by Len Levinson
At a high counter a man with slick black hair sat smoking a cigar. In front of him was the cash register. Other employees prowled around making sure no one was trying to steal anything.
The fat man looked at the covers of magazines. He picked one up, thumbed through the pages, saw color pictures of pretty girls screwing guys and going down on them. He picked up another and looked at girls spreading their legs and smiling wantonly at the camera. A third magazine showed girls doing it to each other with their mouths, fingers, and dildos. The fat man thought it was disgusting for women to show themselves that way. Women were lazy and would do anything for money. It was easier for them to lie on their asses and spread their legs than get an honest job. They did it to mess up men’s minds just like his mind was getting messed up.
‘‘This ain’t no library!” the man behind the cash register said loudly, “These books are for sale! Read them at home!”
The fat man put down the magazine and headed for the front door of the bookstore. Everything connected with women was a swindle. They paint themselves to hide their ugly spots. They wear nylon stockings to make their legs look nice. The only men who pose naked in magazines are fags, and fags are men who try to be like women.
On the sidewalk again, the fat man walked toward Eighth Avenue. He wondered why so many black and Puerto Rican men hung around here. What was the big attraction to standing in doorways all day long? Bunch of shitheads. Think they’re so smart. A hand shot out with a leaflet. The fat man took it. It advertised a massage parlor across the street, but the fat man was finished with massage parlors. Tonight he was going to try something else.
The corner of Forty-second Street and Eighth Avenue was thick with punks and bums. The fat man pushed through them and turned uptown on Eighth Avenue.
“I got grass, ups, and downs,” said a man as he passed.
The east block of Eighth Avenue between Forty-second and Forty-third Street had more whores and pickpockets than any other block in Manhattan. Halfway down the block was the Polka Dot Lounge, and the sign in the window said there were sixteen beautiful hostesses inside, but you couldn’t see inside because the window was painted black. The fat man stopped and looked at the open door that was blocked by a partition so you couldn’t see inside that way either. His right hand closed around the knife in his pocket. If anybody fucked with him in there they were going to get sliced from asshole to elbow. He moved toward the door, pushed it open, and went inside.
It was dark and dingy. The bar was to the left, and before it ten semi clad women sat on stools. Rock and roll music thundered out of the jukebox, and a naked black girl danced on a raised stage at the right, while toward the back a naked white girl danced on a pool table. Two big white guys sat at tables near the door, and the fat man figured they were the bouncers. Let them try and bounce him.
Approaching the bar, the fat man realized there were no men sitting there, only the whores eyeing him lasciviously. He faltered because he didn’t want to sit next to anybody just yet; he’d just wanted to look around a little. He didn’t realize he’d be the only customer in the joint.
He had no choice but to sit at the closest stool. He was too nervous and shy to look at the whores on either side of him. Behind the bar a blonde floozie with bucked teeth came toward him. There was no bar mirror and no bottles stacked around like in regular bars.
“What’ll you have?” asked the blonde.
“Gimme a beer.”
“A beer is three dollars and seventy-five cents.”
‘‘Must be great beer.”
“You want one?”
“Yeah.”
She turned around, took a can of beer from the cooler, and set it in front of him with a glass he hoped wouldn’t give him a disease. He’d never seen the brand on the can before. Must be real shit water. Taking out a five dollar bill, he placed it on the bar. She plucked it away, rang it up, and returned with his dollar and a quarter change.
She held up the quarter in her fingers. “Mind if I keep this?”
“Go ahead.”
She said thanks without much sincerity and walked down the bar to talk with one of the whores. The fat man filled the glass with beer and took a swig. It tasted all right. Something rustled to his right.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice.
He turned and looked at her. She had straight black hair, bangs, pouches under her eyes, and was around forty. Her dress was transparent gauze and wide open so that he could see her sagging tits and laundry bag belly.
“Hi,” he replied.
“What’s your name?” she asked in a foreign accent.
“Harry.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York. How about you?”
“Montreal.”
“No kidding?”
“I’m not kidding.” She made a long statement in French, then said, “You see?”
“Gee, you really are from Montreal, huh?”
“I told you. Are you a sailor?”
“No.”
“What do you do?”
“This and that.”
She rubbed her leg against his and smiled alluringly. “Buy me a drink?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Well, I don’t drink beer.”
“I didn’t think so.”
She pursed her lips. “How’s about a little bottle of champagne?”
“How much will it cost?”
“Thirty dollars.”
“Thirty dollars!”
“Uh huh.”
“Thirty dollars.”
“That’s not so much.”
“It is so too much.”
“You can’t afford thirty dollars?”
“Hell no.”
“How about twenty dollars? And we can take the bottle back there and be alone.” She pointed toward the rear of the bar room, and he saw a narrow corridor lined with doors, just like the massage parlor.
Now he knew what the score was. This was a whorehouse just like the massage parlor, only here they pretended to be a bar. “Twenty dollars is too much. I just came in for a drink and to look around.’’
“Well, at least you’re honest. I like that.”
“I always try to be honest.”
“How about ten dollars.”
“Let me think about it.”
“For only ten dollars you’ve got to think about it?”
“Yeah.”
She shook her head as if his response was beyond comprehension, and turned away. He sipped some beer and looked at the naked white girl dancing on top of the pool table. Her legs were thick and too short for her body. Somebody grabbed his cock. He turned toward his left and saw a young, pretty black girl totally naked. Her breasts were round as grapefruits.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
“Harry.”
“I’m Sally.”
“What do you say, Sally.”
She caressed his cock, and instead of making him horny it turned him off just like at the massage parlor. “Buy me a drink, baby.”
“I can’t afford these thirty-dollar drinks.”
She gazed soulfully into his eyes. “Oh come on.”
“I just came in to have a beer, that’s all.”
“How come you’re so cheap?”
“I ain’t cheap. I just don’t believe in buying thirty-dollar drinks.”
Sally took her hand off his cock and looked at the buck-toothed blonde behind the bar. “This guy won’t go for a spit,” she complained.
The blonde turned up a corner of her mouth. “What’s wrong with you, man? Got short arms and long pockets?”
“I just want to drink my beer in peace,” the fat man replied, taking another sip.
The barmaid walked away, and the black whore turned to her other side. These lousy whores always try to embarrass you into spending money, the fat man thought. That’s the way women operate. They’re disgusting bitches and the
y all should be put into prisons. If a man wanted one he could check one out, and if she misbehaved, back she’d go. It made no sense to treat women like equals when they had less honor than dogs.
The woman from Montreal poked her breast into his arm. “Still mad at me?”
“I was never mad at you.”
“But you don’t like me.”
“Who said I don’t like you?”
“If you liked me you’d buy me a drink.”
The fat man squinted at the makeup that looked like washing machine grease around her eyes. This old whore probably has been giving gonorrhea to guys for twenty-five years.
“You said I could buy you a ten-dollar drink?” he asked.
She smiled. “That’s right.”
“And then we go back to one of those little rooms and have a talk?”
“Uh huh.”
He stood, reached into his pocket, and threw a ten-dollar bill on the bar. The woman from Montreal waved to the bucked-tooth blonde.
“A ten-dollar bottle of champagne,” said the woman from Montreal.
The blonde picked the money off the bar and looked at the fat man. “You think you can afford it?”
“Yeah,” he replied, an edge on his voice.
The blonde bent over the cooler and took out a small bottle of domestic champagne, putting it on the bar along with a champagne glass. The woman from Montreal took the bottle and glass in one hand, the fat man’s hand in her other, and led him toward the rooms in back. He carried his beer can and glass, and as they passed the girl dancing on the pool table, she winked at him. They entered the corridor, the whore opened one of the doors, and they entered a small room. A cot was against the wall, its mattress covered by a sheet.
“Have a seat,” she said.
He sat on the cot and she sat beside him, crossing her veiny legs.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to pretend.”
“I said I’m not nervous.”
She shrugged. “What do you want me to do for you?”
“I want you to blow me, and then I want to fuck you.”
“That’ll be twenty dollars more.”
“Twenty more dollars!”
She smiled slyly. “That’s what I said.”
“What was the ten dollars for?”
“So you could have a drink with me alone.”
“I thought that included everything else.”
“If you want to get sucked and fucked you’ve got to pay extra.”
“You’re just trying to con me,” he said angrily.
“I’m just telling you what the prices are. If you don’t want to pay, we’ll just drink up and go back to the bar.” She stood, placed her hands on her hips, and looked coldly at him.
He stood beside her. “Okay, I’ll pay the twenty dollars.”
She licked her lips. “It’ll be the best twenty dollars you ever spent in your life.”
“We’ll see about that.” He looked at the wall behind her. “What’s that over there?”
She turned around. “What?”
He leapt at her, clasping his big hand over her nose and mouth. She dug her fingernails into his arm and tried to scream, but his hand muffled the noise while he reached into his pocket with his free hand and came out with his switchblade. He hit the button and it snapped open. She struggled frenziedly to get away.
“Your whoring days are over,” he said into her ear, plunging the blade into her throat at the jugular.
She had one massive convulsion, blood gushing out of her throat. Then she went limp and he let her fall to the floor, where a puddle of blood formed around her face. Wiping his knife and his hands on the sheet, he closed the blade and dropped it into his pocket. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed his fingerprints off the glass and beer can. Some blood had splashed on his arm, so he yanked the sheet off the bed and wiped it away. The stain that was left didn’t show up much on his red and black wool jacket. He looked down at her sprawled in her own blood, and his body quivered with the same erotic excitement he’d felt when he’d killed the massage parlor whore. He had to calm himself down and get out of there.
He took three deep breaths and that settled him a little. Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor and walked confidently to the front door of the bar. The girls looked at him curiously, and so did the two bouncers. The two bouncers exchanged glances, then got up from the tables and moved to block his way.
“What’s the hurry?” one of them asked.
“I’m not in any hurry,” he replied in a deadly voice.
One of the bouncers walked toward the corridor to find out why the whore hadn’t reappeared too.
“Look out!” screamed a girl at the bar.
The fat man slugged the bouncer in front of him, and the bouncer swayed on his feet. The fat man pushed him out of the way and ran to the door. On the sidewalk he melted into the crowd that swept him away.
Chapter Six
It was eleven o’clock in the morning. The fat man stood on the corner of Second Avenue and Ninth Street, looking at the front page of the Daily News. The headline read, ‘The Slasher Strikes Again.”
Underneath the headline were two pictures. The one on the left showed the whore lying dead in her whorehouse room. On the right was a composite drawing of the suspected killer.
“He looks a little like you, Mr. Kowalchuk.”
Kowalchuk spun around and saw Mrs. Mazepa, who lived in his building. She was a widow in her sixties who lived alone. She spoke with a thick Ukrainian accent.
“You really think it looks like me?” Kowalchuk asked.
“Just a little. Not that much.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips as she looked at the picture. “What a terrible thing to happen, but I suppose women who do that kind of work have to expect trouble.”
“That’s true.”
“If they had decent jobs, it wouldn’t happen to them.”
“Probably not. How are you doing these days, Mrs. Mazepa?”
“Pretty good, except that my back hurts me sometimes. Are you still driving a cab?”
“Once in a while.”
“Be careful, Mr. Kowalchuk. The streets are dangerous. The police arrest criminals and the judges turn them loose. Well, I’ve got to go to the butcher.”
Mrs. Mazepa crossed the street, and Kowalchuk headed back to his apartment. He was in a mild state of shock from seeing a drawing of his face on the front page of the Daily News. Even Mrs. Mazepa thought it looked like him. This was serious. He’d been foolish to let himself be seen that way by so many people last night. Now the police would be on the lookout for him. He’d have to be more careful. But that would make the game more fun.
He had two baloney sandwiches and a bottle of Coco-Cola for breakfast, reading and rereading the story in the Daily News. They’d figured out that the murder of the blonde whore and the murder of the French whore were committed by the same person, and they were calling him the Slasher. He liked that.
There was the Boston Strangles Son of Sam, the L.A. Strangler, and now he was the New York Slasher. Someday he’d be more famous than them all, and people would realize he was right to kill whores, because they’re evil and undermine the social structure.
After breakfast he lit a cigarette and wondered if he should move out of his apartment. Many people knew him; maybe one of them would tell the police that he looked like the New York Slasher. But it would look suspicious if he suddenly moved all his stuff out. Maybe the answer was to leave everything where it was and just start living in a cheap hotel someplace. He could grow a beard and that would change the way he looked. Maybe he’d let his hair grow and look like a hippie.
It’d take a few days for a beard to grow, so he’d have to stop killing whores for a while. When he started again he’d have to do it so no one would see him. He should go on a diet and try to lose some weight, because the newspaper said the Slasher was heavyset. Mayb
e he should start running around Tompkins Square Park with all the crazy assholes.
The old Ukrainian people in the building would think it strange if he grew a beard, because they hated the bearded hippies who’d invaded the neighborhood. It probably would be best if he left his apartment that very day. He wouldn’t take any luggage, because people would notice that. He’d just walk out the door and let the city swallow him up. They’d never be able to find him. He’d keep moving like an Indian. He’d be free as a bird.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked around the kitchen. Food stains were on the refrigerator, dirty dishes were in the sink. He hadn’t taken the garbage out for a few days and the joint smelled a little rank. The toilet bowl kept getting clogged. Roaches were crawling everywhere. I might as well get out of here right now, he thought.
He decided to take down the garbage so the place wouldn’t stink and attract the attention of neighbors while he was gone. He also wanted to get rid of his red and black jacket because it had been described to the police. Picking up the jacket from the corner of the living room where it had been lying, he stuffed it into the bottom of an A&P bag, and covered it with some garbage from another bag. Then he carried all the garbage bags downstairs, making two trips to get rid of it all. Back in his apartment, he put on his blue bomber jacket and gray cap. He had about a hundred and fifty dollars in one of his drawers, and stashed it in his pants pocket. His chauffeur’s license was in his wallet, and he tucked his hack license into his shirt.
He descended the old slate steps of his building, feeling lightheaded and loose. It was as though he wasn’t in the world anymore. Downstairs on the street he walked to Third Avenue, then headed for the Bowery.
Chapter Seven
The Metropolitan Garage was on Sixty-first Street, a half-block from the West Side Highway. It was the largest taxi garage in Manhattan, with a fleet of three hundred cabs.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Kowalchuk approached the garage, wearing his blue bomber jacket and gray peaked cap. He had a five-day growth of beard which effectively obscured his features. He’d been spending his nights at the Osborne Hotel in the Bowery area, and his days at various movie theaters. Now he was running low on cash and had to return to work.
