by Mark McNease
This event was different. It was the last Margaret would attend, and it was her going away celebration. Danny had even wondered if they should have it somewhere else with twice the seating capacity. But that would be wrong and everyone there would know it. This was a party to say goodbye to Margaret, and it could only be held in her restaurant. Memories could not be packed up and transported to another location.
Chloe was waiting for him when he got there. The restaurant didn’t open until 11:30 a.m. (only lunch and dinner were served at Margaret’s Passion), but there was always a lot of preparation, and Chloe had proved to be as meticulous in her job as Danny had been when it was his. She had been with the restaurant for five years, working as a lunch server, bar back, you-name-it. Chloe was Danny’s right hand, and he was glad to offer her his job when he became the owner. No one else had even been considered.
“You really should have taken some days off,” Chloe said when Danny arrived. He knew she’d already been there for at least an hour, doing Chloe things, which often extended to jobs well below her pay grade. Nothing was beneath Chloe, and that’s one of the things Danny liked about her.
Chloe was tall and thin and sometimes mistaken for a man. She had very short hair and a flat chest she was neither proud nor ashamed of. Her mother was in a nursing home with early-onset Alzheimer’s (Chloe was only thirty-six). That was all Danny knew of her personal life. He didn’t even know if she was straight, gay, bi, trans, or none of the above. She was a phenomenal asset to the restaurant, a good person who loved the old woman who lived upstairs almost as much as Danny did, and that was all he wanted to know.
“I can’t take time off right now, Chloe,” Danny said. “Too much to do.”
“But your detective friend is here, that seems important.”
Danny thought of telling her that Linda was really Kyle’s friend. He considered her his friend, too, but not in the best-friends-forever category. He also sometimes felt like a third wheel when they were together, and he was content letting Kyle take Linda around the City. Besides, he had a party to plan—the saddest, least-wanted party he would ever throw, and it was time to get down to business.
“Come,” Danny said, sitting at a table and waving Chloe over. “We have names to cross out.”
As with Margaret’s birthday party, this one involved starting with a list almost twice the size of its final draft, then eliminating names after painstakingly discussing who should not be on it, and whom they could afford to offend. Luckily, the new mayor was scheduled to be out of town (Margaret didn’t much care for the man’s politics). The previous mayor, on the other hand, would have to be accommodated.
Danny sighed. Dealing with egos was part of his job and it had only gotten harder since he was now the owner. Favors were expected, and although Margaret had always maintained a strict egalitarian approach to seating (reservations were a must, and could not be bought at the expense of a customer who already had a table), but some people still wanted the best table, with the highest visibility, which was never by the window. Common people could see through the glass and that was not the audience these people played for. They played for each other.
“What about Irene?” Chloe asked, scanning the list. “She won the Tony last year, best lead in a musical.”
“That was last year,” Danny said. “She didn’t win this year.”
He crossed her name off the list and the work began. By the time they opened the doors for lunch a third of the names would be crossed out. Another third would have to go after discussing each one—the pros and cons, their relative importance in Margaret’s orbit, and any damage they might do if they knew they’d been excluded. The first draft of the invitation list was highly confidential, a top secret document that had never fallen into the wrong hands and never would.
“Let’s keep going,” Danny said. He had to get invitations out by the end of the week for a party just a month away. He knew he should have started sooner, but he’d put it off. Saying goodbye to Margaret, then watching her go, was something he would prefer to put off forever, so he steeled himself, took a deep breath, and moved on to the next name.
Chapter 9
The Arlington Hotel was a New York City landmark. First built in 1927, the hotel immediately became the preferred place to stay for anyone whose name was recognized by fans, voters, or readers of newspapers in wide circulation. It was also the place for those who aspired to be known, regardless of the slim odds. Hemingway had stayed here, as had the Governor of New York and, on several occasions, presidents of the United States.
New York City was unrecognizable now from what it had been in the Arlington’s heyday. Times Square had become sanitized, and the New York Times, for which the Square was named, has moved several blocks over. The Gray Lady, as it had been called for a century, was not gray anymore and the building that housed the paper has been converted into high priced condominiums. Most of Manhattan, it seemed, has been transformed into a playground for the rich and famous. That was fine with D; he fancied himself among them, even though he wasn’t that wealthy and planned to never be famous for what he was best at. He was content for his select clientele to know him as the proprietor of a men’s clothing store that catered to the crème de la crème. They would never know he was much more well known—albeit in a completely anonymous way—as the Pride Killer. The police thought he was dead, or that he’d vanished or simply given up his one true passion. At least that’s what they had thought until Tuesday morning, when his first victim in three years was found floating past the United Nations.
D had never stayed at the Arlington. There was no reason for someone who lived in New York City to stay there, let alone someone who owned a townhouse within a long walk’s distance from the hotel. It was true he’d met a few clients in the hotel’s restaurant, mostly older men who thought a $2,000 suit was on the low end. He’d shied away from the nouveau riche, the rappers and the winners of television singing competitions. He wanted to keep his profile low; he was known for being discerning and discreet, and many of the newly wealthy were anything but.
He was sitting in the lobby of the Arlington enjoying a decaf cappuccino. He normally did not drink coffee, preferring a small variety of teas, but he would treat himself to something decaffeinated on special occasions, and this morning was one of them: he was waiting to meet one of two (count them, two!) prospective candidates for his next killing. And the candidate was late. D chalked it up to youth. Kevin (if that was his real name) was barely thirty and today was his day off. D checked his watch: ten minutes past eleven. Kevin was supposed to be there promptly on the hour. D realized, of course, that Kevin might not show up at all—it happened. But he would give the young man another ten minutes, then leave. He had his second interview that afternoon. He’d scheduled the killing for Thursday evening. It was possible that Kevin would not be free that night, which would factor into his decision. He was on a timetable. Fortunately, he had two very different men to choose from and there was a high probability one of them would be available. D was an expert at enticement. He would listen carefully as he chatted with each of the men, and if there was anything in what they said—a new movie out they wanted to see, or a favorite artist in a musical genre—he would be sure to let them know he was interested in that very thing. What a coincidence! He has a signed album of Patsy Cline’s at home, or he’d gotten his hands on a pre-release DVD of the movie that was opening that very night. These were the perks of being a man who catered to men of the highest order. He would demure—it’s nothing, really—and at the very least invite them over to his home that evening. They would ask for the address and he would insist on meeting for a drink first. He never gave his address to his victims. They might tell someone where they were going, or leave a note on the apartment desk they would never see again. Aside from his store manager Jarrod, the only people who knew where he lived did not survive to tell anyone.
D was getting impatient now. He glanced at his watch: 11:17 a.m. Three mo
re minutes and he would have to leave. He was disappointed and was just about to write off Kevin as a fake or a no-show when a young man entered the lobby, harried and moving as if he was late for something, which he was.
“Leo?” he said, walking up to D.
D included his dead uncle’s name among his aliases. He changed them up in the event someone overheard them talking. One day he was Leo, the next he might be Edward.
“That would be me,” D said, standing and extending his hand. He’d told Kevin where he would be sitting but had not included a photograph of himself. He did not want any pictures floating around. Untraceable email accounts were one thing, photographs quite another. Instead he played shy with them, insisting he had no recent photos but guaranteeing them they would not be displeased, which they never were. He was in shape, average height, with graying brown hair he kept cut every week. He had bright blue eyes and a disarming smile (disarming them was of high importance). And when he smiled, whether for a client at the store or a candidate for his basement, he always made sure to include his eyes. A smile that does not extend to the eyes was a smile to be distrusted.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Kevin said. “There was a sick passenger on the subway and we were in the station forever.”
“Don’t worry,” D said. “These things happen. Please, have a seat.”
Kevin sat down across from D. It was a small low table with two chairs, not for dining but for enjoying a beverage and conversation.
D looked at the man, quite pleased. Kevin was young, shorter than D would have liked, but with an open face and well-groomed. He struck D as neither noticeably masculine nor feminine, a balance he found in many men.
“Coffee?” D said. Kevin nodded and D waved at the waiter who served people in the lobby. There weren’t many places like the Arlington left where gentlemen could sit and talk in a relaxing atmosphere.
“Staten Island is a long commute,” said D. “It must take up a good part of your day going back and forth.”
“I’m used to it,” Kevin said. “I’ve never really wanted to live in Manhattan. It’s too …”
“Hectic.”
“Yeah, hectic. I get enough of the city’s energy just working at the bank. What was it you said you do?”
“Real estate. If you ever decide to move into the city, I’m your man.”
Kevin gave his coffee order to the waiter, then took a moment for a good look at D.
“You’re very nice looking,” Kevin said.
“I try.”
“This isn’t something I normally do, meet men online.”
“Nor I. But a friend has been encouraging me ever since my wife died.”
“Oh, you had a wife.”
“To whom I was faithful until she died three years ago. Then I decided it was time to be true to myself. I’d always known, you see, but never acted on it.”
D liked to present himself as somewhat of a novice. He also knew that some men were turned on by sleeping with married men—or in this case widowed.
They talked for another twenty minutes. Kevin told D much about his life, how he’d grown up on Staten Island and taken his job at the bank three years ago. Working at a bank wasn’t his dream but it was a job, and jobs these days were more important than ambitions. Besides, he’d worked his way up quickly from teller to branch manager, and it could be a career if he wanted it to be.
D told him all about his fictitious life as a Manhattan real estate broker, the pressures of selling multi-million dollar apartments, and the stresses of living in an Upper East Side penthouse.
“Those are some stresses I might like to have,” Kevin said.
D watched as the young man’s interest in him grew the more he told him about his wealth, position and prestige. Ah, youth, he thought, so easily lured.
Kevin was proving to be a prime candidate. D did not think of them as targets, but as interviewees for the most important position they would ever hold: provider of D’s greatest pleasure in life. The pleasure itself only lasted for an evening, but gave D a lifetime of precious memories.
D was leaning heavily toward Kevin and was considering canceling his drink date with Scott that afternoon when Kevin’s phone buzzed. He’d had the courtesy to turn the ringer off but he’d left it on vibrate.
“Sorry,” Kevin said, taking his phone out of his shirt pocket.
“No problem,” D replied, but it was a problem. He waited to see what Kevin said to whoever had called him. If he gave a location or any information that might lead to D, things would change quickly.
“Hi, Mom,” Kevin said. He held up a finger to say, “Just a minute,” to D and walked over to a corner to speak to his mother.
This was not a good turn of events. D had no way of knowing what Kevin was saying to his mother. Worse, he was talking to his mother. What grown man speaks to his mother while he’s meeting another man for sex? It was the kind of call you would let go to voicemail, unless you mother’s place in your life was overly prominent.
Kevin ended the call and came back, saying, “My apologies, really. My mom’s alone now. My dad passed away five years ago from leukemia. I don’t have any siblings, so I’m all she’s got. I kind of have to take her calls.”
Normally this sort of story would not effect D. Life was full of minor tragedies and heartache. But something about a young man as the only living family for a widow who was probably not much older than D himself troubled him. He never gave any thought to the survivors; sentimentality was not an asset in the serial killer business. But something just felt wrong this time.
“Where does your mother live?” D asked as Kevin sat back down.
“With me.”
“With you?”
“Well, to be honest, I live with her. It’s my parents’ house.”
D waited a moment. “You live at home?”
“Yeah, it saves a lot of money and it helps my mom. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” D said, having decided it was. For all his youthful charm and attraction, Kevin was not the one for him. He hid his disappointment, as he hid all his emotions. (People mistakenly think sociopaths don’t have emotions, but of course they do. Excitement, exhilaration, joy at the kill and sadness when it was over until the next time—were these not emotions?)
Kevin could sense things had taken a bad turn. “Listen,” he said, “I really like you, Leo …”
“And I like you, Kevin, very much. I just have some other business to attend to today. How about if I send you an email this evening and we see where it goes?”
“Oh, okay, sure.” Kevin had been blown off before, he knew what was happening.
D waved for the check. Kevin dug in his pocket for his wallet and D said, “This one’s on me.”
“Fine,” said Kevin. “I’ll get the next one.”
He knew there would not be a next one. What he did not know was that his life had just been spared.
They parted ways with a handshake in front of the Arlington. D waited while poor, forlorn, rejected Kevin made his way up the block. He did not want Kevin seeing which direction he took. He glanced at his watch. He was not scheduled to meet Scott until five-thirty.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter 10
D did not know when he became a killer, only when he began to kill. It was as if the impulse had always been with him but never satisfied until he shoved his uncle down the stairs and the sight of him with his neck broken, his head twisted strangely perpendicular to his body, that he realized the full pleasure of what he had only fantasized until then. He had not tortured animals as a child; he had not set fires. He had been a fairly obedient boy, doing as he was told by his parents. Then his father left them and his mother sank into an acidic bitterness that corroded their lives. By the time D was fifteen he’d had enough—enough of his mother’s toxicity, enough of her complaining about the world. He also knew very well she had little attachment to her son. He reminded her in too many ways of the
man who’d walked out on her for another man. He had the same name, the same basic physical features, the same eyes.
“It’s not my fault,” she would say, for no apparent reason and out of context to anything they had been discussing. He knew it came from her deep belief of the opposite: that if she had been enough, if she had been a better wife, if she had done some crucial something differently her husband would have stayed and they would have had the ideal life he’d promised her in America. He knew, too, that she blamed him somehow, as if having a child had set them on the course to ruin—at least the ruin of her life.
D was startled when his mother announced she was going back to Berlin and gave him the options of going with her or moving to Brooklyn to live with his uncle. None of this had been discussed with him, and by the way she presented it he could tell which choice she preferred. D was part of the life she’d come to hate. D was unwelcome. D reminded her too much of the source of her anger.
“He has a nice apartment and a spare room. You could live in New York City, imagine how exciting that will be.”
Not “would be,” but “will be,” as if the decision had been made for him.
D was relieved. He did not want to move to Germany, and the thought of being free from his mother’s stifling emotions and her increasingly erratic behavior made him think escape was in sight. So on that rainy September morning he said goodbye to the woman he’d taken to calling Marta and boarded a plane for New York.
