Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor

by Paul Levine

  “Understood.”

  “Is that all there is to it?”

  “I guess so. Except that I’m still sort of under her spell.”

  Oh brother.

  “In all these years,” he said, “nobody’s been able to turn me on like her. She knows things, does things. She’s totally uninhibited and free with herself. She’s a pleasure giver. Do you know how hard it is for me to give that up?”

  Dr. Ruth, I’m not, but I took a stab at it anyway. “Roger, it sounds to me like Melanie Corrigan is a taker, not a giver, and you better stay the hell out of her hot tub.”

  “There is a certain side to her, a kind of danger,” he said. “Maybe that’s part of the appeal, I don’t know.” He just let it hang there, his mind working something over, not letting me in on it.

  “Okay then, I’ve got it all, right? You played hide the weenie with the missus while the old man watched, videotaped, and once in a while jumped on the pile.”

  “That’s it.” He paused, looked side to side and added, “There is one more thing.”

  “There always is.”

  “She asked me to kill her husband,” he said.

  This and other e-books by Paul Levine may be found at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JAKELASSITER

  _____________

  Preview:

  NIGHT VISION

  PROLOGUE

  Live at Five

  Look at those legs.

  Look at those goddamn floor-to-ceiling million-dollar legs, Michelle thought, then unconsciously sneaked a peek at her own. Short. Stubby little shapeless legs. God, how she hated them.

  Shit, now they’re on a two-shot. Look at the monitor. Next to her I look like a double amputee.

  Then there was her hair. Thick, auburn hair brushed straight back. And her skin, that patrician paleness so out of place in Miami. Just a subdued line of gloss on full lips … She probably gets dressed and made up in ten minutes.

  If Michelle didn’t spend half an hour covering her freckles with pancake, Max Factor Number Two, they’d ship her back to Scranton to handle neighborhood weather from Nanticoke. The legs, nothing you could do about those. But thank God for plastic surgeons and periodontists. A rhinoplasty—the Sandy Duncan model, pert but not prominent—and capped teeth called “Hollywoods.” Thanks to lawyers, too. Two hundred bucks to change Mabel Dombrowsky to Michelle Diamond.

  “So, Dr. Metcalf, your book suggests that serial murderers share certain characteristics,” Michelle said.

  “Well, we can place them into distinct categories,” Pamela Metcalf replied. “There are the organized murderers, who are above average in intelligence and are socially and sexually competent. They are usually the eldest sons in the family. Ordinarily they know their victims and plan the crime. The crime scene is neat and orderly—”

  “Well, neatness counts,” Michelle Diamond chirped. Inside the control booth, the director groaned.

  “The disorganized murderer is quite the opposite,” Dr. Metcalf explained, ignoring the interviewer and smiling politely at the camera. “Below average in intelligence, socially inadequate, sexually incompetent. Usually the last or next to last born. His crimes are more spontaneous. The victims are usually strangers, and rather than using conversation, he subdues with sudden outbursts of violence. Often he will perform sexual acts after the death of the victim …”

  Oh shit, how do you follow that one up?

  “In either case,” Dr. Metcalf said, “the killers have highly active fantasy lives. The fantasies often are of rape, torture, and murder. When they can no longer differentiate fantasy from reality, the two become one.”

  And that upper-crust voice. Like Masterpiece Theatre.

  Michelle cleared her throat, and the sound man cursed, his earpiece clacking like an enraged rattlesnake. “We seem to have more mass murderers in our country—”

  “Serial murderers,” Pamela Metcalf corrected her. “Mass murderers kill many persons at the same time. Serial murderers kill many over time, usually at random.”

  Michelle felt her face heat up. “Yes, of course. Is there something uniquely American about these serial killers? Something about our violent society?”

  “Goodness no. In Britain we had Jack the Ripper, Germany its Peter Kurten. During the time of Joan of Arc France had the infamous Gilles de Rais, who killed hundreds. There have been serial killers throughout history.”

  Damn. Like being lectured by Jane Seymour with a medical degree. Michelle racked her brain for news stories. “Yes, but here we’ve had Ted Bundy, the Hillside Strangler, the Night Stalker"— Michelle strained to keep up the patter— “the Son of Stan …”

  “Son of Sam,” Dr. Metcalf helped out. “No doubt America has had its share. My primary interest is in understanding the reasons for these motiveless murders. We know that serial killers frequently cannot separate sex from aggression. We don’t know whether this psychological deficit is caused by genetic, chemical, or hormonal reasons.”

  Thank God the director cut to a close-up of the British bitch.

  Michelle caught a cue from the floor manager. “We’ll be back with Dr. Pamela Metcalf, author of The Murderer Within Us, right after this …”

  * * *

  The news director’s door was open, so Michelle walked in. Jerry Abrams was devouring a bacon cheeseburger. Late thirties, bushy mustache, disheveled, overweight. He chewed noisily, occasionally burping as he kept his eyes on one of three TV screens in his glass-enclosed cubicle.

  “Hey, Michelle, get a load—”

  “Me-chelle.”

  “Okay, Meeee-chelle, get a load of this turkey.”

  On the screen a crew-cut blond man with a string tie was reciting baseball scores. The sound was turned low. Jerry Abrams always reviewed audition tapes this way. Watch the way they look, nobody listens anyway, he explained.

  “Wanna play?” Jerry Abrams asked.

  “I dunno, Jerry.”

  “C’mon, guess.

  “El Paso?”

  He shook his head.

  “Albuquerque?”

  Jerry fished a french fry out of a paper sack. The office smelled of grease and charred meat. “The Wyatt Earp tie’s throwing you off. Smaller market, farther north.”

  “North Platte, Nebraska,” she said.

  “Good guess. Quad Cities, Iowa. Hayseed wants to come to Gomorrah-by-the-Sea.”

  He punched a button on the remote control and grabbed another cassette. More than a hundred were stacked around his desk.

  “Jerry, I’d like you to relieve me on the five o’clock. Just for a couple weeks.”

  “What? During sweeps? Jesus, no!”

  “But I’m working on an investigative piece …”

  He stopped in mid-bite. A glob of ketchup clung to his mustache. “What investigative piece? Who assigned you?”

  “No one. I’ve been working on my own. A blockbuster I can’t tell you about, yet. I’ve got a confidential source.”

  Jerry loosened his tie, which was already at half-mast. He plugged another cassette into the VCR. After the color bars and the countdown, a petite Oriental woman appeared in front of a burning building. She held a microphone and showed a dazzling smile likely used for stories of quintuplet births and plane crashes alike. Michelle noticed that her orange helmet clashed with her green flak jacket. She wondered if the teeth were real.

  “Meee-chelle, baby,” Jerry said, “you’re not Bob Friggin’ Woodward. You’re a face, a very good face, and your numbers are catching up with Gilligans Island reruns on Channel Four.”

  She tried to give him a tough look she learned from numerous Jane Fonda films. It had the effect of crinkling her collagen-injected lips.

  “Now, don’t pout at me,” Jerry said. “Hey, that was a great interview today. What’s a looker like that doing with mass murderers:

  “Serial murderers.”

  “Whatever,” Jerry Abrams said.

  * * *

  The bedroom’s jalousie windows
were cranked open, and Michelle could hear nighttime traffic on Ocean Drive. The trendy club and barhopping crowd. Michelle smiled, relieved to be free of the feigned happiness of the South Beach full-time floating-disco-party team, junior varsity, second string. What with chlamydia, herpes, and gonorrhea creeping around, not to mention AIDS. Hadn’t they just done a show on the misery of venereal warts, images of rashes and itches giving her the willies right on the set.

  Having one man—even a part-time married man—was better than a bunch of sweaty one-night stands. Even though her man was, more often than not, a thirty-minute slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am stand. Which is why she didn’t consider it cheating to spend an occasional night with a carefully chosen lover in a more leisurely mode.

  Michelle stretched a hand across the sheets and touched a warm thigh. She heard the regular, measured breaths of peaceful sleep and smiled again. It had been wonderful for them both, better than she had dared hope for something so new, a warmth that had grown slowly, gently caressing her, building into a flame that had nearly consumed her. Better than with …

  There was a stirring next to her and she watched her lover turn to one side. Great body, too. Silently, Michelle climbed out of bed. She had tossed her blue silk dress, specially chosen by her fashion consultant, across a chair. Her matching spike-heeled shoes, her panty hose, and discarded uplift bra formed a trail from living room to bedroom. Naked, Michelle entered the bathroom and closed the door. She removed the tinted contact lenses and scrubbed three layers of makeup from her face. There hadn’t been time before, it had happened so fast. She slipped into a black silk camisole, headed for the tiny kitchen, and grabbed a low-fat vanilla yogurt from the refrigerator. Then she sat down at a desk in a corner of the living room and turned on her computer.

  Michelle punched up the directory labeled “INVST-1" and started typing:

  When your platoon entered the village of Dak Sut on January 9, 1968, what orders did you give?

  “No,” she said to herself. “Too direct.” Christ, this wasn’t like interviewing celebrity authors. She tried to imagine how Geraldo Rivera would do it.

  For the next hour she kept typing and retyping questions.

  Was there evidence of NVA or VC in the village?

  He’s going to say yes. Then what? How do you follow up? This is harder than it looks.

  The last time you saw Lieutenant Ferguson alive, was he—

  Forget it. She could try again tomorrow. She punched a button and magically transported the questions to her computer’s hard memory. She exited the word-processing program, then hit the keys for the modem, which automatically dialed a local number. After a few seconds the computer tinkled a romantic ballad and the medical symbols for the male and female of the species appeared on the screen, the male’s arrow piercing the female’s circle. The symbols changed shape, becoming the figures of a nude man and woman, until they, too, electronically unwound and formed letters and then a word. “Compu-Mate.”

  > DO YOU WISH TO ENTER THE MATING ROOM?

  > YES.

  > YOUR HANDLE, PLEASE.

  > TV GAL.

  She had been meaning to change her handle after several Compu-Mate correspondents asked whether she enjoyed cross dressing. She typed a numerical password, and after a moment the computer purred, and a new message scrolled down the monitor.

  > HERE’S WHO’S IN THE MATING ROOM NOW:

  SUPER STUD

  CANDY FEELGOOD

  PASSION PRINCE

  BUSH WHACKER

  HELEN BED

  ICE GODDESS

  CHARLIE HORSE

  BIGGUS DICKUS

  TV GAL

  ORAL ROBERT

  HOT BUNS

  A sound came from the bedroom. A sliver of light appeared under the door. Michelle punched into the chat mode and made some connections. Oral Robert told her he’d save her ass and to hell with her soul. Bush Whacker tried to type dirty but couldn’t spell any word over four letters. Biggus Dickus, a nearly normal guy she remembered from last week, asked about her work. Bor-ing! She brushed them off.

  > HELLO, TV GAL. LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION—PASSION PRINCE.

  A little jolt went through her, as it always did. A new name, a voice in the dark. Maybe this time. She heard the bathroom shower turning on. It wouldn’t be an all-nighter after all.

  > HELLO, PASSION PRINCE. WHAT ARE YOU UP TO

  > NO GOOD.

  Just dancing around and she didn’t have all night.

  > TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF, PP

  > EIGHT FEET TALL, GREEN SCALY SKIN, A LONG SNOUT, AND LARGE TEETH . . .

  Christ, a comedian. Why not just a sincere, single, self-sup porting male, thirty-five, gainfully employed, likes dining out, movies, and romantic walks on the beach?

  > . . .AND YOU, TV PERSON?

  Might as well give him a cheap thrill.

  > FIVE-NINE WITH LONG, LONG LEGS. LARGE ROUND BREASTS, A FLAT, SMOOTH STOMACH, AND FULL HIPS.

  She stared at the screen. Nothing. Maybe scared him off. She waited. Outside, an ocean breeze rattled the windows.

  > WHAT ABOUT YOUR ASSHOLE?

  Oh brother. One of those.

  > IS IT NICE AND TIGHT?

  She started to hit the escape button but stopped. In the bathroom, the water was turned off, the pipes clanking in the old apartment. The prince of passion was still typing.

  > DO YOU LIKE POETRY?

  > NOTHING DIRTY, PASSION GUY.

  > WHEREOF MY FAME IS LOUD AMONGST MANKIND, CURED LAMENESS, PALSIES, CANCERS. THOU, O GOD, KNOWEST ALONE WHETHER THIS WAS OR NO. HAVE MERCY, MERCY! COVERALL MY SIN!

  > THATS POETRY? SOUNDS LIKE FATHER McCORKLE IN WILKES BARRE.

  She hoped that would stop him, but the electronic blips kept coming, the words marching across her screen.

  > THEN, THAT I MIGHT BE MORE ALONE WITH THEE, THREE YEARS I LIVED UPON A PILLAR, HIGH.

  > I BEEN STONED, TOO, BUT THREE YEARS? THATS HEAVY.

  > NO, NO TV-GAL. DO YOU KNOW NOTHING OF THE STYLITES?

  Jeez, I don’t know what’s worse, Michelle thought, a pervert or a bore. She looked toward the bedroom. The door was open, the light off.

  > A MO-TOWN GROUP, RIGHT?

  > AH, PERHAPS MUSIC IS MORE TO YOUR TASTE.

  Ought to sign off now, Michelle thought, play hostess, offer a good-bye drink and exchange lies about next time. So quiet, the only sound the hum of the computer, the only light the luminous black-and-white display of the monitor. Now what was he typing? Rock ’n’ roll lyrics. What’s with this guy? Can’t he think for himself? Trying to tell me I shake his nerves and rattle his brain. He was rattled long before tonight. And don’t tell me what drives a man insane. But there he goes, hammering out the whole damn song. And he probably can’t even carry a tune. She heard footsteps behind her.

  > OK, OK, PRINCE . . . I BROKE YOUR WILL AND GAVE YOU A SUPER-DUPER THRILL, BUT I REALLY GOT TO GO NOW.

  A shadow crossed the screen, then stopped.

  She didn’t turn.

  She expected a caress, a lover’s hug.

  “Hello, darling,” Michelle said.

  There was no reply.

  She hit the escape button, punching out of the program, and stared into the black background of the screen. The outline of shoulders …

  Two hands grabbed Michelle’s neck from behind and yanked her out of the chair. For a moment she thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t funny, and rough sex after tender loving didn’t make sense. She thought of a man who wanted her to choke him just before he came. Oxygen deprivation to enhance the orgasm.

  Weird. Now this.

  The hands slipped from her neck, then closed again. Michelle clawed at the hands as they pressed harder. She kicked backward and tried to scream, but nothing came out. She gasped for air, fought off the nausea, and sucked in a breath as the hands relaxed again. But she was losing consciousness and her strength was gone.

  She barely felt the hands this time, and her last memory would be a tiny sound, a s
ickening crack like a wishbone snapped in two.

  The hands continued to squeeze for a full minute, then dropped her back into the chair. A moment later, they grabbed Mabel Dombrowsky by the hair and roughly jammed her head forward into the monitor, shattering the screen, shards of glass piercing her eyes. From inside the broken screen, an electronic pop and fizzle and a puff of flame.

  “Great balls of fire!” sang a voice she never heard.

  CHAPTER 1

  A Matter of Honor

  If Marvin the Maven tells me not to yell in closing argument, I don’t yell. Marvin knows. He’s never tried a case, but he’s seen more trials than most lawyers. Drifting from courtroom to courtroom in search of the best action, he glimpses eight or nine cases a day. Five days a week for the last seventeen years since he closed up his shoe store in Brooklyn and headed south.

  Some lawyers don’t listen to Marvin and his friends—Saul the Tailor and Max (Just Plain) Seltzer—and they pay the price. Me, I listen. The courthouse regulars can’t read the fine print on the early-bird menus, but they can spot perjury from the third row of the gallery.

  Marvin, Saul, and Max already told me I botched jury selection. Not that lawyers pick jurors anyway. We exclude those we fear, at least until we run out of challenges.

  “You’re meshuga, you leave number four on,” Marvin told me on the first day of trial.

  “He’s a hardworking butcher,” I said defensively. “Knows the value of a dollar. Won’t give the store away.”