by Mary Leo
“Sure, I think I can work that out.”
“There can’t be no thinking about it. It’s like this weapon, either I sell it to you or I don’t. Either Ivory and me are in your movie or we aren’t.”
“You’re right. We’ve got an airport scene coming up for our next movie. The two of you would be perfect. No problem,” I tell her as I pull the cash out of my fanny pack and drop it on the desk. She takes the money, rolls it up and sticks it deep between her breasts. The cash disappears in a mound of soft flesh, like some sort of mouth, devouring food. Gives me an idea. “I’ll let you know the details in a few weeks.”
“Then,” Desire says with a big grin on her face, “it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, hon,” and slides the gun to me across her desk.
Chapter Thirty-three
July 13, 1966
We couldn’t sleep that night, the night of the letter, so we snuck out of my house around ten-thirty to walk around—around the park mostly, Luella Park. It was only about two blocks away from my new house.
We sat on the swings talking about our future, now even more dedicated to our dreams of marrying the Beatles. After all, we had finally made real, honest-to-goodness contact. Who could argue with that?
“Maybe we shouldn’t be out here. If your dad finds out, he’ll have a fit,” Lisa said right after we read the letter one more time.
Both Sharon and I agreed. Besides, we didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize us going to the concert in thirty days, seventeen hours and…I didn’t know the exact amount of minutes. I wasn’t wearing a watch.
“Look,” Lisa said. “Isn’t that Wolf?”
We couldn’t make the man out right away. He was wearing black clothes, had his hands in his pockets and was looking down at the sidewalk. He stopped at the corner, under a lamppost and lit a cigarette, cupping his hand around the match. His face lit up.
“That’s him,” Sharon yelled. “I could see his face.”
We were in the park and he was walking down 100th Street coming from the direction of the bridge. We only saw him for a few moments while he lit a cigarette then crossed the street.
Lisa said, “We need to tell him about your letter. He’ll know if it’s real or not. I bet he knows Ringo’s handwriting. He’ll be able to tell us once and for all.”
“There’s a shortcut through that alley behind those townhouses over there,” I said, pointing. “We can catch up with him on the other side of the street.”
A row of six two-story townhouses stood in our way, just on the other side of the park. I knew some of the student nurses lived there who worked at South Chicago Community Hospital. I didn’t know who they were exactly, because I hadn’t been in the neighborhood long enough to meet any of them. But I’d seen them a few times going back and forth from the hospital dressed in their white uniforms and white caps. They always looked so happy, which I could never understand having to work around sick people all day. My mother thought nurses were angels of mercy, and now that I’d met Suzie and Mary Ann, I thought they were fab.
The only light in the alley came from the park. Lisa didn’t like the gloom so we ran even faster, our feet crunching through the cinders, the smell of garbage wafting up from the open cans. It wasn’t a very inviting place to be. At one point I tripped. Lisa and Sharon laughed as I went down on my side, warding off any knee scrapes by catching myself with my hands. I barely avoided a small cement landing on the first townhouse. I fell almost in front of their back door. The house was tan brick with one of those metal screen doors just above the landing and a modern sliding window, with a screen, right next it.
By the time I got back up and dusted myself off and we ran around to 100th Street, Wolf was gone.
“Where did he go?” Sharon asked as we rounded the corner and expected to run right into him.
“I don’t know,” Lisa said.
“Maybe he turned around and went the other way, down my street,” I said and ran down the block to the corner of 100th and Crandon, looking both ways when I got there. “He’s not here.”
“It’s like he just disappeared,” Sharon taunted when she caught up to me. She looked around and hummed the tune from The Twilight Zone.
“Some shortcut,” Lisa mocked.
“Well, I thought if we—”
Sharon said, “It doesn’t matter. Wolf must know somebody around here or in one of these townhouses. All we can do now is wait.”
“How can he know anybody? He’s a sailor. If he knew somebody, he wouldn’t have stayed at Pauline’s,” Lisa reasoned.
“Well, he went in somewhere. He’s gotta know somebody,” I said, trying to agree with Sharon, but something about the situation haunted me.
“I think we should wait till he comes back out. It’s the only way,” Sharon argued. “Wherever he went he can’t stay long. It’s too late to be visiting people.”
With that, we all agreed to wait and watch.
We walked around the neighborhood, looking for Wolf, imagining where he could have gone in and narrowed it down to the townhouses. Lisa said it was the only possibility.
While we sat across the street in front of the elementary school, facing the row of townhouses, I thought about the previous night. The way he had tried to break into Pauline’s and how he seemingly disappeared just like he did tonight. And what about all that change in our tent. Was it Wolf’s change? A shiver passed through me as I thought of him at Pauline’s basement windows. Just where was he now and how did he get in?
Not long after we sat down, a car stopped in front of one of the townhouses. There was a couple inside who were making out.
“Boy, I wish that was Paul and me,” Sharon said.
“Yeah,” Lisa sighed.
Their radio played You’ll Never Walk Alone. We all started singing along with the song. I thought maybe they could hear us, appreciate our serenade, but they never even looked up. They just kept kissing, and we kept singing. When the song was over, they kissed one more time and then the girl got out of the car, hesitating for a minute while the car door was still open and the light was on from inside the car, illuminating her face. She had such a pretty face, all full of smiles and warmth. I thought she looked like a really nice person. Someone I’d like to know.
“I love that purple outfit she’s wearing,” Lisa said. “Purple’s my favorite color. I think I’ll get a purple dress for the Beatles concert.”
“That would be so boss,” I said. “Maybe you could get shoes to match. Wouldn’t that be sharp?”
We all agreed that purple was a fab color as we watched the girl wave goodnight to her boyfriend who sat and waited for her to get safely inside before he drove away. I thought how much he must love her to wait like that. My dad would think it was the right thing to do. Courteous, but the guy certainly didn’t have to do that in this neighborhood. That’s why the student nurses lived here, because it was so safe.
Chapter Thirty-four
September, 1987
I leave Flukey in front of his apartment building while one of his girls, a Puerto Rican with a hot temper, tries to tell him about her latest screw. She looks ragged, smokes weed and talks the part. Her dyed red hair sits in a lump on the top of her head, black leather and silver chains adorn her overexposed body, and heavy makeup attempts to cover the lines that choke her face with early aging. Her name is Marta and her john had just urinated on her hair. She wants to use Flukey’s apartment to clean up. He’s hesitant and I bow out just as they get into an argument over whether or not she charged enough for the urination privilege. I guess it’s a problem for Flukey to keep his girls informed on the pay scale for the latest decadent trends. I didn’t want to stick around to hear what else these New-Wave johns are into so I quietly disappear.
I need some clothes. There’s a store around Oak Street, just off Michigan Avenue. A little boutique that specializes in the kind of styles I need, feminine-frill.
Parking’s always a bitch in the Loop and I don�
�t have time to fight it, so I leave the car at some high-priced lot that charges by the second or something close. I take the Derringer with me, hidden in my fanny pack. My dad taught me never to leave a loaded gun unattended. There’s no telling who might be looking for one.
I find the store all right and take an armful of try-ons into one of the tiny dressing rooms. White blouses, mostly. The kind with big ruffles down the front, and vests, vests with pockets. I try on several of each, can’t make up my mind so I buy the entire pile for less than it cost me to park—well, almost.
Later, I pull up to my motel room, park, grab my bags and get out. The pool’s empty. I guess it’s finally getting too cold. For some reason, I miss the noise of the kids.
Once inside my room I have a need to hurry. Have to dress quickly. No time to think about any alternatives. Don’t want to let the girl in the mirror try to talk me out of anything. As if she could. Not now. Not today. But there’s no telling what she might say. What tricks she might pull on me. Probably try something using Mike and how good it felt to lie next to him, to wrap myself in his love. As if love has anything to do with it, anything to do with my life. Makes for a good fantasy, that’s about all. Love’s not for me. Don’t deserve it. Not his kind of love. Too bad. We could have had some laughs.
I wiggle out of my gun-buying outfit and throw on the basic prison attire; black slacks, crew socks, and Reeboks. Makeup gets removed with lotion and cotton pads. No time to care about who sees bruised lips or cheeks. What does it matter now?
The ruffled blouse goes on last. For some reason I want to slow down for this event. Make it last. Think about its purpose. My aegis, my cache. Hoping that this piece of fashioned cotton will serve me well.
My arms slip into the blouse, fingers guiding the way against smooth cloth. Slowly, I adjust myself inside the fabric, pulling the front ruffles over my breasts and gently guiding each button through each hole, practicing my awareness, preparing myself for what needs to happen, pretending that the very action of fastening my blouse somehow relates to my plan. Carefully, I tuck the cloth into my pants, making sure that it lies perfectly flat against my skin. The vest goes on over it, accentuating each ruffle.
I remove the weapon from my fanny pack. So tiny, so sweet yet so dependably deadly. I pick up the Lady, with her delicate pearl handle, check the loaded over-and-under barrels and tuck her safely between my breasts. Desire’s hiding place.
Smiling into the mirror, I think of Doris Day. Doris with an edge. The girl in the mirror seems to be going along with all of this. Actually likes the way I look. Plain, yet feminine.
The Stainless Derringer feels smooth and cool against my skin—sensual comfort. It rests perfectly out of sight, between my breasts. The first part of my plan is seated and secure, but my insides start shaking. My stomach tightens.
“The shooting’s going to be easy,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “Relax. Take a deep breath.” She does. “There, much better.”
Don’t want her to know the hard part will be getting past Henrietta. But I’ve got that all figured out with the sheet music. After that, it’s a cinch. All I have to do is walk up to Speck, pull out my gun, enjoy the fear of God on his rotten, scarred-up face, tell him what I think of his sorry-ass and shoot the motherfucker straight in the head. Then turn the gun on myself and get this miserable life of mine over with. Two bullets. One for each of us. A cinch. No more nightmares.
I mean, why bother to go on after that? I couldn’t stand prison. No sky. Trapped like all those other fools. What’s the point? I deserve to die. Too chicken to call the police that night in the rain, too scared to tell my dad about meeting Wolf and his ‘born to raise hell’ tattoo. Lisa was right. She was always right about me. Chicken. I should have died along with those nurses. Didn’t have the courage back then. Too young to think straight. Not any more. Not today. Got it all figured out. I know what needs to be done and I finally have the courage to do it.
As for poor, weeping Mike? He’ll be better off. Find some together chick—certainly not Tiffany—who wants to play housewife and grow old out in the ‘burbs raising an army of mini-Mikes. Sounds like the perfect ending to me. Scorsese couldn’t have directed it better.
After all, the whole thing’s going to be easy. Save the taxpayers some money. Ease the pain for a couple hundred friends and family. Wipe out a piece of scum. Just like Dad used to say, “Shooting is a cinch if you know how to handle a weapon.” I knew how to handle a weapon by the time I was ten. Knew the power of it, the force. Had a respect for its purpose. Dad taught me all of that. Mom never wanted me to know. Thought it was dangerous. That I could accidentally kill myself or somebody else. She was only half right. There would be no accident.
I pull the weapon out of my bra, practicing my aim a couple times. Still have it. Still have that natural ability for a dead-on aim. Never lost it…like riding a bike. The thought makes me smile. I never learned how to ride a bike.
Dad never had the time to teach me.
My name is Gloria Jean Davy.
I was still a little woozy from the champagne when I called to check in with our housemother on the phone in the kitchen, but she didn’t notice. Actually, I felt marvelous and wanted everyone to know. The problem was, the hospital frowned on our drinking and she’d have to report it. They also frowned on us having a phone upstairs in our bedrooms, a decision that may have cost us our lives.
I tried on about a thousand outfits for that night, wanting everything to be perfect, finally settling on the purple and white slacks with the matching blouse. The collar fell a little crooked so I removed the top two buttons and sewed them on again. Everything had to be just right. I guess I was like that—always wanting things perfect. Fortunately, Bob was the same way.
It had been a lovely evening. My fiancé, Bob Stern and I (Mrs. Gloria Stern…I must have said it over a million times. I simply loved the sound of it) announced our engagement to his mother with a dinner that he and I had prepared especially for her. It was what I loved most about Bob, his kindness and love of romance. Always knowing just the right thing to say and do, going out of his way for the people he loved.
That’s what made that evening so special to me until I was surprised by Richard Speck, a boy around Bob’s age, 25 or 26, shoving a gun under my ribs as I walked into my bedroom.
Six of my roommates sat in a semicircle in the dark on the floor. A street light from Luella Park across the alley illuminated the room. He asked me to join them. I did, between Pam and Nina.
Then, everything seemed to happen in slow motion as he ripped up the sheets from our bunks with his three-inch switchblade, tied our hands and feet with the cloth and told us how he wasn’t going to kill us. I believed him. He had such kind eyes.
After I was tied up, hands behind my back, and after I had asked him why he was doing this, telling him we were student nurses, he seemed to get angry. That’s when he picked me up and tossed me on Pam’s lower bunk. I caught a glimpse of Corazon Amurao, one of my roommates, hiding under the bed. At first I thought it was a strange thing to do, but the Filipino girls were always a little skittish around some American men so it made sense that one of them would try to hide. I thought about telling her not to worry, that it would be all right, but I thought Richard might hear me and make Corazon come out. She looked terrified with her body crushed up against the wall, and I swear I could feel the bed shaking from her fear or perhaps it was my own fear. I couldn’t be sure. I tried to relax and I told myself over and over that he only wanted money.
Helpless, and severely fatigued from the day and the effects of the champagne, plus figuring that whatever money this boy wanted the other girls would give him, I closed my eyes, just to stop the world from spinning.
I must have fallen asleep for awhile because when I awoke my roommates were gone and Speck was sitting next to me on the bed. The room was completely torn up, bedding, clothing and stockings everywhere. I tried desperately to squirm away from him, but he held a gun
to my throat. He asked me if I ever had sex before. I didn’t answer. He untied my legs and hands and ordered me to get out of my clothes. I obeyed, only having time to remove my pants and panties. He removed his T-shirt. Once fully awake and aware of what was about to happen I lost all control over my body. Urine seeped out in a slow, warm stream as I watched him climb on top of me. I thought about Corazon and hoped she was asleep and couldn’t see or hear any of this.
I concentrated on other things, good things as he ripped me apart attempting to gain some sexual satisfaction from his rape. I cried the whole time, thinking about Bob and what I would tell him. What he might think of me. It was as if the tears were coming from within my soul. I couldn’t control my emotions.
Richard kept trying to have an orgasm, concentrating on it, breathing heavy with each movement, working hard at it, even ordering me to wrap my legs around him, but nothing worked. That’s when he went crazy.
He grabbed my hair and dragged me off the bunk, out of the bedroom and down the stairs. When I saw two of my roommates lying on top of each other on the stairs I didn’t understand what was wrong, until I saw the blood. I screamed to them and tried to get away from his grasp, but he caught my blouse and ripped it off my body. Silly things raced through my mind about my blouse and how he was ripping so much of it I wouldn’t be able to sew it back together again. How Bob had told me how beautiful I was wearing it. Would I ever be beautiful to him again?
Richard pulled me the rest of the way down the stairs and threw me on the sofa. I landed face down. I tried to scream but he pushed my head into the cushions, yelling that I was just like his ex.
My nose started bleeding against the rough tan-colored surface. He tied my hands behind me again. Too tight this time. Then he tied a strip of my blouse around my neck so tight that I could no longer scream. He started calling me names and swore at me for some past deeds. As if he was yelling at some other girl. A girl named Shirley, his ex-wife. I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight or tell him that I wasn’t Shirley.
