by Len Levinson
“Okay, I’ll give you one of the bottles,” Rackman said, holding Doolan back, “but you’ve got to promise me something.”
“Okay I promise,” Doolan replied quickly, his ears twitching.
“I haven’t even asked you yet.”
“I promise anyways.”
“Oh fuck,” Rackman sighed, exasperated. He reached under the seat and took one of the pints out of the bag. Breaking the seal, he handed the bottle to Doolan, who clawed at it, nearly dropped it, managed to screw off the top, and then stuffed it into his mouth.
Doolan slurped and gurgled as Rackman drove around the corner and parked beside an old warehouse whose windows were boarded up and marked with white Xs. Rackman turned to Doolan, who was looking at the label of the bottle and smiling beatifically.
“How’re you feeling, sport?” Rackman asked.
“Pretty good.”
“Like the wine?”
“Yup.”
“I just did you a favor, right?”
Doolan got confused. “When?”
“By giving you the wine.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right too.”
“Now it’s time for you to do me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I need to know where you picked up that jacket, Doolan.”
“What jacket?”
Rackman pointed to the red and black wool jacket lying on the back seat. “That jacket.”
“That’s my jacket!” Doolan exclaimed, and proceeded to climb over the seat to get it.
Rackman pulled him back and sat him down again. “I know it’s your jacket, but where did you get it?”
“Are you gonna give it back to me?”
“I need it for evidence.”
“I need it too,” Doolan whined.
“Where did you get it?”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know where.”
Rackman snatched the bottle out of his hands. “Where?”
Doolan clawed for the bottle but Rackman pushed him back.
“Make another move for this bottle and I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”
Doolan shouldered into the corner and sulked.
“If you tell me where you got the jacket, I’ll give this back to you.” Rackman jiggled the bottle in the air.
Doolan wiped his running nose with his finger. “I don’t remember where I got it.”
“Was it someplace around the Bowery?”
“I think so.”
“Is that where you hang out?”
“Most of the time.”
“How far away from the Bowery do you get?”
“Pretty far.”
“As far as Times Square?”
“Not that far.”
“How about Thirty-fourth Street?”
“Haven’t been there in years.”
“Fourteenth Street?”
“Very seldom.”
“So you’re mostly in the Bowery vicinity.”
“That’s what I told you before. Don’t you hear too good?”
“Could you have gotten the jacket in Chinatown?”
“Them chinks never throw away nothin’ good.”
“How about Little Italy.”
“I never go into Little Italy unless I have to. The dago kids like to beat up bums.”
“Then you probably got it somewhere in the Village.”
“Why can’t you gimme the jacket back?” Doolan whimpered. “I need a good jacket. It’s still cold out. If you need a jacket you can just go and buy one, but I can’t. I ain’t got no money. I ain’t got no home. I ain’t got nothin’. I’m just a poor old jakey-bum.”
Rackman scratched his nose. “You’re gonna make me cry, Doolan.”
“You oughta cry. The whole world oughta cry. Why can’t I have back my jacket?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If I buy you a jacket just like the one in the back seat there, do you think you might remember where you found it?”
It took a few seconds for that to sink into Doolan’s alcohol-besotted brain, and then he grinned. “I might. If you was to gimme back the bottle of wine, that might help too. I think best when I got some muscatel in my blood.”
“Okay Doolan, I’m going to give you the muscatel back and I’m going to get you a brand new jacket. If you can’t tell me what I want to know then, I’m not going to throw you in jail.” Rackman took out his .38 and pointed it at Doolan’s nose. “I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”
Doolan’s eyes goggled at the hole down the barrel of the gun.
“You wouldn’t do that, would ya, chief?”
“You’re damn straight I would. If you don’t think you’ll be able to tell me where you found that jacket, you’d better let me know now.”
Doolan winked. “I think I’ll be able to tell you something then, chief.”
Rackman didn’t know whether the old bum was jerking him off, but he had no choice but to follow through. He handed Doolan the bottle and then bent over the back of the seat, got the jacket, and placed it between them. “Maybe if you have it right next to you it’ll improve your memory.”
Doolan didn’t reply; he was too busy guzzling muscatel. Rackman started up the car and drove downtown, hoping the bum would remember where he got the jacket.
“Goddamn this is good muscatel,” Doolan murmured as they passed through the garment district.
“I hope it’s clearing out your mind a little.”
“My mind’s workin’ better than ever, chief. Why do you wanna know where I got the jacket?”
“Have you read in the papers about the New York Slasher?”
“The who?”
“The guy who’s cutting up the girls in Times Square.’’
“A guy is doin’ that?”
“He sure is.”
“How come?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. He wore that jacket on two of his murders. The stain on the sleeve is some poor girl’s blood.”
“No shit.”
“I’m not shitting you.”
Doolan looked down at the jacket and started to hallucinate entrails and ghosts. “Get it away from me!” he screamed, scratching at the door beside him.
“What’s the matter with you!”
“Get it away! Get it away!”
Rackman stomped on the brakes. Doolan opened the door and jumped out of the car, which fortunately wasn’t going too fast in the heavy traffic. He fell to the pavement and rolled over outside a discount jewelry store on Broadway near Twenty-third Street. Rackman stopped the car and leapt out, almost getting sideswiped by a diaper delivery truck. He ran back to Doolan and knelt over him. A crowd formed out of nearby pedestrians.
“You stupid fuck!” Rackman yelled. “What are you trying to do!”
“Get that jacket away from me!” Doolan screamed.
Rackman was rattled and pissed off. He wanted to kick Doolan all over the street and then toss him down a sewer. “Okay, I’ll put the jacket on the floor in the back seat where you can’t see it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Stay put right here, okay?”
“Right.”
Rackman returned to the car and threw the jacket on the floor of the back seat. Then he went back to Doolan, helped him to his feet, and put the fedora on the back of his head. A patrolman walked toward them. “What the hell’s going on here?”
Rackman showed his shield, and the patrolman backed off. “I was taking this witness downtown and he jumped out of my car.”
“I’ll help you with him.”
Rackman and the patrolman carried Doolan by his arms and deposited him back in the car. Rackman thanked the patrolman for his help, got in the car, and resumed his drive downtown.
Doolan picked the bottle off the floor and took a swig. “I didn’t know the coat belonged to a damn murderer,” he grumbled.
“That’s why I want you to remember where you fou
nd it.”
“It gives me the willies.”
“If you can remember where you found it, then I’ll be able to get the Slasher. No more girls will be killed. Wouldn’t you want to save some girls?”
“They gimme some pussy?”
“Doolan, you’re disgusting.”
“Ain’t had no pussy for a long time.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it.”
“I just stick in my dick and move it around. Hehheh.”
Rackman drove through the darkening streets to the Bowery while Doolan finished the first pint of wine. Crossing Fourteenth Street, they came to the area of pawnshops, saloons, and porno movie theaters that comprised the classy part of the Bowery. Rackman parked in front of a store that sold work clothes and camping equipment. Its windows were crowded with denim jeans, boots, jockey shorts, backpacks, and jackets similar to the one in the back seat. Rackman pulled Doolan into the store, which was staffed by Hasidic men in black pants, white shirts, beards, and yarmukles.
One of the Hasids, whose skin was so pale you could almost see his bones, stepped forward. He had a potbelly, skinny arms, and was in dire need of physical exercise. “Can I help you?” he asked in the guttural tones of Eastern Europe. His beard was light brown and his eyes were wary.
“Hi,” Rackman said with a big smile. “I’d like to get one of those nice red and black wool jackets for my friend here.”
The Hasid looked at Rackman and Doolan as if they’d come from another planet. “This is your friend?”
“That’s right.”
The Hasid shrugged and led them past stacks of jeans and racks of shirts, through the tent section and the boot corner, to the cluttered room where jackets of wool and down were piled on shelves.
The Hasid looked at Doolan as though he was a piece of shit. “He should be a thirty-eight.”
“We can try one on him,” Rackman replied.
“If he tries it on he’s got to buy it, because we won’t be able to sell it to anybody else.”
“Give him a forty, then.”
The Hasid climbed the ladder and muttered to himself as he looked in the collars of jackets for sizes. Rackman watched, feeling uneasy as he always did in the presence of pious Jews. He felt guilty for not being more religious, for not upholding the traditions of his people, and believed that Jews like this Hasid despised him for being assimilated, but Rackman had been born and raised in America, as were his parents, who were minimally religious. He couldn’t understand Hebrew, wouldn’t know how to behave in a synagogue, and deep down thought the Jewish religion was a museum of obsolete rituals and beliefs. What did it matter whether a particular edible substance was eaten with another edible substance? How could a person wear two feet of twined hair around his ears and believe that had religious significance?
The Hasid descended the ladder with a size forty red and black jacket of the same brand and style worn by the Slasher.
“You like it?” Rackman asked Doolan as the Hasid held it up.
“Don’t like the color,” Doolan grumbled.
“But it’s the same color as the other one,” Rackman protested. “I’m getting you this one to replace the other one I’m taking for evidence.”
“Don’t like the color.”
“Why the fuck not!”
“It reminds me of the dead girls.”
The Hasid raised an eyebrow. “What dead girls?”
“Do you have this jacket in any other colors?” Rackman asked.
“It also comes in green and black squares, but I don’t know if I got any left in his size.”
Rackman looked at Doolan. “Will you take one in green and black if he’s got any left?”
“I like green.”
“That must be because it goes with your eyes.” Rackman looked at the Hasid. “A green and black jacket for my friend, please.”
The Hasid made a face and climbed the ladder again.
“I really like green,” Doolan said drunkenly.
“You’re going to be the best-dressed man on the Bowery.”
The Hasid came down the ladder with a green and black jacket in size forty. “This what you want?”
Rackman looked at Doolan. “What do you say, champ?”
Doolan looked at it, nodded, and pursed his lips. “I like that one. Lemme put it on.”
“If he puts it on, he’s got to buy it,” the Hasid said.
“We’re going to buy it, don’t worry.”
Gingerly the Hasid helped put the jacket on Doolan who stumbled in front of a mirror and looked at himself. “It’ll do the trick,” he said, smiling at himself.
“How much is it?” Rackman asked.
“Forty-three ninety-five.”
“You take Master Charge?”
“You got some identification?”
Rackman whipped out his shield. “Will this do?”
“Better you should show me a driver’s license.”
Rackman and Doolan accompanied the Hasid to the front counter, where the transaction was made. Then they left the store, Doolan looking down at his new coat and touching it. In a few weeks when it was warm he might get five dollars for it at one of those used clothing stores.
They got in the car and Rackman drove around the corner, parking beside a vacant lot with a high chain fence around it. He reached under the seat and took out the second pint of wine. “Care for a drink?” he asked, wagging it in front of Doolan.
Doolan lunged for it, but Rackman pulled it back and pushed Doolan away. “Start talking, you motherfucker. Where’d you get the jacket?”
Doolan touched his sleeve. “You just bought it for me.”
“I mean the red and black jacket in the back seat.”
“Oh, that jacket.”
“Yeah, that jacket.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’d better get sure, or I’ll take the one you’re wearing and keep it for myself.”
Doolan squinched shut his eyes and tried to remember where he found the jacket. No images appeared in the blackness. “I can’t remember,” he said.
“Can you remember when you got it?”
“A few days ago.”
“Where have you been for the last few days?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a real fuck-up—you know that, Doolan?”
“Yeah.”
“You said before that you thought you’d be able to remember where you found the jacket, didn’t you?”
“I did, but I can’t remember now.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time, Doolan. Do you think you found it in the Village around where you were picked up?”
Doolan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“And you already said you didn’t get it in Chinatown or Little Italy, right?”
“Right.”
“How about the Lower East Side?”
“I don’t like to go to the Lower East Side because the people like to pour gasoline on drunks and set fire to them.”
“That leaves the East Village. Did you find it in the East Village?”
Doolan thought for a few moments, then jumped as if somebody grabbed him. “Hey you know what?” he asked with a smile as the dawn of realization broke over him.
“What?”
“I think I got it around here.”
Rackman looked out the windshield. “Here?”
“I think so.”
“This street?”
“One of the streets around here, because I remember I was in one of them Ukrainian neighborhoods when I found it.”
“Would you say it was between Third and Second Avenue?”
“I’d say between Third Avenue and Avenue A.”
“That’s a lot of territory.”
“I’m doin’ my best.”
“Let’s narrow it down a little more. Was it below Fourteenth Street?”
“Yeah, because there ain’t no Ukrainians above Fourteenth Street.”
/>
“Between Fourteenth and Houston?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go for a little ride. Maybe we’ll see something that’ll jog your memory.”
Doolan jumped up again. “Hey wait a minute!”
“What is it?”
“There was a newsstand on the corner. I remember because when I walked by I was thinking that I needed something to eat.”
“What did that have to do with the newsstand?”
“There was a lunch counter inside. I think it was on Second Avenue—or maybe it was First Avenue. No, it was Second Avenue. One of them Ukrainian newsstands where you can’t read most the newspapers because they got different print.”
Rackman started up the car. “Let’s take a ride down Second Avenue.”
“Can I have the other pint of wine now?”
“Not yet.”
“Aw come on.”
“I said not yet, and if you try to take it I’ll beat your fucking head in.”
“Aw shit.”
They drove west to Second Avenue and then turned downtown. Old tenement buildings lined both sides of the wide thoroughfare. “Was the newsstand on the right or left side of the street?” Rackman asked.
“I think it was the left side.”
Rackman veered to the left and crept along slowly passing tenement buildings, grocery stores, Laundromats, a funeral home, a Ukrainian import store, the local Democratic club, a kosher deli, and a few head shops left over from the days when the East Village was hippie capital of the East coast. Ahead at the Ninth Street intersection he spotted newspapers stacked under a canopy.
“Is that it up there?” Rackman asked.
“I can’t see that far.”
“Hang on a moment.”
Rackman crossed the intersection and coasted to a stop in front of the newsstand outside a Ukrainian luncheonette. As Rackman got out of his car, an old man in a white mustache came running out of the luncheonette waving his hands in the air.
“You can’t park there—you can’t park there!”
Rackman took out his shield. The old man tucked his head into his collar, turned around, and walked back to the luncheonette. Rackman went to the side door of the car and helped Doolan out, walking him to the curb. “Is this the newsstand and luncheonette you were talking about?”
Doolan looked at it and nodded. “This is it.”
Rackman widened his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
“So you must have got the jacket on one of the blocks around here.”
