my office. Flip grabbed the back of my hair and slammed my head into Marco’s rock of a knee. My eyes began to water.
“Seven grand, two points a week.”
“But I just gave you a grand.”
Flip slapped me like a fifth grader. “That’s a dick tax. Don’t ever act like a dick again or the tax will be in broken bones, not cash. Understand?”
“Yep.”
“Get the fuck out of my car. Now!”
Marco opened the door, but didn’t move. I looked at him, and he grunted and exhaled like an angry bull, then stepped out. I stepped out behind him and walked towards my office.
Mrs. Kim ran over as she saw me stumble down our shared overhang towards my door.
“Mr. Mondale, are you okay?” she asked.
