The Meter Maid Murders

by Andrew Delaplaine

  24 – Billy-Boy Freaks Out

  From a deep sleep, Billy’s eyes snapped open as suddenly as a toaster ejecting a Pop Tart.

  It was rare for Billy to enjoy a “deep sleep” these days, or many days in the past year after he’d gone off the deep end and transformed himself into a sociopath serial killer of meter maids.

  And when he did enjoy that rare deep slumber, he knew the next killing date was fast upon him. It was the second day into the New Moon of November. The weather had turned, there was a chill in the air, Thanksgiving was coming up. And when he woke up, he knew today would be the day that he would have to kill Saturnina Gomez.

  He got out of bed and went into the bathroom, looking at his surprisingly relaxed face. He climbed slowly into the shower and thought methodically about the day ahead, running over everything that might happen. It was his day off, so there’d be no need to go into the studio today. And since Satty Gomez didn’t have any night shifts during the New Moon, he’d be forced to strike her down during the daylight hours.

  He’d originally thought working in the daytime would be more difficult, but he hadn’t counted on the incomprehensible ineptitude of his old pal Jake Bricker. Billy’d become so confident he felt like he could walk up and throttle a meter maid right in front of Jake while he was lighting one of his smelly little Cuban cigars and Jake would be more interested in getting the right draw off his Montecristo than he would be in the meter maid dying right in front of him.

  Billy went into the kitchen of his little house on Farrey Lane, looked out at the bright November morning and brewed a pot of Folger’s coffee in his Cuisinart 12-Cup Percolator.

  As the percolator worked up to its usual popping and gurgling sound (a sound Billy found oddly invigorating) and the smell of the coffee caught his nose, he went out the front door to retrieve The South Beach Mullet Wrapper and The Miami Herald.

  He took the papers and a cup of steaming Folger’s to the little enclosed garden out back and sat down to read the papers at a slightly rusty wrought iron table with two rickety chairs.

  More of the Same Old Shit. A new secretary of state was traveling to the Middle East to “jump start” what was called the Peace Process.

  In fact, when Billy thought about it, for his entire life—his whole life—they had been calling this charade the Peace Process. Why anybody thought there would be peace in the Middle East was beyond Billy. There would never be peace in the Middle East. Both sides hated each other with such a primordial depth that there’d never be any long-lasting peace. One side could always be counted on to screw it up once they thought they had just a teensy bit of an advantage. Why anybody’d want to live over there, raise their kids there, was way beyond Billy’s power to grasp.

  But then he was a homicidal maniac: what the fuck did he know?

  There was a new government in Britain, volcanic eruptions in Indonesia, a revolution in Guatemala, trouble in the Balkins.

  There was a picture of President Quince in an East Room reception where he announced new regulations for the banking industry after accepting the recommendations of the task force he’d put together six months ago composed of all the top New York bankers.

  Wonder whose side they’re on? Billy thought.

  Billy went in and poured another cup of Folger’s from his Cuisinart percolator. He was getting angry. He couldn’t control himself. He could feel his face flush red.

  All the waste. All the bullshit. All the assholes out for themselves with never a thought for the general good.

  Getting worked up now, he dashed back out into the garden and continued reading the paper.

  Another story had to do with the defense secretary trying to kill an expensive cargo plane the military didn’t need. Now this was a rare case where nobody wanted the plane except the manufacturer and congressmen they had in their back pocket. The president didn’t want it. The Joint Chiefs didn’t want it. The Air Force didn’t want it. The defense secretary didn’t want it.

  But the manufacturer had—very cleverly, thought Billy—divided the manufacturing and assembly process for this plane among forty-three Congressional districts. So while you had even the military establishment against the plane, the Congress funded it anyway, just to keep those forty-three congressmen (and the senators from each state) bringing home the pork.

  The article said the U.S. defense budget, around $700 billion this year, dwarfed the defense budget of the country that came in No. 2: China, with about $85 billion.

  It was all getting out of hand.

  In Florida news, he read where Governor Kudzue had issued an executive order finally implementing a mere five percent of the Everglades Restoration and Recovery Plan proposed ten years ago. This would effectively block environmental groups from “slowing down” the process, said Kudzue. Of course, this was after Big Sugar had the Legislature gut the original plan.

  Billy always thought it was curious how a guy in the Legislature would give Big Sugar breaks worth hundreds of millions of dollars in exchange for a measly campaign contribution of a few thousand dollars. They sure sold themselves cheap.

  There was a picture of the governor with the boys from the sugar companies. All the fuckers were smiling their asses off. Well, they have a lot to be happy about, thought Billy.

  Closer to home, the city was of launching a controversial new Red Light Camera Program. With only a handful of intersections wired with the cameras to catch red light runners, the city expected to make a cool million bucks the first year. By adding cameras to all the big intersections in Miami Beach, the city could expect to make tens of millions of dollars.

  How can you have a vibrant economy, Billy wondered, when the government takes tens of millions—no, hundreds of billions—away from people in senseless programs like this when all that money could be pumped into the economy as people bought new TVs, food, toys, went on trips, went to the movies, ate meals in restaurants—places where the money would be put to good use? And why does the fine have to be $125. Couldn’t it be $25?

  Billy knew why. It was because they were out to raise money for their bloated budgets and oversized pensions like the one that imbecile Jake Bricker would take home someday. It wasn’t about saving lives because there would be fewer deaths at intersections. It was about squeezing money out of ordinary people.

  But then, of course, as he’d thought before, he was a homicidal maniac: what the fuck did he know?

  He squared his shoulders and smiled. It would be a good day. And a day to do good.

  Today, Satty Gomez was working in SoFi, from Fifth Street down Ocean Drive to Government Cut and over to Washington Avenue. A nice little quadrant, thought Billy. There would be ample opportunity to kill the bitch.

  He got dressed and ran a few errands before heading down to SoFi. He really felt sorry for the meter maids, in a way. They were just the mindless enforcers of policy made by people far above them. The lowest rung on the ladder of the American executive branch, which began with President Quince and ran the gamut all the way down to Missy Cuthbert.

  And while he didn’t really see any difference between the president and a meter maid, Billy had no desire to kill the president.

  No, he thought, shaking his head as he drove down Washington Avenue to SoFi: you could get into serious trouble going after a president.

  With meter maids, you might be excused. Get twenty years or thirty years. Maybe life in prison.

  People could follow a president, believe in a president, even love a president.

  Those same people did not love meter maids.

  Billy’s cell phone rang. It was Jake, the Incredibly Stupid. Jake, the Ineffective Detective.

  “Hey, Jake... what’s up? You followin’ Gomez?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got her. She’s workin’ her way down the meters on Ocean Drive. Just started at Fifth Street. She parks and walks a couple of blocks, then comes back. It’s going to be a long, boring day, I tellya.”

  “Lissen, asshole! You keep on the
bitch!” Billy yelled at him.

  It was important to Billy that today be the day that it all ended. Of course, he’d said that a few times in the past and Jake’d disappointed him, let him kill the meter maids without being caught. But it had to stop eventually, didn’t it?

  Billy was in his own car today, not a rental. Jake was so obtuse Billy didn’t think he’d notice the car he was driving. He caught up with Satty at Fourth Street and Ocean Drive. Jake was parked a block ahead of her. Billy could see the smoke wafting from the open window of Jake’s Crown Victoria.

  It was only 11:30, and Billy was thinking how long a day it would be when Satty Gomez came back to her Cushman scooter and putt-putt-putted down two blocks and double parked in front of what was called South Beach Park, a small park on the oceanfront that extended from Second Street to Third Street.

  Satty got out and started working the cars parked at the meters on both sides of Ocean Drive. Billy estimated it would take her about forty-five minutes to an hour to work the two blocks on both sides and the side streets as well.

  Obviously, Jake was thinking along the same lines as Billy, because he moved his car down, found a space, parked and got out to take a walk.

  Billy observed as Jake moseyed over to Prime 112, a pricey steakhouse where all the celebs and ball players went to buy 48-ounze Porterhouses for $88 and a side of mashed potatoes was $12. Jake had been banging one of the barmaids there, so it was plain to Billy that he was going in for a couple of glasses of Ezra Brooks, the 12-year old single barrel sour mash that, in Billy’s opinion, Jake drank too much of every time he got the chance. Which was daily. And he never got fat.

  He watched as Jake nodded to the valet and disappeared into Prime 112. He turned his gaze back to Satty, who was just finishing up one side of Ocean Drive. She walked back to her scooter, left her ticket-writing machine in it, locked the door and headed toward the public restrooms in the middle of the park.

  His chance!

  He popped the trunk of his car and rummaged around till he found a dark blue velvet bag that used to carry a bottle of Crown Royal. He used it to carry a couple of pounds of nickels, dimes and quarters so he’d never run out of coins when he needed to feed meters.

  He’d been planning on killing Pretty Rios with these coins, but when he dragged her out behind Solid Tin that night, her long hair kept getting in his face and pissed him off so much that he ended up wrapping the hair around her neck and using it to strangle the bitch.

  He moved rapidly across the street and was already halfway to the small brick structure in the middle of the park that housed the public restrooms. Glancing this way and that, he saw no one in the park anywhere near the restrooms. So as long as there was no one in the ladies’ room, he had a clear shot.

  His Calvinist zeal and dour mood brightened when he realized he could be finished by lunch.

  Billy slowed his walk to a normal gait as Satty approached the little building, looked this way and that, and then entered the ladies’ room. Billy instantly picked up his pace and when he got to the entrance, made sure no one was anywhere near the place, then followed her into the ladies’ room.

  He heard Satty, now in one of the stalls, singing some little song in Spanish. He crept up to the stall next to Satty’s and could tell she was placing toilet tissue on the seat before she sat down to do her business.

  Moving back a few feet so he could see her shoes, he waited till they turned to face outward as she turned around and a zipper signaled she was lowering her pants.

  Pulling a ski mask over his face, he loosened the drawstring on the blue velvet Crown Royal bag, walked up to the stall door with authority and kicked it open with a powerful thrust of one leg.

  The door swung open wide with a loud bang and Satty’s wide-eyed face looked up and her mouth dropped opened in total shock.

  Billy’d been counting on her mouth to open like this, and as it did, he rushed forward, grabbed Satty by the neck and poured a pound or more of mixed coins into her throat.

  The poor bitch gagged, of course, or tried to, but since her gullet was filled to the brim with nickels, dimes and quarters, there was nothing for her to do but choke. Coins flowed over her mouth till the blue velvet bag was empty. Billy pulled the bag upside down over Satty’s head, and then yanked the drawstring around her scrawny neck.

  The meter maid was already suffocating, the coins choking her throat and the drawstring preventing her from moving.

  Billy waited till Satty quit struggling and went limp.

  Then he moved out of the stall, pulled the ski mask off his head and went outside to see if the coast was clear.

  It was. No one came toward the restroom building. Two people were washing off at the shower where the park ended and the beach began, but took no notice of him. He stuck the ski mask in his back pocket and moved away from the restrooms, down half a block and then circled back to his car.

  Across the street from Prime 112, Billy waited another fifteen minutes and saw Jake come out with that goofy smile he got on his face that would lead you to think that all was right with the world. Obviously, he’d had more than a couple of Ezra’s finest in the last forty-five minutes.

  Billy watched as Jake took stock and noted the Cushman where Satty’d left it. Jake walked over to the scooter and walked around it. He looked up and down Ocean Drive. Looked into the park. Then he moved back across the street and looked down into Second Street towards Ted’s Hideaway. No Satty. He walked up to Third Street and looked there. No Satty. Then he crossed the street again and walked into the park. No Satty.

  Now, standing in the park only a few feet from the restrooms, he crossed his arms in frustration, his brow furrowed. He scratched his chin, looking this way and that. Suddenly, he looked at the restroom building and made a beeline for the men’s room.

  While he was in there, Billy called him on his cell phone. He could imagine The Halls of Montezuma ricocheting off the hard walls of the men’s room as Jake went to reach for his phone.

  “Hiya, Billy-Boy.”

  “Don’t call me Billy-Boy.”

  “What’s doin’?”

  “Just thought I’d check in. How’s it going with Meter Maid Gomez?”

  “Well, funniest thing. She was writing tickets on Ocean Drive and I went around the block to find a decent place to park and watch her and when I came back, her scooter was there. But she was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah. I looked everywhere, but can’t find the bitch.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m in the men’s room at the Second Street Park.”

  “Maybe she had to go pee.”

  “There’s a thought. But no, it’s been too long.”

  “Well, she’ll turn up. Let me know when she does, okay?”

  “Right. I’m meetin’ you this afternoon to toss some balls, yeah?”

  “Sure. See ya later.”

  Billy waited a minute for Jake to come out. He walked down to the Cushman and looked it over again, and then looked back into the park. He started walking to the restrooms again and disappeared into the ladies’ room.

  A minute later, Billy’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s Billy, Jake. What’s up?”

  “Dude, you’re not gonna believe this...”

  25 – Bricker on the Hot Seat

  If the shit could be said to hit the fan after Sammy Succubus was killed, that morning was nothing compared to the amount of dung that hit the fan a few hours later when Saturnina Gomez’s body was discovered by a couple of lesbian lover lawyers who’d gone into the public restroom to take a pee on their way back to their million dollar apartment in the Continuum after their daily three-mile jog on the beach.

  Billy’d tried to console him later with: “Jake, in this world, you’re only one news cycle away from hero to villain.”

  Sara Succubus was still on South Beach, and just tore into the cops (and Jake Bricker in particular) about arresting “the wrong man.”
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  She called the cops (and Jake Bricker in particular) everything she could call them without using four-letter words on the air.

  Smarney Weiner was released immediately after his court-appointed lawyer (no one would step up to represent him so the court had to assign a public defender) asked the judge to dismiss the case for lack of evidence.

  “What a charade,” Sara said on the air in the snidest voice Bricker’d ever heard. “That incompetent cop, that self-serving paragon of lies, that fool parading in the guise of a police detective, fooled everybody. He fooled his own chief. He fooled his mayor. He fooled his governor. He even fooled Louie Lewis, the whole FBI and even his president! And more than that, he fooled his own colleagues as well as the people of the United States!”

  Bricker was sitting in his little bungalow drinking his Senseo coffee (today’s variety was “Sumatra Blend,” which for the first year he drank it Bricker confused with “Sinatra Blend,” thinking Frank Sinatra had something to do with it—he still wasn’t sure what Sumatra was, but whoever they were, they sure made good coffee) and watched The Morning Show while Sara laid into him.

  Marilyn Monroe jumped into his lap. He almost threw her up against the wall, but he gently pushed her aside and cupped his head in his hands.

  What am I gonna do now? he thought. Billy was right all along. Barney wasn’t the meter maid murderer. What am I gonna do?

  He went in and made another cup of Sumatra Blend and went out to fetch the papers. Of course, there was his mug on the front page of not only The Mullet Wrapper, but The Miami Herald as well. And the awful headlines: “COP FINGERS WRONG SUSPECT” in one paper, “KILLER STILL AT LARGE” in the other, with a subhead that read: “Incompetent detective called on carpet.”

  The Halls of Montezuma rang out and Bricker answered his cell phone.

  “So, how we feelin’ this bright and lovely morning?” said Billy-Boy, a tad more chipper than he absolutely had to, thought Bricker.

  “Oh, just peachy, just peachy.”