Without Mercy

by Len Levinson

  The screen dropped again. Rackman left the booth and roamed farther back to another room where some guys were slouching around in front of booths that had photographs of naked girls on them. The deal here was that for four quarters you could talk privately to a naked girl, separated from her only by a plastic window. With only a haphazard glance at the photograph in front, Rackman walked into a booth and dropped his coins into the slot.

  A curtain that ran the full length of the opposite wall raised slowly, revealing a young blonde girl sitting on a chair. She wore a flimsy nightgown that was unbuttoned, her legs were wide open, and you could see her snatch and breasts. Rackman stared at her and didn’t know what to do.

  She had a telephone in her hand, and pointed to the one hanging beside her. He picked it up and held it to his ear.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  They looked at each other for a few moments, and the silence hung heavy.

  “Are you married?” she asked in a sprightly way.

  “Not now.”

  She looked disconcerted because she thought he meant he didn’t want to talk about his marriage just then and that she’d said the wrong thing.

  “I meant that I’m not married now,” he explained.

  “Oh.” She smiled again.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “No, but I’m getting married.”

  “Congratulations.’’

  “Thank you.”

  He looked at her and wondered what to say. Most guys told the girls to stick their fingers between their legs, press their coozies against the glass, or get into obscene poses. “Where are you from?” he asked at last.

  “Florida.”

  “I’ve been to Florida a few times. What part?”

  She thought for a few moments because she didn’t want to tell him where she was from. “Jacksonville,” she said finally, and it was a lie.

  “I’ve never been to Jacksonville. My parents live in Miami Beach.”

  “It’s nice down there.”

  “Yeah.”

  The curtain came down. Rackman walked out of the booth, out of the room, and through the peep show area to the street. He thought about the girl in the plastic booth and wondered why she had such a shitty job. Maybe she was lazy and it was easier than working as a secretary. It almost certainly paid more. She mustn’t be very bright. Nobody with smarts would do something like that.

  Out on the sidewalk, he walked past a hat store, a pizza stand, and one of those stores that sell cameras, transistor radios, watches, and knives at alleged discounts. In doorways and alleys were the ubiquitous slobbering drunks. He passed a noisy gathering of black dudes, and wondered if one of them was the boyfriend of the girl in the plastic booth. They were a weird subculture of dumb little girls and violent guys, who saw the rest of the human race as suckers to be intimidated or ripped off. Their attitude was understandable because the rest of the human race had permitted them to sink about as low as human beings could go.

  He turned right on Forty-eighth Street and walked past a few hotels and bars patronized by the down and out. On the corner of Eighth Avenue was a hamburger parlor bearing the name of one of the lesser-known national franchise chains, this one a hangout for pimps and whores and those trying to become pimps and whores.

  Two uniformed black guards stood near the entrance, and around the orange Formica tables inside sat an assortment of local types, many of whom Rackman knew personally because they’d been in Midtown North at various times for involvement in crimes of prostitution, narcotics, theft, assault, burglary, and so forth. Occasionally one of them would push things a little too far and kill somebody. Perhaps Cynthia Doyle’s killer was sitting there right now.

  Luke the Duke sat at a booth facing the front door. He wore a pearl gray sombrero, black suit, and red silk shirt open at the collar. Next to him was one of his whores, and opposite were two black guys also dressed like pimps. Luke looked at Rackman icily as he approached down the aisle.

  “Hiya Luke,” Rackman said, his hands in his pockets.

  Luke nodded without smile or sound. He knew Rackman and didn’t like him for no other reason than that Rackman was a cop.

  “Let’s have a talk,” Rackman said to Luke.

  “I ain’t in the mood,” Luke replied in his lazy Tennessee drawl.

  “We can talk quietly here or you can come down to the precinct with me. It don’t make a fuck to me either way.”

  “What you want to talk to me about?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get alone.”

  Luke turned down the corners of his mouth. “You motherfuckers are always messin’ with me. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

  “Nobody said you were. I just want to have a little friendly chat.”

  “We ain’t friends, and I got nothin’ to say to you.”

  Rackman took his hands out of his pockets. “I’m going to count to five. If you’re not on your feet by then I’m going to put you on your feet.”

  Defiance glittered in Luke the Duke’s eyes.

  “One,” Rackman said.

  Luke knew that behind Rackman stood the entire New York Police Department, all the district attorneys, and all the judges. The defiance gave way to a look of resignation. “I’m comin’—I’m comin’.”

  The whore beside him got up, and Luke slid out of the booth, stood, and adjusted his sombrero. He had a thin mustache, and his eyes were slanted, with delicate facial features tapering down to a narrow chin that sported a little black goatee.

  “Let’s go over there,” Rackman said, chinning toward an empty booth on the other side of the restaurant.

  Luke strutted to the booth and Rackman followed, passing a junkie tearing a plastic straw into tiny pieces with his trembling, filthy hands. Luke sat facing the door and Rackman sat opposite him. Rackman took out his pack of Luckies and held them before Luke, who shook his head and took a Nat Sherman panatela from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Rackman lit the cigar and his cigarette with the expensive Dunhill lighter given him by his girl friend Francie, whom he reminded himself he’d better call soon. Both men blew smoke around and tried to intimidate each other with their eyes.

  “What’s the problem, Rackman,” Luke said at last.

  Rackman flicked the ash off his Lucky. “Cynthia Doyle.”

  “What about her?”

  “Who killed her?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “You know the scene here better than anybody else. I thought you might be able to tell me something.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  Luke pshawed. “I wouldn’t dirty my hands with the little bitch.”

  “I heard you were mad because she wouldn’t go to work for you.”

  “I wasn’t that mad.”

  “You know Lorenzo Freeman.”

  “I know who the little freak is.”

  “Think he did it?”

  “I don’t think he’d have the guts to kill anybody.”

  “Would you have the guts to kill somebody?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think a human life would mean a fuck-all to you, Luke.”

  Luke smiled. “Depends on the human life, Rackman.”

  “How about Cynthia Doyle’s human life?”

  “I told you, man. I wouldn’t dirty my hands with her. People like her don’t exist for me.”

  “Maybe you paid somebody to do it.”

  “She wasn’t worth the price of a bullet.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Could have been anybody. She wasn’t exactly a popular person.”

  “Where were you at four-thirty this morning?”

  Luke closed his eyes. “Four-thirty this morning—lemme see.” He thought for a few moments. “Oh yeah, I was in a bar.” He opened his eyes. “The Reno Lounge on Eighth Avenue. I was there with a few of my hoes. You want their names?”
/>   “They’d tell any lie you told them to.”

  Luke smiled modestly. “Well I do have the little bitches trained, don’t I. But believe me, I didn’t give a shit about Cynthia Doyle. The bitch had no class, no style, no figure, no face, no nothin’. Once I realized what she was I put her out of my mind.”

  “I’m going to check on all this, Luke.”

  “Waste your time if you want to.”

  Rackman took one of his cards out of his shirt. “If you hear anything, give me a call.”

  Luke let the card fall in front of him. “I don’t cooperate with cops, Rackman.”

  “A man in your position can’t afford not to cooperate with cops, Luke. You’re liable to need us some day.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re going to wind up in a tight corner sooner or later. I’d pick up that card if I were you.”

  “You ain’t me.”

  Rackman slid out of the booth, stood up, and stretched. “See you around, Luke.”

  “Go slow, big man.”

  Rackman ambled out of the hamburger joint and down Eighth Avenue, passing porno theaters and sleazy bars, junkies, whores, and congregations of small-time pimps. Something told him that Luke the Duke wasn’t mixed up in the murder of Cynthia Doyle, although he, certainly wasn’t one of her fervent admirers. If she’d stolen from him or double-crossed him he would have skinned and boned her alive, but it didn’t appear that the beef he had with her was that heavy.

  A washed-out teenaged whore stood in the doorway on the Forty-sixth Street block. “Wanna go out?” she asked Rackman.

  He shook his head.

  Passing Rackman on the left was a black guy murmuring, “I got ups, downs, hash, and cocaine.”

  Rackman ignored him and the guy kept on trucking up the avenue, swinging his arms and bobbing his head. If you arrested him all you’d get was aspirin and powdered sugar. Rackman continued up the garish, sleazy strip on Eighth Avenue, turned left on Forty-fifth Street, and spotted the sign for the Crown Club.

  The black hawker in front smacked his leaflets and shot one at Rackman. “Beautiful girls upstairs—check ‘em out!”

  Rackman climbed the creaky wooden stairs, saw some big guys in the hall. To the left in the main room was a redheaded guy sitting behind a table with a roll of tickets in front of him. Rackman entered the room, glanced left, and saw the whores sitting on couches smiling alluringly at him. The walls were cheap paneling that bulged and yawned weirdly. The drapes looked like they came from the Salvation Army warehouse.

  “Step right up, sir!” said the redhead.

  Rackman stepped up and took out his shield. “You the manager?”

  The redhead looked at the shield. “What’s the problem?”

  “I asked if you were the manager.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your name.”

  “What do you want to know for?”

  “I said what’s your fucking name.”

  The redheaded man scowled. “John Genrizi’s my name. What can I do for you?”

  “I want to talk to you about Cynthia Doyle.”

  “I don’t know anything about her.”

  “If she worked here you must know something about her.”

  “She just came here and did her work. That’s all I know.”

  There were footsteps behind Rackman, and he turned around. Two men in raincoats, who looked like office workers, entered the room carrying attaché cases and sheepish faces. Rackman stepped out of the way.

  “Right over here, gentlemen!” Genrizi said in his booming voice, and the whores did their gyrations. Rackman looked at them. They were the usual massage parlor conglomeration of messed up bimbos who thought they were outsmarting society, when in fact society had utterly destroyed them.

  The two business faces approached the desk, paid their money, and got their tickets. Nervously they studied the girls, then one headed for a Latin whore with eyelashes so long it was amazing she could hold her lids up, while the other gave his ticket to a chubby little whore who was young and bore a faint resemblance to Sophia Loren. Rackman thought the latter was a good choice and a bargain for ten bucks. The two couples went into the corridor and disappeared.

  Rackman looked down at Genrizi. “Is there someplace in here where we can talk alone?”

  Genrizi held out his palms and made an exasperated face. “I ain’t got nothin’ to tell you, cop.”

  “How’d you like to go up to Midtown North right now?”

  “I’m tryin’ to run a business here.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Genrizi exhaled loudly and turned to the big guys in the hall. “Hey Angie—sit at the desk for awhile, will ya?”

  Angie, a big pot-bellied guy, came rumbling to the desk. Genrizi got up and led Rackman across the floor and down the corridor past the private cubicles, from which came moans and sighs. At the back was an old beat-up refrigerator and a toilet with the door hanging open. The area was lit by a bare bulb dangling in front of the refrigerator, and Genrizi’s features were chalky as he turned to Rackman.

  “What do you want to know about Cynthia Doyle?”

  “Where were you at three-thirty this morning?”

  Genrizi thought it over. “I was here, closing up the joint.”

  “Was anybody here with you?”

  “Angie and Bobbie, and a few of the girls were still here.”

  “Which girls?”

  “Demaris and Carmella, and Mary Gomes.”

  “Is Carmella here tonight?”

  “She’s the girl who just went into the room with the John—I mean the customer.”

  “I hear she didn’t get along too well with Cynthia Doyle.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  Genrizi narrowed his eyes at Rackman and debated with himself whether he should try to find out what Rackman was made of. Rackman lunged forward, grabbed Genrizi by the front of his jacket, lifted him off the floor, and slammed him against the wall. Rackman’s nose was an inch from Genrizi’s, and the back of Genrizi’s head hurt from where it had collided with the wall.

  “I guess we’re gonna have to go to Midtown North, huh?” Rackman asked.

  “No, we can talk here,” Genrizi replied, his lips white.

  Rackman let him go and stepped back. “We were talking about how your girl Carmella didn’t get along too well with Cynthia Doyle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it true?”

  “None of the girls liked her too much.”

  “Why not?”

  “She used to get a little cunty at times.”

  “You didn’t kill her, did you Genrizi?”

  “I was here. I couldn’t have killed her.”

  “But you could have had it done.”

  “What for? Cindy was one of the top moneymakers. I wish I had more like her.”

  “Were the other girls jealous of her?”

  “Some of them probably were, I suppose. The girls are always hassling with each other about something one day and making up the next.”

  “But you said yourself that none of the girls liked her very much.”

  “They didn’t, but I don’t think things got to the point where somebody would go as far as to kill her.”

  “You know anything about her boyfriend?”

  “Never met him, and don’t want to.”

  “Did you know she was having a problem with Luke the Duke?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me.”

  “I didn’t know she was having a problem with him.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “I’m not interested in these girls’ lives. All I want them to do is show up on time for work, look nice, and don’t hassle any customers.”

  “Did Cynthia Doyle ever have trouble with customers?”

  “From time to time all the girls have trouble with customers.”

  “Since she was a little cunty
, I guess maybe she had a little more trouble.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She have any trouble last night?”

  Genrizi puckered the space between his eyebrows. “I don’t remember nothin’.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m not even sure that I’m me and you’re you, but other than that I’m sure.”

  Rackman took out one of his cards and handed it to Genrizi. “If you remember anything, give me a call.”

  Genrizi glanced at the card and pushed it into his shirt pocket.

  “Now I want to talk to Carmella,” Rackman said.

  “She’s with a customer right now.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Can you wait back here?”

  “Why back here?”

  “Because you’ll scare the customers away. You look too much like a cop.”

  “Oh come on. You look more like a cop than I do.”

  “I do not!”

  “Sure you do. Anyway, if I have to wait, I’m going to wait up front where I can see the show.”

  Genrizi didn’t appear happy about that, but he led Rackman up front and relieved Angie behind the table, while Rackman sat on a chair against the wall beside the door. The whores looked at Rackman uneasily, not sure of his status. He took out a Lucky and lit it up. A black teenager dressed like a college boy entered the room.

  “Step right up, sir!” said Genrizi, a bit less enthusiasm in his voice now that a detective from the NYPD was there.

  The black kid was well fed and bright looking, with no furtive street mannerisms. Rackman figured he came from a nice middle-class home situation and had conned some money out of somebody so he could get laid. The black kid placed ten bucks on the table, got his ticket, and instead of taking it to one of the girls immediately, sat beside Rackman and appraised them with the eye of a connoisseur. This kid was not going to be rushed. He would not make any precipitous decisions. This kid was making sure his investment paid off.