“Hey,” said the shorthaired cop. “I thought I told you to get out of the pissed up ones, didn't I?”
“Sorry.” I hurriedly got out of the smelly clothes. There was an obvious smell of urine that reeked from the clothes, like unwashed bum clothes that were being tossed out for the last time.
He looked at me, then shook his head and walked away. Again the ominous banging and slamming of jail cells being opened and closed weaved through the corridor, like some final portend that I wanted to get away from but couldn't.
My clothes were off, dungarees and work shirt, a little worn, but still my favorite, now sodden in urine. I stood there, half-naked, puzzling over my dilemma. If I took my drawers off, I'd be totally naked, if I left them on I'd be standing in piss-stained reeking ones. Then without a thought, I heard the ominous sounding clanging and I hurried to be rid of my foul drawers.
The shorthaired cop returned with some clothes he was carrying. “Oh, good. Put these on.”
He handed me a bunch of clothes and I awkwardly accepted them, trying my best to cover myself up.
“They might be too big on you,” he shrugged. “But it's the best I could do.”
I didn't care, as long as they were dry, would be fine with me. But it wasn't fine, more like for a giant than average-size me and I felt slightly ridiculous in the huge clothes that were many sizes too big for me. The odd part was the pants—white material to match my white dress shirt—that had the buttons torn off as if it was a jail thing instead of someone's perverted sense of humor.
Silently, I cursed to myself and watched the shorthaired cop leave... I didn't know I'd be spending two weeks in the fucking cell, two weeks that sure as hell went by slow...very slow...
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Chapter Seven
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On and on the days passed. I was repeatedly getting questioned by cops, telling them the same thing over and over and then questioned again by still other cops. It was like one hand didn't know what the other was doing, but it was perfect cop strategy of trying to implicate me in Connie's dilemma. And one that didn't work, thank God!
But most of all, I spent my time jerking off like I was a sex-starved maniac. A real masturbating idiot is what I had become, and I'm sure there was nothing sexual in my releases. Sometimes I'd be pissed as hell, cursing in my cell like an idiot until the release came, but that only got me madder and raging into more masturbation. On and on it went, beating my dick like a raving lunatic, but that brought me no pleasure or peace, just angry rage that, again, got me into a futile jerking off session—like a circle going nowhere but back on itself. I hated who I was and what had become of me—a masturbating moron, that's all and nothing more.
A few days later, Connie was their prime suspect—though in a guarded hospital bed and recovering from all the fucking she had, but mostly from her drunken binge after I had left. They even had Clem, a surprised instigator who tried to deny any wrongdoing. Besides Yvonne and Francette, they had everyone who had contact with us in the last days. It was only a matter of time before they figured it out, or else someone put them on the right track, which would start the questions once again. And little by little, attention wasn't focused on me anymore. I guess they finally figured it out, about who killed Paco and didn't even care about the rest. Because Connie just didn't give a damn and after killing Paco, even cursed him over and over that he had it coming. But I suppose so did she. I spent more of my time sulking, raging and jerking off. What else was I supposed to do in jail?
It ended just as it does in real life. People come, people go. There's hardly any hellos and definitely no goodbyes. Life goes on is the constant repetitive cliche that we all live under.
After two weeks, without any other word, I was told I was free. Not free, but they told me to Get the fuck out! Which I gladly did, but still I felt really bad, like I had done something wrong in turning Connie in to the cops. But what the hell? She was the killer, not me. Yet still...I felt like shit.
Oh course, my scruffy clothes didn't add to any luster. They were the ones I had before, but they were smelly and even much larger from the weight I had lost. And on 42nd Street, my bearded unshaved face meant I should be with the hippies downtown instead of sexy uptown 42nd Street. I had a subway token given to me by the cops to get me home—if the landlord of my shabby rooming house on 3rd Street hadn't kicked me out by then.
I walked out of the cop station house—on 12th Avenue and 42nd Street—passed by the Elk Hotel on 9th Avenue—which I sadly stared at—and finally crossed 8th Avenue, staggering along 42nd Street. I was sad. Not only did I look like a wino bum, but I felt worthless because Connie was in jail and probably for a very long time. Even though I had turned her in, I also felt like shit, like I had done something wrong. Maybe I did.
I came to Grant's Bar and stopped. People were going in and coming out. A few of them looked at my disheveled appearance and shrugged. I supposed that I could've scrounged a few coins to add to the subway token the cops gave me, but I didn't. I was about to walk away when I saw Yvonne, Connie's friend, looking incredibly feminine and woman-like enough so that she made true-women seem very shameful. I watched her through the window of Grant's, talking with another, I supposed, transvestite, when she recognized me through the bearded stubble on my face. She blushed, but smiled at me. Half-heartily, I smiled back. I didn't expect it, but she got up and hurried out of the bar.
“Oh, my God!” Yvonne nervously said. “But, miera, I'm happy to see you, you know.”
And she made a move as if to kiss me, but I just stood there. Her lisping voice got a small hard-on growing in me, but I quickly felt it going down again. She made a move toward me, but stopped. Tears were falling out of my eyes and I began to sob like I had lost someone dear to me. And I suppose I did, Connie, who I would never see again. Yvonne was fading like the day that was quickly darkening into neon lights that would glare all night long. I suppose I cried for everything I had ever lost, never to be regained. But most of all, I cried for myself.
Look at me, like a bum! Serves me right. I shook my head.
But the tears didn't stop. When I looked at Yvonne, she was back in Grant's, pointing me out to other transvestites, all of them feverishly talking. I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath and went down into the subway. Luckily, the people stayed away from me. I suppose I smelled, too. I smiled.
That would keep them away. If you smile to yourself, just as Connie did, they'll think you're either crazy, up to no good...or else desperately horny. I began to laugh.
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About the Author
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Mykola Dementiuk was born in 1949 of Ukrainian parents in a West German DP camp, immigrating to America when he was two. After Catholic grade school & public high school in New York City, he graduated from Columbia University in 1984.
A writer with varied employment, from gyro seller at Lollapalooza to roustabout at the Big Apple Circus, Mykola helped create the magic of Cirque du Soleil performances of “Alegria” in Santa Monica, Chicago, Washington DC, Boston, and New York with his electrical work.
After suffering a massive debilitating stroke in 1997, Mykola eventually returned to writing, using one finger to execute the fantasies and psychological stories of his mind.
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Murder in Times Square Page 5
