The Man Who Loved Women to Death

by David Handler

“It’s more a feeling than anything else. I haven’t actually seen him.” She sipped her tea. “Maybe I’m just going insane.”

  “Maybe you should call the police.”

  “No, no. I want them out of my life.”

  “He’s not a wet leaf, Tansy.”

  “No police,” she insisted. “Besides, I know how to protect myself now.” She climbed out from under Lulu and went to the elevator and came back with her shoulder bag, a scuffed old leather one. She reached inside. Out came a Ladysmith, the slim and trim .38 that Smith & Wesson tailors for a woman’s hand and a woman’s fears. “Tuttle comes near me again and, believe me, he’ll be sorry. You think he’s the answer man, don’t you?”

  I stared up at her. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I’m thinking it, too, that’s why.” She shoved the gun back in her bag and sat back down. Lulu moved back into her lap without hesitation. A contented grunt followed. “As soon as I heard it on Cassandra Dee’s show tonight. What was it she called him—‘The Man Who Loves Women to Death’? That’s Tuttle. That’s always been Tuttle. He hunts them down. He catches them. He takes whatever meat he chooses and he moves on, leaving the steaming carcass behind for others to deal with. He doesn’t actually want them, you know.”

  “He wants you,” I pointed out.

  “No, he doesn’t. He just thinks he does.”

  “May I ask you a personal question, Tansy?”

  She cocked her head at me curiously. “Of course.”

  “Why did you drop the criminal charges against him?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Because I couldn’t win, that’s why. His lawyer told my lawyer that they were planning to plead self-defense.”

  “Wait, Tuttle was planning to plead self-defense?”

  “Uh-huh. By claiming I attacked him with a kitchen knife.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not. But it would have been my word against his. And Tuttle Cash just happens to be the proverbial all-American boy. A sports hero. A star. Who do you think the jury would believe, him or me? Who do you think the police believed when they showed up? Christ …” Tears started forming in her eyes. She swallowed, fighting them back. “They f-figured he’d caught me fooling around, that’s what they figured. They figured I was a no-good slut. They figured I deserved it.”

  “No one deserves that.”

  “Domestic violence is the number-one health risk in America for women ages fifteen to forty-four, Hoagy. Did you know that? But the only way we can get any attention from the police is to get killed. Otherwise, as far as they’re concerned, men and women fight, and boys will be boys, and that’s all there is to it.” She trailed off into brittle silence, her eyes on the fire. “I knew I would lose. And it would be very public. And I would destroy my reputation and my business in the process. I couldn’t risk that. I wouldn’t risk that. So I filed for a divorce and I hobbled away. I just wish he’d stop writing me. God, how I wish he’d stop writing me.”

  “Are you seeing anyone these days?”

  She shook her head. “I’m still not ready for that. Maybe I never will be. I have my work. I read a lot. I exercise every day, which keeps me feeling healthy and strong.”

  “It does more than that,” I said, admiring the taut, toned line of her naked calves.

  “Plus I counsel battered women over at a clinic on East Tenth Street.”

  “And who counsels you?”

  Tansy swallowed, her eyes searching mine. “Hoagy, do you …?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you remember that time we went to see The White Sheik together at the Thalia, just you and me? Tuttle was out of town. You had left Merilee.”

  “She threw me out, actually.”

  “Do you?”

  “Vaguely. You wore a cream-colored turtleneck, faded jeans and black boots. Your hair smelled like Kiehl’s chamomile shampoo. You had a bandage around the pinky finger of your left hand from where you’d cut yourself pruning a forsythia. We ordered moo-shoo pork at the Peking Duck House on Broadway afterward, and the waiter forgot to bring us our pancakes.”

  “Do you remember after that?” Her voice was almost a whisper. “When you kissed me good-night in the cab?”

  “I remember,” I said, my own voice turning husky.

  “I was a fool.”

  I said nothing. She was the one doing the talking.

  “I should have gone right upstairs and called him and told him that the wedding was off, Hoagy. I should have run to you and begged you to make love to me all night long.”

  “And I could have done it, too, in those days.”

  “Stop joking,” she said crossly. “I’m being serious.”

  “I’m always at my most serious when I’m joking, Tansy.”

  “We would have been happy together, Hoagy. We would have made each other happy.”

  “No, we would have made each other miserable. Trust me, I was no prize. I was confused. I was angry. I was a mess.”

  “You’re not anymore.”

  “I am, too. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

  “I was a fool,” she repeated.

  “Okay, you were a fool,” I said roughly. “He was no good and you should have known it. You were supposed to be smart. You weren’t smart at all. You were stupid. How could you have been so stupid?”

  Stung, she pulled back from me. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

  “I’m not a very nice person.”

  “You try hard not to be, but you are.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re kidding yourself.”

  “In that case, I’ve been kidding myself for an awfully long time.”

  “Not to worry. That’s the new national pastime. Replaced baseball.”

  She let out a sigh and rested her head on my knee. “This is so nice, yammering with you in front of the fire like we used to.” Her voice had turned small, like a child’s. “Will you come back again some time? Talk to me like this?”

  “Sure I will.”

  “I feel so safe. I may even be able to sleep tonight.”

  “Sure you will.” Gently, I caressed her cheek with the back of my hand.

  “I don’t feel anything when you do that, Hoagy.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m losing my touch.”

  “No, it’s the nerves. The feeling never came back.” She took my hand and held it. Hers was cold. “Merilee never calls me.”

  “She felt you pushed her away.”

  “I needed some time.”

  “It’s been some time.”

  “I know it has,” she admitted. “Hoagy?”

  “Yes, Tansy?”

  “You don’t have to worry about Tuttle coming after me or anything. He won’t. I realize that when I’m able to think about it clearly. Because, let’s face it, if he really wanted to kill me he would have by now. That’s not what he wants. Don’t you see what it is he wants, Hoagy?”

  “I’m afraid not, Tansy.”

  She held my hand up to her face, the one that didn’t feel anything. “He wants something much, much worse than that. He wants me alive.”

  IT WAS ONE-THIRTY in the morning when I pulled up on Third Avenue across the street from King Tut’s. There was still plenty of activity going on. Three Yushies in topcoats climbed out of a cab and went in, laughing and ruddy-faced. So did two members of the New York Rangers, Mark Messier and some other player I’m sure I would have recognized if I knew shit about hockey. A white stretch limo pulled up and out tumbled a gaggle of half-naked fashion models, impossibly young and giggly. I had a battered silver flask of calvados in the glovebox. I opened it and took a drink. I sat there, Lulu dozing next to me.

  Vic Early came out a few minutes after two, big hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat, and clomped across the street toward us and got in, nudging Lulu into my lap. Vic smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. He looked miserable.

  “How is everything?”

  “Fan-fucking-tas
tic.”

  “Ah, you met Malachi.”

  “I met Malachi.” He shifted in the seat next to me, wincing in pain.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I just have to pee.”

  “They do have a men’s room. You could have used it.”

  “No way. That’s how I lost Sharon Stone.”

  “I believe she was found.”

  “Not by me, she wasn’t.” He yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes. “He’s still in there, playing the charming host, Hoag. Telling old football stories. Downing shot after shot of brandy. He seems real jolly. Personally, I think he’s depressing as hell. I guess I’ve just been around too many ex-jocks like him, guys no longer in the limelight, trying to hang on. He remarked upon my size. I told him I once played for the Bruins. He actually remembered my name.”

  “You were an all-American your junior and senior years, Vic. Did he make you for a friend of mine?”

  “No chance. And he’s been here all evening. I guarantee it.”

  “Thanks, Vic. I’ll take over from here. Get some sleep.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “I’ll need you back on duty at eight.”

  “You got it, Hoag. When are you planning to sleep?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that one.

  Tuttle came out the front door of his place just as Vic was reaching for the car door. The collar of The King’s duffel coat was turned up and he was reeling slightly, either from the brandy or his bad knee. He started toward the corner of Seventy-seventh Street. I started up the Jag.

  Vic watched him critically. “Be careful, Hoag. He’s carrying.”

  “Carrying?”

  “You can tell by his stride. And by the swing of his left arm. He’s favoring a weight in his left coat pocket. There, see that? He just adjusted it with his left hand when he stepped off the curb.”

  “Damn, I can’t believe Malachi gave him back his gun. What must he be thinking?”

  “Oh, that reminds me—he cut out early.”

  “Malachi?”

  “Yeah, about ten-thirty. Didn’t come back.” Vic glanced at me. He still wasn’t sure what this was all about—although he had to have his suspicions. “Want me to find out where he went?”

  “Yes, Vic. I believe I would.”

  Vic got out and hailed a cab. Lulu climbed gratefully back into his seat. Tuttle was making his way toward Lexington on Seventy-seventh. I backed up to the corner and went after him. Found him out in the middle of Lex searching for a cab. I wondered about this. Why hadn’t he just grabbed one outside his restaurant? Was he afraid someone would overhear where he was going?

  I pulled up in front of him and honked. He recognized my ride, of course, but wouldn’t look at me. Just kept on scanning the avenue for a taxi, his jaw squared stubbornly. I rolled down the window and thumped the door with my gloved hand. “Hey, good-looking. Feel like taking a ride?”

  He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “You going to offer me money to suck on your dick?”

  “No, I’m going to offer you money not to.”

  Grudgingly, he got in, displacing Lulu, who was getting fed up with this whole up/down, up/down routine.

  “You following me or something, Doof?” he said thickly. He was very drunk. Glazed drunk.

  “I felt bad about what happened between us. Thought I’d stop by. They said you’d just gone out the door. You headed home?”

  “No, down to Ten’s. Girl I know named Luz dances there. Dead ringer for Julia Roberts.”

  “I thought Mal said she—”

  “Mal said she what?” he demanded, his voice turning icy.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Care to tag along?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  We drove, Tuttle staring out the window, me thinking about what a thrill it had been, once upon a time, to have Tuttle Cash, the Tuttle Cash, riding along next to me in my car. To know that Tuttle Cash was content to be in my company. That Tuttle Cash was my friend. God, it had made me so proud, I wanted the whole world to know about it. But that was then and this was now. Now Tuttle Cash was a suicidal, middle-aged alcoholic with a gun in his pocket. And some nut calling himself the answer man was answering to his description.

  Now I didn’t want anyone to know Tuttle Cash was in my car with me.

  “You’ll be happy to know, Doof, that I’ve decided to forgive you for thinking maybe I killed those girls.” He waited for me to respond. When I didn’t he continued. “It was on the eleven o’clock news. I had it on over the bar. There’s three of them now, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “They said business was already down thirty percent tonight at a lot of movie theaters and restaurants. Women are scared to go out alone. Imagine one guy having that much power over the city. Incredible, huh?”

  “Incredible.”

  He was watching me. “It’s not me, Doof. You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Tuttle.” I glanced at him curiously. “Why have you?”

  “Why have I what?”

  “Decided to forgive me.”

  He fished around in my glovebox for the silver flask and found it. “Because you can’t help yourself, Doof. It’s Tansy. You want her for yourself. I don’t blame you. Really, I don’t.”

  I sighed inwardly. “Tuttle, I’m with Merilee, remember?”

  He ignored this. “Sure, you’re looking to pin this thing on me so I’ll be out of Tansy’s life.”

  “Tuttle, you are out of her life!”

  He ignored this, too. Just went back to staring out the window, his chest rising and falling.

  We had reached midtown now, where there is always traffic on Lex, no matter the time. I cut over to Park, which was quieter, and continued downtown.

  “I saw her tonight, Tuttle.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He finished off my calvados and tossed the empty flask back in the glovebox. “Did you fuck her?”

  A ferocious growl came from the direction of my lap. Followed by a yelp of the human variety.

  “Jesus, Lulu bit me!”

  “You don’t say,” I said mildly. “Where?”

  “In the wrist,” he moaned, holding up his torn cuff. “I’m bleeding!”

  “Atta girl.”

  “Shit, she’s not rabid, is she?”

  “Only in defense of the people she cares about.”

  A red light stopped me at Forty-sixth Street. The 230 Park Avenue building stood before us, ornate and gilded. In days gone by, it was the New York Central Building, as in the railroad. Now it belonged to the Helmsleys, as in Leona. Looming over it was the Pan Am building, that ghastly upended shoebox which in fact was now the Met Life building, although no one called it that, just as no one called Sixth Avenue the Avenue of the Americas or Phil Rizzuto anything but the Scooter.

  “Are you stalking her, Tuttle?”

  He didn’t respond. The light turned green. I nosed the Jag through the tunnel that went under 230 Park and then rose up and around Grand Central Station.

  “Well, are you?” I persisted.

  “I hate that word,” he answered softly. “It has such a negative connotation. I’m watching over her, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. You’re making her crazy, and she’s in a highly fragile state. Keep it up and she’ll end up in the hospital. And you’ll end up in jail.”

  “That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?” he said, sneering at me.

  “Damn it, Tuttle!” I hit the brakes, hard, stopping us cold in the middle of the street. A cab swerved around us, honking. “What I don’t want is this!”

  “What, Doof?” he asked dumbly.

  “You and your miserable self-pity. You and your pointless, empty, upper-middle-class, white bullshit.”

  “I’m not upper-middle-class.”

  “Oh, fuck you, Tuttle.”

  He gaped at me in shock. “That … that was beneath you, Doof.”
/>   “Yeah, well, I’ve lowered my personal bar, okay?”

  “You used to be a lot wittier.”

  “And I used to have a lot more hair and gum tissue and spermatozoons. So what? I used to be a lot of things. We both did.”

  He stuck his chin out at me. “I didn’t ask for you to show up in my life again. It was all your idea, not mine. So why don’t you just get lost, huh?”

  Why indeed? For the same reason that I couldn’t let him out of my sight until 8 A.M. Because I had too much riding on him, that’s why. Because if Tuttle Cash’s life was meaningless, then somehow, mine was, too. If he was nothing, then I was nothing. If he was a murderer of innocent women, then, well, I didn’t want to think about what that made me. Later. When there was time to reflect. For now, I couldn’t get lost. That much I knew.

  I resumed driving. “Which health club do you belong to, anyway?”

  “Manhattan Fitness Center. They’ve got a branch right around the corner from the restaurant.”

  “They have one on East Thirty-ninth, too, don’t they?”

  “I believe so. Why?”

  “I’m thinking about getting back in shape.”

  “Doof, you never were in shape.”

  “Tuttle, please. Leave me one of the few illusions I have left.”

  Ten’s, formerly known as Stringfellows, was squeezed into a soft spot on East Twenty-first Street in between the Oriental rug district and Gramercy Park. There were double doors of smoked glass and lots of shiny chrome out front. Also a doorman in a tux. Cabs were lined up there, waiting for the big tippers to come staggering out after their night on the town. I parked down the block and in we went. There was a cover charge of fifteen dollars each, and they made us check our coats. The girl who took them didn’t seem to notice the extra weight in Tuttle’s. Or maybe she just checked a lot of coats with guns in them. She smiled at Tuttle. She knew Tuttle. Everyone knew Tuttle.

  Inside there was more shiny chrome and lots of mirrors and strobe lights and women, women everywhere—women in G-strings, spiked heels and nothing else. Unless you count all the silicone they were wearing. Their breasts were so inflated it was a wonder the poor girls didn’t just lift right up off the rug and float to the ceiling. I’m talking the Goodyear Blimp Columbia here. Ten’s was not Times Square by any means. This was Hef the Ancient’s glossy magazine come to life, as upscale and respectable as a place full of nude women and fully clothed men can be. Huge, too. I’m talking a veritable three-ring circus of perfumed flesh and lacquered hair. Seventy-five women at least. Every type imaginable. Tall or short, blonde or brunette, black or Asian. Everything except flabby or flat-chested or old. There was a stage with a DJ, and a stripper was working it to a pounding beat, all slither and lubricious undulation. Disco was still alive here. Or at least Tom Jones was … Or did Mr. Tom Jones rise up from the dead while I was inside? Because that man is back. And sounding as shitty as ever.… There were four different bars where eight-dollar beers and assorted light snacks could be had. And then there was the sea of tables, most of them taken. Here, for twenty bucks, lap dancers waved their hooters and their butts in the faces of businessmen in dark suits. Some merely sat and talked with the women, which was fine. You could talk to them. You could look at them. You could do everything but touch them: the ultimate in safe sex. It was all very posh and clean and friendly. And yet it was all very grim and cheerless, too. Maybe it was the stony boredom in the women’s eyes. Or the bouncers wearing tuxes and earplugs who were stationed every six feet, big as houses. Or the surveillance cameras up above, watching, watching.