Hersh pounced on the bed and slammed the book out of Noam’s hands. He grabbed Noam by the shirt and pulled his face close to his nose. “You fucked up!” he whispered, spittle spraying the teenager’s face. “If you wouldna fucked up, that guy would be walkin’ today.”
Noam felt his heart beating out of his chest, but he forced himself to remain rigid. Hersh held him close for a moment, then pushed him down on the bed.
Noam straightened his shirt and wiped his face. He was scared, but not as scared as he had been in the past. He had two choices: He could go along with Hersh or he could refuse. The look in Hersh’s eyes told him he couldn’t refuse right now without getting beat up. Better to go along with him now, decide what to do later. Figure out what’s going on when Hersh wasn’t around.
“So what do you want to do?” Noam whispered.
The lopsided smile appeared. “Now you’re talkin’.”
“Know what?” Noam suddenly blurted out.
“What?”
Noam paused. Shut up, he told himself. Don’t say it; just shut up.
Hersh said, “What’s on your mind, Nick-O?”
“Nothing.”
“Go ahead,” Hersh said. “I won’t do nothin’.”
Noam’s words came out in a rush. “I think we need the money. But I also think that you like to hurt people.”
The smile vanished. Noam braced himself for punishment, the sudden attack. Hard fists in his already bruised face. He balled up his body and tucked in his head. But whenever he expected the worst, he never got it.
That’s what was so weird. Hersh was so unpredictable. Noam lifted his head. The lopsided smile had reappeared.
Hersh said, “So what’s wrong with that?”
The setup was almost identical to the first one, except this time Hersh went to a queer bar full of queers who admitted they were queers. Queers, Hersh said, were the best victims ’cause they were like women. All they did was scream and prance around, but they never fought back.
A crock, Noam thought. The guy that Hersh had killed had fought like a tiger!
Noam felt his stomach buck. He let go with a series of dry heaves. He’d been vomiting off and on for an hour. He felt weak, but was afraid to say anything to Hersh.
One more time. This was it!
This time they were in western Hollywood, far, far away from Grauman’s Chinese. Everything in this section of western Hollywood was fancy, fancy. Big health clubs, lots of shops, lots of restaurants. And lots of queers. All sorts of them. Some of them looked like women. Some even wore makeup. But some of them looked tough and wore leather and long hair and had earrings and mustaches and beards. They looked as tough as Axl Rose. It was weird to see tough guys holding hands with other tough guys.
He had so many stories he wanted to tell his brothers.
His brothers.
He’d always hated them. Now he missed them. Missed the tiny room they shared. When he lived at home, he could never get any privacy, never do anything. Now he had more freedom than he had ever had in his life and never had he felt so trapped.
Hersh had placed him in another alley. The area might be much better than downtown Los Angeles, but the garbage still smelled like garbage.
He thought it would be easier the second time around. Just the opposite. It was harder. He was vomiting more, sweating and shaking like he had the flu. Maybe he did have the flu. But he knew that wasn’t it. He’d felt okay until Hersh said they had to score again. Nothing—nothing about it was easier the second time. If anything it was harder because Hersh insisted that the gun be loaded this time. To prevent what happened last time.
Noam was about to ask why they would need a gun at all if Hersh was so sure that queers didn’t fight back. But the look in Hersh’s eyes—the glare of a mad dog about to attack—told him to shut up and keep his thoughts to himself. Besides, right at that point, he had to make a sudden run for the bathroom.
So now the gun was in his hands again, as slippery as ever. But now Noam didn’t dare drop it. It could misfire, blow off his leg.
God, why didn’t he just run away right now?
Why?
Noam thought, well, why didn’t he just do that?
Just pick up his legs and run away.
Do what Tanti Miriam told him to do.
Go to the police.
Even jail must be better than this.
Had to be.
But what about his parents?
They’d never forgive him if he went to jail.
They’d never speak to him again.
He shouldn’t have called Tanti Miriam and let her know he was in trouble. He should have waited it out and run away when he could.
Come home when he was safe, keep these terrible aveyrahs his secret. But now Tanti Miriam knew he was in trouble.
There would be questions.
But there would have been questions anyway.
Just run away.
Run now.
Do it!
DO IT!
He stood up from his crouch, his brain pounding against his temples. His legs felt as limp as noodles. Even though he felt as if he were about to faint, he knew he should run right now.
But it was too late.
He saw Hersh.
Saw the victim.
This one was tall, just like the first one.
This one was thick, just like the first one.
Hersh swore he’d get a smaller one. What was it? Did he have a wish to die?
Trapped.
One more time, Noam swore to himself.
This was it.
Take the guy’s money and then this was it!
One more time.
That’s it!
Noam jumped out, pushed the gun in the man’s stomach, said his practiced lines.
But again it didn’t go as planned.
Again there was a screwup.
The man didn’t react like he was supposed to.
Whacked the gun out of his stomach, pushed Noam away. Noam fell on his rear.
The gun was hurled into the air.
The clunk of something falling.
Noam looked up. Hersh and the man were fighting, each one trying to get control of the other.
But Noam’s own body free.
Free!
Grunts and moans came from the men.
What to do? Noam thought quickly.
Run. Run!
Noam felt sudden energy injected into his legs. He bolted ten feet and ducked behind a Dumpster stinking of rot. He peeked over the side.
The man and Hersh were still fighting. Blood over their faces. Hands moving so fast, like they were fighting in a cartoon.
The man was screaming something about a setup.
He had Hersh in a headlock.
Squeezing Hersh’s neck.
Noam ran another ten feet, his breaths choppy and shallow.
Run!
Another few feet. Then he forced himself to look back.
Hersh’s eyes bulging out. His cheeks like balloons. His lips as puffy as marshmallow. His nails digging into his attacker’s arm. Drawing blood. But the man still had him trapped.
Trapped.
Run! Noam thought.
RUN!
Noam looked to his right, to his left. Behind him, in front of him.
No one.
RUN!
Harder, harder, the man squeezed. Hersh squeaking out sounds.
A glint of something metallic caught his eye.
The gun.
Noam had forgotten about the gun.
Hersh trying to free his neck—grunting, squealing. His nails carving deep, bloody lines in the man’s muscle.
Run!
Hersh’s legs buckling under.
Then he spoke.
His words.
Helf mir!
Help me!
Like a lost child.
Like himself, Noam thought. He remembered that horrible feeling when he was under attack. The man had tried to ch
oke him. The feeling of going under. Noam remembered it very clearly. How he thought he was dead.
Hersh had helped him. Risked his life.
Run! Noam shouted to himself.
But then came the cry again.
Helf mir!
Noam ran toward the gun.
The man freeing Hersh. Coming toward him.
Both diving for the gun.
Hersh gasping.
Noam felt the full impact of the big man’s weight. The big man jabbed an elbow into Noam’s shoulder, clawed at him. But Noam managed to sink his fist into the big man’s gut.
The big man doubled over, took in a deep breath. But was still blocking him from the gun.
Again, Noam punched the big man’s stomach, his eyes shooting off sparks of pain each time his hand crunched against rock-hard muscle. He prayed Hersh was still around, wouldn’t desert him.
Desert him like he was going to do to Hersh.
The gun.
Go for the gun!
Noam took a deep breath and shoved his way forward. The big man fell back only an inch. Noam’s fingers spider-walked toward the gun, cool metal grazing the tips. Closer and closer until the butt was at his fingers, locked into his hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Noam saw Hersh leaping on top of the man, pulling out his knife.
Noam’s own finger curled around the trigger of the semi-automatic.
It was hard to tell which came first. The plunges of the blade or the muffled spitfire.
26
The phone rang three times before Rina became aware of its intrusion, before she realized that Peter was sleeping through it. She reached over him and picked up the receiver. The man on the other end asked for Sergeant Decker.
It was still dark. She shook Peter’s shoulder and brought him to consciousness. He snapped open his eyes, took the phone and was all business.
“This is Sergeant Decker,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m Jack Cleveland with the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station. I spoke to you last night. You wanted to know if there were any assaults or homicides that might have resulted from a gay pickup? I told you there weren’t any.”
“Yeah,” Decker said. He was already out of bed.
“You were a day off,” Cleveland said. “We’ve got a vicious…man, vicious ain’t the word for it. It’s a monstrous homicide—WM named Oliver Harrow, in his fifties, around six one or two, two hundred pounds. Sound like something you’d be interested in?”
“Yep.” Decker slipped on his pants. “When was the call fielded?”
“About midnight,” Cleveland said.
Decker looked at the clock. Quarter to two. He put on his shirt and said, “Any of the bars still open?”
“Not now,” Cleveland said. “But they were open an hour ago, when I took a picture of the victim’s face and told my men to circulate. The guy’s body…you’ll see for yourself.” There was a sigh over the line. “We found someone. A bartender who knows the victim, has a vague recollection of the guy he left with. Bartender’s with a police artist now. Then I remembered your call. I figured maybe you have something to offer me.”
Decker said he’d be right down.
They’re on a spree, Decker thought. On a goddamn killing spree.
At six feet four and two hundred forty all-muscle pounds, Jacques Antwine Cleveland had played high school football, basketball, and baseball. But a bad slide into home at the age of eighteen quashed his dreams of playing big time. Just bad luck. That’s what they told him after bodycasting him from the waist down.
Bad was an understatement. It was downright shitty luck. Instead of raking in millions, here he was, at two-thirty in the morning, scanning the ground for pieces that had once been part of Oliver James Harrow.
He saw something and dropped to his knees. Another piece of gut. He hailed a tech, and the lab man dropped the coil of innards in an evidence bag. The scene was swarming with people—a doc from the ME’s office, print men, lab men, a photographer, and the uniforms who fielded the call, their faces colored like overcooked peas. From behind him, he heard someone call his name. He stood—turned around, surprised to find himself looking squarely into another man’s eyes. The guy was as big as he was.
“Help you, sir?”
Decker introduced himself.
Cleveland shook Decker’s hand and looked him over. Without thinking, he said, “You ever play for the pros, Pete?”
“No. Why? Did you?”
“No, but I wish I did. Matter-of-fact, I’d like to do anything except what I’m doing now.” Cleveland caught the stunned expression on Decker’s face. He wiped a band of sweat from his broad mocha-colored forehead. “This is not our usual killing. That’s why we have so many people out.”
“Man, this is just horrible,” Decker said.
His eyes swept over the alley. A slaughterhouse. It smelled like a slaughterhouse. Thank God there was a cold breeze blowing, providing a bit of aeration.
Decker forced himself to look at the body. The photographer was snapping pictures. The corpse was on its back as if prepped for a grotesque operation. The face was intact, no knife marks, no gunshots. Harrow’s eyes were still open, still electrified with shock. Brown eyes. Big round brown eyes. Harrow had had full cheeks and no upper teeth. His spine was straight, his arms had been placed neatly at his sides, his unbent legs had been pressed together.
Decker continued to study the corpse. The throat had been slashed, the chest a gaping hole filled with brown clotted blood. His belly had been eviscerated—completely emptied. Decker could see the man’s kidneys—perfectly intact kidneys. He jerked his head away.
The killing had occurred in the back alley of one of the most exclusive restaurants in West Hollywood—a trendy night spot known for movie-star patrons and a high-priced menu. While the good folk up front dined on salmon carpaccio and goat-cheese mousse, this poor man was out here being dissected by a friggin’ psycho. The thought made him sick.
Decker wished to God he could turn around and go home. He was ten feet from the body, and even at this distance, there was a mammoth inkblot of blood spray. The monster must have sliced Harrow’s aorta while he was still alive. Nothing else would make blood spurt so far.
Had Noam been an active partner in this gruesome killing? Decker just wouldn’t let himself believe that. It was Hersh who liked to play with knives, Hersh who loved to gut fish while they were still alive. Noam just couldn’t have been a willing participant in such savage butchery. What had Noam been thinking when Hersh did this thing to this unfortunate man? Decker felt a wave of fright, felt what he hoped had been the boy’s terror.
Hersh had finally shown what he really was. Noam had to be in fear for his life.
If Noam still had a life.
Because psychos were solo creatures.
Decker swallowed back a wave of nausea, choosing to assume that Noam was still around to need help. He’d have to call the family, tell them to hire legal counsel immediately. He turned to Cleveland and said, “I’ve seen corpses in worse shape—victims exposed to the elements. They’re hard to look at, but that’s nature. Even though the face is whole, I’m having a lot of trouble with this one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a homicide this cold. Someone enjoyed the surgery.”
“My thoughts to a T, Pete,” Cleveland said. “From the distance of the arterial spatter, the victim was probably stabbed in the throat and chest first, then died from blood loss. Hit the carotid or the aorta, don’t take more than a couple of minutes to bleed out. He was probably gutted afterward.” He shook his head in disgust.
Decker said, “Where’s the witness? The bartender?”
“In the patrol car,” Cleveland said. “I’ll take you to him.”
Decker followed the black detective through the throng of technicians. The bartender was sitting on the backseat of a black and white sheriff’s deputy patrol car. Even though the man was swathed in a blanket, he was shivering. His unsteady hand was holding a flashligh
t, illuminating a series of mouths spread out on the backseat by a female sketch artist who sat beside him. He had a mustache, gaunt cheeks, and a pointy chin. His eyes squinted with concentration as he stared at the mouths and shook his head.
“None of them are right,” he said.
“Ritchie?” Cleveland said.
The blanketed man looked up.
Cleveland introduced, “Ritchie Parker, this is Detective Decker.”
Parker stuck out his hand, Decker took it. It was wet and cold.
“Detective Decker wants to show you a few pictures, ask you a few questions,” Cleveland said.
“Uh, excuse me,” the sketch artist said. “Can’t this wait until we’re through?”
Decker said, “I might have a picture of the perp. It would make your job a lot easier.”
“Go ahead,” the artist said. She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.
Decker ignored her anger, pushed aside the mouths, and spread a half-dozen photos over the backseat. Ritchie Parker jumped up, his head hitting the top of the car roof. His forefinger nearly speared the picture of Hersh.
“That’s him!” he shouted.
Decker smiled at the police artist. “Have a nice evening, Officer. Get some sleep on me.”
She let go with a reluctant smile, gathered her mouths, and got out of the car. Decker took her place at Parker’s right; Cleveland sat at Parker’s left. The thin man’s eyes darted nervously between the two detectives.
Decker said, “You’re sure you saw this guy”—he held up the picture of Hersh—“leaving with the victim.”
“Positive,” Parker said. “Mr. Harrow is a regular. A very big tipper and a big drinker. It’s easy for me to keep tabs on him—no pun intended.”
Cleveland asked how it was easy to keep tabs on him.
Ritchie said, “See, if he’s having a good time, it’s drinks for everyone. If not…he drinks to forget the rotten night he’s having. When that man”—he stabbed Hersh’s picture—“when he came in, I noticed him right away. He was dressed like he was on the hustle. But I knew he’d find someone because…well, because he was good-looking. In a tough sort of way. Except when he smiled. He had a weird smile.”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 04 Page 28
