by Len Levinson
He sat on the sofa and looked at the roses as she went into the kitchen again. Across the room, Ziggy ran on his treadmill. Ziggy lived in his own little world, just like most people. Only most people didn’t realize how small their worlds were.
Francie returned with two drinks. She placed one before Rackman and then sat in a chair on the other side of the room instead of on the sofa beside him. Rackman raised the glass to his lips and took a sip of bourbon. It was eight years old and went down like velvet.
“Now let me get this straight,” Francie said, crossing her legs. She was wearing a long brown dress and brown boots, looking very Bloomingdales. “You call to ask me to dinner, which you haven’t done for years, and then you bring me a dozen roses, which you’ve never done in your life. Now people don’t do things without reasons. Sometimes they may not be aware of the reason, but there is always a reason nonetheless. Are you aware of why you’re being so nice all of a sudden, or are you unconscious as usual?”
“Well,” he replied, passing the glass from hand to hand, “starting tomorrow I’m going to be working every night for awhile, so I thought I’d have a little fun with you tonight before all the work starts.”
“That explains why you’re here, but it doesn’t explain the dinner and the flowers.”
He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. “I’ve decided that I haven’t been very nice to you in the past, and that maybe I should change a little.”
A pucker appeared between her eyebrows. “What made you decide that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. This and that.”
“This and what?”
He looked at her, getting annoyed. “Do we have to talk about this? Why can’t we just go out?”
“Because we have to talk about this.”
“Why?”
“So that we know what’s going on. So that we won’t be in the dark about things.”
“You mean so that you won’t be in the dark about things.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were more in the dark than I am. You do everything you can so you won’t have to think about things.”
“I think about things.”
“Evidently you have been lately. Tell me what’s going on, Danny. I don’t mind being unhappy, but I don’t like to be confused. What’s the big miracle?”
“It’s no miracle. I was just thinking that I shouldn’t be so rotten to you.”
“It’s finally occurred to you that you’ve been rotten to me?”
“Yes.”
“You admit that?”
“Yes.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness,” she said. “It must be the second coming of Christ.”
“It couldn’t be,” Rackman replied, “because I’m Jewish.”
Chapter Ten
The phone rang for the first time at five o’clock in the afternoon.
“Should I answer it?” asked Dorothy Owens.
“No,” said Jenkins, looking at her over his half-moon reading glasses. “The ad said after six o’clock and I think we should stick to that.”
Rackman came running into the office. “Is that the phone?”
“Yeah,” said Jenkins, “but she’s not answering it until six o’clock like the ad said.”
“What if it’s the Slasher?”
“What if it ain’t? Suppose she answers it and makes a date to meet some other pervert? While she’s out, the Slasher might call. I think we should stick to the six o’clock schedule, because that way at least we won’t miss him if he calls.”
Rackman looked at his watch. “Mind if I hang out in here.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Jenkins said, “as long as you keep your mouth shut.”
Rackman sat on one of the chairs near Dorothy Owens, who was wearing tan slacks and a dark brown jacket. Rackman had on his gray slacks and blue blazer combination with a white shirt and no necktie. He had the copy of the New York Review of Sex that had the ad in it, and read the review of a hot movie playing on Forty-ninth Street. Dorothy craned her neck to see over his shoulder, so he angled the page toward her. It showed a photograph of two women going down on a guy, and she made a face. Rackman laughed.
Jenkins looked up. “What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing.”
“I think you like that paper.”
“It really isn’t that bad.”
The phone rang again. The three of them looked at it. Olivero and Dancy came to the door of the office, curiosity and anticipation on their faces.
“It’s ten minutes to six,” Rackman said.
“Oh what the hell,” Jenkins replied. “Answer it.”
Dorothy picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Kim?” asked the deep voice of a man. They all could hear him through an amplifier in the base of the phone.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m calling about the ad in the paper.”
“Oh?”
“I weigh almost two hundred and fifty pounds—is that enough?”
“How tall are you?” she asked.
“Five foot eight.”
“Sounds fine to me,” she said cheerily, crossing her eyes and making a weird face at Rackman.
The caller breathed deeply a few times; he obviously was a little nervous. “Would you like to get together?”
“Sure.”
“My place or yours?”
“Why don’t we meet outdoors first, so we can kind of get to know each other a little first.”
“Outdoors?” he asked.
“Yes. You won’t mind, would you?”
“I thought you wanted to have sex.”
“I do—I really do, but I’d like to relax with you a little bit first. I just couldn’t take off my clothes and start doing it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d have to feel comfortable with you first, and the only way to do that is to meet someplace and talk for fifteen minutes or so. We should feel sure that we like each other.”
“I feel sure that I like you already,” the man said.
“Well you seem nice too, but I’d like to meet you first.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“I live near Lincoln Center. Could you meet me at the fountain there at seven-thirty?”
“Okay. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing tan slacks and a brown jacket.”
“What color hair you got?”
“I’m a light brunette. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing a black raincoat and one of those big apple caps—you know those big apple caps?”
“Yes. What color is it?”
“Black and white checks.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’cha wanna know my name for?”
“You mean we’re going to have sex together and you won’t even tell me your name?”
“Carl.”
“Okay Carl. See you at seven-thirty.”
“I’m real clean,” Carl said.
“Good for you.”
“The ad said that you’re clean.”
“I am.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll see you at seven-thirty, Carl. Okay?”
“Okay Kim.”
The caller hung up, and so did Dorothy. “I can’t believe that phone call,” she said.
Jenkins scratched his head. “It takes all kinds to make a world.”
Rackman chortled. “But only one kind to make a phone call like that.”
“You’re a helluva one to talk. You’ve had your nose in those sex magazines all week.”
The phone rang again. Dorothy picked it up. “Hello?”
“Kim please,” said a man.
“This is Kim speaking.”
“Are you the Kim who put the ad in the New York Review of Sex?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady,” the man
said in a strident voice. “You’re going to burn in hell for the terrible things you do if you don’t accept the teachings of our Lord Jesus. It’s still not too late, you still can—”
Dorothy interrupted him. “I guess you don’t want to meet me.”
“Meet you?” the man asked, taken aback.
“Yes, meet me.”
“You dirty Jezebel!” he cried. “You cruel sinner! How can you suggest such a thing to a man like me!”
Dorothy hung up the phone and shook her head.
“The weirdoes are coming out of the woodwork,” she said. “Anybody got a cigarette?”
Rackman held out his pack of Luckies. “Hang in there, kid.”
Jenkins grunted. “You should’ve tried to make a date with that last joker.”
“Are you serious?” Dorothy asked.
“He’s just the type of sick son of a bitch who might kill somebody.”
“I did try, didn’t I?”
“I don’t think you tried hard enough. Don’t get salty with these guys. Just make dates with them.”
“Sorry,” Dorothy said.
The phone rang again. She puffed the Lucky and picked it up.
“Hello?” she said.
“Are you Kim?” asked a man.
“Uh huh.”
“Well listen, I read your ad in the New York Review of Sex, and I’m not a fat guy but I got an eight-inch cock and I know I could show you a good time.”
Dorothy looked at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, but I specified fat guys and that’s what I want.”
“Aw, come on, baby. I’ll even go down on you.”
“Sorry,” she sang.
“Aw shit,” the man grumbled.
Dorothy hung up, and almost immediately the phone rang again. She brought it to her face.
“Hello?”
“Larry please?” said a man.
“Larry?” she said.
“I think I got the wrong number.” The man hung up.
Dorothy returned the phone to the cradle. “What time is it?”
“Five after six,” said Rackman. “The calls really should start coming in now.”
The phone rang, and Dorothy picked it up. “Hello?”
“Kim?” asked a man.
“Speaking.”
“Is your ad for real?”
“Yep.”
“You can’t be very pretty if you’re advertising in the paper.”
“You might be surprised if you saw me.”
“Pleasantly surprised?”
“Uh huh. How much do you weigh, honey?”
“Three hundred and five.”
“Oh, you sound like a nice one.”
“How much do you weigh?” he asked.
“A hundred and ten.”
“I’ll crush your bones, kid.”
“Oh no you won’t.”
“Where are you now?”
“Home.”
“Where’s that?”
“I live near Central Park on the West Side. You want to meet me?”
“Why not?”
“How about in front of the Coliseum. We can have a cup of coffee in one of the little restaurants in the neighborhood.”
“Why don’t you just come over to my place? I got tons of coffee over here.”
“I’d rather get to know you in neutral territory first.”
“I can dig that. What time?”
“How about seven-thirty tonight?”
“You’re on. By the way, my name’s Walter.”
“Hi Walter. What’ll you be wearing?” “A blue business suit. I’ll go to the Coliseum directly from my office.” “See you then, Walter.” “Bye-bye, baby.”
Chapter Eleven
Dorothy left Midtown North at seven o’clock, accompanied by Rackman, Olivero, and Dancy. They got into Rackman’s car and headed for Lincoln Center, where the first meeting would take place. Thereafter there’d be meetings at every half hour until ten o’clock, when they’d return to Midtown North and Dorothy would take some more calls.
Rackman parked the car in a lot a few blocks from Lincoln Center, and they split up. Dorothy would go directly to the fountain and wait for the first guy, while Rackman and the other detectives would cover the plaza from different angles. When a fat man in a black raincoat approached Dorothy, they’d swoop in on him and take him into custody.
Rackman’s route took him to Tenth Avenue, and he entered the Lincoln Center complex through the entrance near the Vivian Beaumont Theater on Sixty-seventh Street. He stopped next to the pool in front of the theater and looked at the Henry Moore sculpture in the water, trying to figure out what it was supposed to represent. A kid with a beard was taking a picture of it, and Rackman looked at his watch. It was only seven-fifteen and there was plenty of time, but the first fat man might show up early, and if he was Kowalchuk, Rackman wanted to be ready for him.
He lit a cigarette and walked beside Avery Fisher Hall to the plaza, weaving among the benches and the bushes planted in concrete. He reached the plaza and looked at the fountain in its center. It was thirty yards away and he could see Dorothy sitting at the rim with her legs crossed. Johnny Olivero leaned against a pillar in front of the State Theater in his special barrio outfit of jeans, sneakers, a red nylon jacket, and a denim cap turned around backwards. In the corner at the other end of Avery Fisher Hall, Dancy was looking at posters of upcoming concerts while smoking his pipe. He looked like the type of person who attended concerts at Lincoln Center, which in fact he was. Rackman thought Dancy looked least like a cop than any cop he knew.
The square was covered, and Rackman looked at a poster advertising an upcoming performance of Aida. Turning to the plaza, he scanned quickly for a fat man in a black raincoat, but couldn’t spot him yet. It probably was too early. A uniformed member of the Lincoln Center security force zipped by on his three-wheeled scooter, making sure local kids didn’t pick the pockets of the tourists. Jenkins hadn’t notified the security force that there might be a little excitement near the fountain at seven o’clock, because he knew they’d start behaving suspiciously, and that might tip off the Slasher.
Rackman meandered around the plaza, looking at the buildings and hoping he appeared like the other people wandering around. It was a warm sunny day and a lot of people were here, just hanging around or waiting to go into one of the theaters. Rackman touched his blazer jacket where it covered his service revolver. It was loaded and ready to go. He hoped this first guy would be the Slasher, but knew the odds were against it. Maybe the Slasher was too cautious to answer an ad in the New York Review of Sex. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was a sucker, and anyway, they had to do something to get him. Nothing else had worked, and this wasn’t the sort of case that was solved by an informant. The Slasher was a loner and somehow they had to draw him out. Rackman remembered the Buffalo Butcher, who’d gotten away with twenty-one murders. The Slasher already had five, and they couldn’t let him get anymore. He’d broken his pattern by killing Doolan and his old girl friend. His next victim could be anybody.
Rackman walked to the fountain and looked at the water gushing into the air. He glanced at Dorothy, their eyes met for a split second, then they looked away again. To Rackman’s left were three Puerto Rican kids listening to a portable radio, and to his right was a scruffy couple in their mid-twenties smooching. He thought of Francie. Oh Lord, what am I going to do about Francie?
He saw the fat man in the black raincoat coming up the steps next to the State Theater.
Olivero had spotted him but Dancy and Dorothy were looking in other directions. The fat man reminded Rackman of Jackie Gleason as he walked toward the fountain, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat and his head hunched down in his collar. His black and white checkered cap was worn with the visor high on his forehead. He didn’t look like he could harm a flea but Jack the Ripper probably looked harmless too.
Olivero was following the fat man across the Plaza, and Dancy had seen him now and was moving toward the fo
untain too. Dorothy looked directly at the fat man.
Rackman decided that there was no point in letting this guy get too close to Dorothy. He pushed away from the fountain, flicked his cigarette into the air, and walked toward the fat man. He sauntered, with his hands in his pockets and his head toward the ground, heading a few feet to the right of the fat man who was halfway across the plaza now. Olivero and Dancy saw what Rackman was up to and were converging on the fat man too. Rackman glanced up at the fat man and saw that he was looking at the fountain eagerly, unmindful of the NYPD closing in on him.
When Rackman got close to the fat man, he side-stepped in front of him, drew his revolver, and said loudly: “Freeze!”
The fat man blinked in disbelief at the Smith & Wesson .38 pointed at his gut.
Rackman whipped out his shield. “Police! Don’t move a muscle!’’
Olivero came at him from the right. “Put your hands in front of you—quick!”
The fat man blanched as he held out his hands, and Olivero snapped the cuffs on him. Dancy felt for hidden weapons and Rackman looked at his face, but he didn’t look anything like the photo of Kowalchuk.
A crowd was forming around them, and Dorothy joined them.
“What’s going on here?” the fat man asked in a hesitant, high-pitched voice.
“Just do what you’re told and you’ll be all right.”
They marched him across the plaza and into the lobby of the State Theater, where they showed their shields to the security man on duty, an elderly black man.
“We need a room,” Rackman said.
“Right this way.”
The security man led them to the elevator and took them down to the basement, where the security office for the building was. A beefy white man in uniform looked up from his desk as the strange mélange came in.
Rackman showed his shield again. “Police—we want to be alone with this man.”
The beefy man pointed to the door. They entered a small office and made the fat man lean against the wall while they searched him. Olivero took his wallet from his inside suit jacket pocket, then they sat the fat man down. Dancy pulled off the fat man’s cap.
“He don’t look like Kowalchuk to me,” Olivero said.
“Me neither,” agreed Dancy.
“Hey—I haven’t done anything wrong!” bleated the fat man.
