Dressed to Kill

by Campbell Black

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . I mean, you’re a professional.”

  “Which means I’m not a woman—”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything like that—”

  “You’re a little mixed-up, Sam, I think. No matter how you cut it this is cheating.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not cheating in a classical sense.”

  Liz turned her face away from him. There was something slightly delectable in springing a little morality where it was least expected. Call girl with portable pulpit. All ye that cheat and are heavy-laden, give yourselves to me . . . She looked back at him seeing how flustered he appeared now, as if his uneasiness were yielding to guilt. Carry on like this, Liz, she thought, and you’ll be out of business in a flash. She reached over and took his hand, which was cold and heavy, like some hairless paw. Then she stood up and walked inside the bedroom, where she started to undress. She could hear him pour another glass of champagne and gulp it down hastily. Naked, she lay down on the bed and waited. After a moment he appeared in the doorway, undoing the buttons of his vest and removing the gold watch chain, which he draped, rather carelessly, over the back of a chair. He slipped out of his jacket and shirt, undid the suspenders of his pants, and stood there—like some white whale taught to remain erect on its tail, a zoo trick—in his boxer shorts, which were polka-dotted and too tight round his midriff. Close your eyes, she thought. Close your eyes and smile and open your arms in welcome.

  She heard him pad towards the bed. The mattress sagged as he slumped beside her. She felt his wet lips upon the side of her neck and she wondered, as she’d wondered before too many times, whether the price was worth it after all, whether the memory of this encounter and of all similar ones would finally fade from her mind at some later point.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he was saying.

  His entrance was something short of dramatic. She made a brief gasping sound and threw her arms around his neck, the tips of her fingers tracing the ridged outline of his spine.

  2

  When she left the hotel the night had become chilly, a dark wind blowing across the great wasteland of the park, rustling dying leaves and shaking branches. She turned up the collar of her coat and shivered on the sidewalk. A cab—where was a cab when you needed one? She looked at the uniformed doorman of the hotel: He was staring at her with the kind of suspicion you’d expect on a cop’s face, as if in his mind he were accusing her of unspeakable transgressions. Flunkey, she thought, wondering if she looked like a hooker, if there was something about her that made the antennae of such people as doormen quiver. Then she saw a cab cruising down the other side of the street and she hailed it, watching it swing in a leisurely arc to the sidewalk. The driver was young, fresh-faced, probably a college kid working nights.

  As she reached forward to the door, something made her glance across the street.

  A dark car. A movement, the reflection of light as the car door was opened. Quick, blinding, like some visual hallucination.

  A dark car and a blonde woman getting inside it.

  She stepped inside the taxi, slamming the door, leaning forward to the driver. For a moment she didn’t say anything; when she turned her face she saw the dark car’s headlights go on, the car itself pulling away slowly from the sidewalk.

  The driver turned his face, looking puzzled. “Where to, lady?”

  Liz couldn’t think. Blankness. A total emptiness of mind.

  “I don’t have all night,” the driver said.

  Liz watched the car, then looked at the driver. “I know how this is going to sound, and I’m sorry if you think you just picked up a loony, but somebody is following me.”

  “Huh?”

  “That car. Just there.”

  The driver twisted his neck round, then shook his head. “That car?”

  “Yeah. The black one.”

  “I believe you. Don’t ask me why—”

  “Don’t ask anything. Just lose it, huh?”

  The driver pulled the cab away from the sidewalk so abruptly that Liz fell backwards in her seat. When she turned to look again through the rear window she could see the car a little way behind, following at a steady pace. She swung round and leaned forward towards the driver, speaking to him through the glass partition.

  “Can’t you go a little faster?”

  “I can try,” the kid said, wheeling the cab suddenly around a corner, wheeling it so hard that the tires screamed against the concrete. Liz held on, trying to think. It doesn’t matter how she found me, it doesn’t matter how she knew where to look, the only important thing now is to lose her. But when she turned around once again the dark car was still there, doggedly, still the same short distance behind.

  “And screw the red lights,” Liz said.

  “Anything you say,” the driver said.

  Now they were in the middle of some heavy uptown traffic, the cab weaving around a bus at such a sharp angle that Liz slipped from her seat to the floor.

  “You okay?” the kid asked.

  “Apart from a couple of fractures, sure . . .”

  “How am I doing?”

  “You’re doing just great. But that car’s doing just as great.”

  “Fuck it,” the driver said. He swung the wheel hard, the cab made a breakneck left turn, the rear tires climbing the edge of the sidewalk then bumping back down again. “Sorry about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Liz said.

  “What kinda trouble you got anyhow?”

  “That would take too long to explain,” Liz said, turning again, watching the other car stream through traffic to keep the yellow cab in sight.

  “You know the subway at Columbus Circle?” Liz said.

  “Yeah. You want out there?”

  “Drop me at the station—”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “I stopped thinking wise a while back,” Liz said.

  The kid swung his vehicle again, rushing through a bunch of frightened pedestrians who were crossing at a WALK sign. Liz saw a blurred group of faces back away in surprise and anger. Fucking cabbies think they own the city!

  The driver looked in his rearview mirror. “The goddamn thing’s still there,” he said. Then Liz saw him glance at her, a slight look of approval flick across his eyes. “Listen, if I get you outta this, how about a date some time?”

  “You get me out of this, you got more than a date,” Liz said. She looked at his nameplate in the front compartment, the black and white photograph staring sullenly out. Eric Spellman, the name said.

  “All right,” the kid said, pumping the gas harder, bumping over intersections, scattering pedestrians and ignoring stop lights.

  “I got your name,” Liz said. “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Liz turned again. The goddamn car—why couldn’t they get rid of it? It was there, dogging them like some persistent hound, like something predatory that wouldn’t let go of a spoor.

  “Drop me here,” she said. “I’ll make it to the subway.”

  She fumbled some money from her purse, and passed it to the driver without counting it out.

  “You sure you want to get out here?” he asked.

  “Yeah—” And she opened the door, running towards the subway entrance, turning once to see the black car pull in to the sidewalk behind the parked cab. The door opened and the blonde woman hurried along the sidewalk—just as Eric Spellman, bless him, bless him, opened the door of his cab and caught the woman as she was passing, the edge of the door striking her in the stomach, winding her, winding her so badly that she clutched her stomach and sank to her knees.

  Liz didn’t stop to see any more.

  She rushed inside the subway entrance, bought a token, and headed for the trains.

  For the first time since she’d left the hotel she felt secure, but the security was a flimsy thing, because behind it there lay a darker question she couldn’t answer—

  How d
id she know where to find me?

  And if she can find me once . . .

  3

  Beep.

  She held the receiver, waited, sighed deeply into it.

  You know what I did with your razor, hotshot? You know by now, don’t you? I expect you’ll tell the heat, huh? What’ll you say, Elliott? One of my patients, I beg your pardon, former patients, broke into my office and took my razor and I think she used it, oh dear me, as the murder weapon . . . Good heavens, what is the world coming to, Doc? Want to know something neat? I went out and I got myself a brand new razor, real nice it is, pearl handle and beautiful clean blade . . . You see, there was this girl, and she saw me with Kate Myers in the elevator . . . You should have been there. Still. She saw me, you understand that? You know what I have to do now? Say, Doc, how are you going to put a stop to me? Maybe you could call Levy and tell him it’s okay for me to have the operation, huh? Maybe that way I wouldn’t have to kill again. Such power. What does it feel like, Elliott, to have such power? What the fuck, I don’t give a shit for you . . . Read about me in the papers tomorrow, Doc. Okay?

  She hung up, stepped out of the telephone booth.

  The night air had a quality of ice to it.

  Liz climbed the subway steps, pausing when she reached the street, feeling far beneath her the vibration of wheels on a track. She stared across the street, looking towards the entranceway to her apartment building. Why do I hesitate like this?

  Fear.

  She found me once . . .

  But you lost her near the station at Columbus Circle, didn’t you?

  All you have to do now is get upstairs to your apartment, lock yourself in, call Marino and tell him what happened.

  That’s all.

  She shuddered as the wind, smelling of frost, of dreary winter, sliced through her coat, played against the surface of her leg that was visible between the slit in her dress.

  Scared shitless.

  But so far as you know she’s still back at Columbus Circle, somewhere, maybe hunting faces along the platform, maybe looking for you.

  Hell. She couldn’t find me now.

  Still she didn’t move from the top of the steps. A subway smell, dank and airless, drifted up from below. She stared at the apartment building again. She gazed up at the windows seeing the darkened glass of her own apartment.

  Move, she told herself.

  Cross the street. You’re safe now.

  For a moment she couldn’t catch her breath. It was as if her lungs had become constricted, shrivelled, useless sacs in her ribcage. Nerves, hypertension. What was the cure for that—didn’t you have to breath into a paper bag or something? Fill your lungs with carbon dioxide or whatever it was called.

  She still didn’t move. It was as if she were conscious of being watched, of something out there in the darkened street, something that—when she thought about it, about its lack of shape, its absence of identity—made her dizzy. She leaned against the wall. From below there were more vibrations, trains whining in the blackness of tunnels, like vehicles rushing nowhere.

  She stepped away from the wall, walked to the edge of the sidewalk, wondered why the appearance of the apartment building was suddenly so menacing, like something created to entice her forward, a trap, a snare. But it’s stupid, she thought, it’s ridiculous, you lost the woman at Columbus Circle, you’re home and dry now . . .

  Home free.

  She stepped off the edge of the sidewalk.

  There was a loud report, an echo from somewhere, a noise that might have been gunfire but which was the sound of a car backfiring. The noise cut through her. She turned her head in the direction it came from. She saw nothing. She saw only a telephone booth, a shadow pressed against the glass of the box. The shadow moved, moved as though it were incorporeal, attached to nothing substantial.

  It emerged from the box.

  It came out, frozen for a moment beneath a pale streetlamp, frozen and still like an old photograph. The dark glasses were perched, in the manner of a black gash, above the frigid smile. The blonde hair caught the street-lamp in a suggestion of flame.

  Jesus—

  Liz didn’t move for a moment.

  I lost you at Columbus Circle, she thought. The thought, absurdly, repeated itself in her mind like a tired old echo. I lost you at Columbus Circle. Columbuscircle—

  The figure stepped forward from the box.

  Run, Liz thought. Turn and run, just fucking run.

  Something glinted in the figure’s hand, flashing in the pale lamp suspended overhead.

  Dear God, make yourself run—

  She wheeled round, found herself dashing down the steps of the subway entrance, running and not looking back but hearing the echoes of footsteps anyhow.

  A toll booth.

  A token.

  A turnstile.

  It clicked stiffly as she shoved her way through.

  Run. Just run. Questions. They don’t need answers.

  She found you. Wherever you go, she finds you.

  Breathless, her heart knocking against rib bones, her blood screaming, she rushed along the platform. Where now? Where? There was nobody on the platform except for five black guys at the far end, and she thought: Safety in numbers. Safety in a crowd. She walked quickly towards the group and then, as she reached it, she turned and looked back along the platform. No sign of the blonde woman, nothing, like it was something she’d dreamed. Call it hysteria. An hysterical reaction. The dying man in the desert sees the oasis inverted in the sky. The scared person dreams his own fears.

  “Look at this, look at what we got here,” one of the guys said. He was wearing a full-length fur coat and a hat with a brightly colored band from which a feather protruded. He flashed a white smile.

  Liz stared at their faces. Behind the smiles there was something sullen, something dangerous, a menace barely hidden.

  “Hey lady what you lookin’ for down here, huh?” another said, shuffling around Liz, clicking his fingers together.

  “A train,” Liz said. “What else?”

  “A train, huh?”

  Now they were all circling her, smiling in that same menacing fashion, and she felt dizzy again.

  “Hey, Jack, you’re the guy really digs this white meat, ain’t you?”

  The one called Jack looked sulky a moment. “I like to break ass, brother. I like to see them little old white faces down there gobbling at my pork.”

  They laughed, still circling her. She remembered an old saying that concerned the difference between frying pans and fires. She glanced back along the platform again. Nothing. One of the guys pushed her lightly on the shoulder.

  “She ain’t bad looking all right,” somebody said.

  “Break ass or fuck her, I ain’t exactly giving a shit,” another said.

  Liz stepped away from the circle. At the far end of the desolate platform she saw the blonde woman appear.

  “We was standing here minding our business, lady. What right you got coming along and interr-upteeng a private conversation? You wanna learn some manners cunt?”

  “Hey, look,” Liz said.

  “I am looking,” one of them said. “What am I meant to see?”

  “That woman down there—”

  “I don’t see no woman—”

  “Her. The blonde.”

  “Yeah. So what? What’s it signify, lady?”

  “I saw her kill a woman—”

  A couple of them laughed. “She killed somebody, huh? Well, fuck that. You call the cops, lady?”

  “I don’t exactly see any, do you?”

  “Damn right I don’t see any,” one of them said. He had a leather cap which he removed, inverted, looked inside; then he scratched his hair. “I’m gonna tell you something, lady. Supposin’ I did see the heat, supposin’ the fuckin’ heat was standin’ right next to me, I wouldn’t bust my balls to tell him about no goddamn murder, no way.”

  “Sheeit,” the one called Jack said. He hawked and spat on t
he platform, smearing the mucus with the sole of his shoe. “I got it in mind to fuck you, lady. Know that?”

  Liz stared back down the platform. The blonde was watching her. There, at the far end of the platform, beneath a shabby pale light, she was watching, the light creating a faint nimbus around her head. The angel of death. The guy called Jack grabbed her by the arm and brought his face close to hers, so close his lips brushed against her own.

  “Yeah, I got it in mind to fuck you bad,” he said.

  She shook her arm free and he laughed, shuffling from side to side. He moved like some kind of dilapidated prizefighter while the others circled round him as though it were all a ritual whose meaning she couldn’t understand, but underneath it she knew there was violence. She could feel the tense little currents of violence run between them like filaments ready to explode inside a lightbulb. Once more she turned and stared down the platform. The blonde hadn’t moved. She was still staring. Motionless, staring. Liz looked towards the darkness of the tunnel. Maybe she could jump down onto the tracks and head for the tunnel, but that struck her as being senseless, trapped in blackness, waiting for the scream of a train to come through. She shut her eyes a moment. Think. Think your way out of this one, baby. She was having trouble breathing, as if the air were rancid and poisonous, air trapped too long below ground.

  Jack was holding her by the arm again, pulling her towards him.

  “You ain’t so bad to look at,” he said. The others, milling around him, were laughing. How could they laugh? Why didn’t they believe her about the blonde? It wouldn’t matter even if they did believe her, because she understood they didn’t care.

  “You ain’t so bad at all,” Jack said again.

  She pulled her arm from him and stared back down the tunnel, watching the blackness as if her only real solution lay there. Fear, fear reduced you to a place where you couldn’t think, where you couldn’t get anything straight in your mind and everything was a jumble, everything the result of some panic button that had been pressed. Think, goddamnit, think of something. There wasn’t even a transit cop around. She was alone on this godforsaken platform with five black guys and a maniac.

  “Sheeit,” Jack said. He nudged her with his elbow. “You and me, we could go over there, get it on—”