Then she wrapped the unbuttoned trenchcoat about her, cinched the belt tight, and turned up the collar in back. Her neck and the top of her bosom were exposed.
She examined herself. She licked her lips.
She exited through the hotel lobby, bag swinging from her shoulder. Men in the lobby stared at her. Men passing on the sidewalk outside stared at her. She lighted a cigarette, smoking with outsize, theatrical movements.
She waited under the marquee for a cab, humming.
The Hotel Pierce, Manhattan’s newest hostelry, occupied the entire blockfront on Sixth Avenue between 56th and 57th streets. It had 1200 rooms, suites, penthouses, banquet rooms, meeting rooms, a convention hall, a nightclub on the roof.
Below the main lobby floor was a concourse with three dining rooms, a coffee and snack bar, gift shops and boutiques, the offices of travel agents and a stockbroker, a bookstore, men’s and women’s clothing shops, and four cocktail lounges. “You can live your life at the Pierce” was the advertised boast.
Zoe Kohler had selected the Pierce because she knew it was currently hosting three conventions; the concourse cocktail lounges were sure to be crowded. She chose the El Khatar, a bar with a vaguely Moorish theme, walls hung with silken draperies, waitresses dressed as belly dancers.
She stood a moment just inside the entrance, looking around as if expecting to be met. When the hatcheck girl came forward, she surrendered her trenchcoat and made her way slowly to the bar, peering about in the dimness, still acting the role of a lady awaiting her escort.
Most of the small tables were occupied by couples and foursomes. The bar was crowded: singles, doubles, groups. There were a few seated women, but men were standing two and three deep, reaching over shoulders to take refills from perspiring bartenders in fezzes.
The room was terribly overheated, smoky, smelling vilely of cheap incense. Shriek of conversation. Shouts of laughter. Tinny blare of piped Eastern music. Zoe wondered how long she might endure this swamp of raw noise.
She stood a moment near the bar, chin up, spine straight.
A red-faced man, hair tousled, tie askew, spluttering with laughter at something his companion had just said, made a sudden lurch backward and bumped her roughly.
“Whoops!” he said, catching her arm as she staggered. “Beg your pardon, lady. Any harm done?”
“No, no,” she said, giving him a rueful smile, rubbing her arm. “It’s all right.”
“Not all right,” he protested. “I’m sorry as hell. Buy you a drink? Then you’ll forgive me?”
“Thank you,” she said, still smiling, “but I’ll pay for it. But I’d appreciate it if you could order a glass of white wine for me. I can’t get near the bar.”
She fumbled in her bag. He made a grand gesture.
“Put your money away, sweetie,” he said. “This is on the house—my house!”
He and his friend found this a remarkably humorous sally. They heaved with merriment, bending over their drinks. In a few minutes, Zoe had her glass of wine.
“Come join us,” the red-faced man urged. “Me and my pal here have been boring each other all night. He’s a sex fiend, but I’ll protect you from him!”
More loud guffaws.
“Sounds like a lot of fun,” Zoe said, “but I’m waiting for my boyfriend. Maybe some other time.”
“Any time at all,” the friend said, speaking for the first time. His lickerish eyes traveled slowly down the length of her body to her strapped sandals, then up again. “You name the time, and I’ll be there, I guarantee!”
They were still laughing, nudging each other with elbows when, smiling faintly, she moved away from them, down the bar. She didn’t want two men. She wanted one man.
Searching, she saw a woman seated at the bar gathering up purse and gloves. Her escort, standing alongside, had just received his bill and was counting money onto the bar.
Sidling swiftly through the press, protecting her glass of wine with a cupped hand, and saying, “Pardon. Pardon. Pardon,” Zoe Kohler succeeded in claiming the barstool a second after the woman slid off.
“Got it all warm for you, honey,” the brassy blonde said. Then she took a closer look at Zoe, and said, “Good luck!”
“Yes,” Zoe said. “Thanks.” And turned swiftly away.
To her right was a noisy group of five men engaged in a loud debate on professional football teams. It was the single man seated to her left who interested Zoe. He was staring straight ahead, hunched over what appeared to be a martini-rocks. He was apparently oblivious to the hubbub around him.
“Pardon me, sir,” Zoe Kohler said, leaning toward him. “Could you tell me what time it is, please?”
He turned his head slowly to look at her, then glanced down at his gold wristwatch.
“Almost eleven-fifteen,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, then swung partly around on her barstool to search the room with anxious eyes. As she swung, her knees brushed his fat thigh.
“What’s the matter?” the man said. “He didn’t show up?”
She swung back, then turned her head to face him, looking into his eyes.
“What makes you think it’s a man?” she said. “Maybe I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”
“No way,” he said, his eyes lowering to her bosom. “A beautiful woman like you, it’s got to be a man. And he’s a fool for being late.”
“Well,” she said, giggling, “to tell you the truth, it’s me that’s late—by about an hour!”
Five minutes later, he had become more animated, had bought a round of drinks, and they knew all about each other—all they wanted to know.
His name was Fred (no last name offered), and he was in New York to attend a convention of electrical appliance marketing managers in that very hotel. He was from Akron, Ohio, and couldn’t wait to get back. Zoe judged him to be in his early fifties.
She was Irene (no last name offered), and she was originally from Minneapolis. She had come to New York seeking a career as model and actress. But now she was executive assistant to an independent TV producer who made commercials and educational films.
They had swung around to face each other. Their knees rubbed.
“Why are you sitting here alone?” Zoe asked. “A convention and all that. Why aren’t you out with the boys, tearing up the town?”
“Oh, I was,” he said. “Earlier. But then things got a little raunchy. They wanted to go down to Greenwich Village and see the freaks. That’s not my idea of a good time. So I cut out.”
“What’s your idea of a good time?” she challenged, but when she saw the flicker of fear in his eyes, she wondered if she was moving too fast.
“Oh,” he said, looking down, “you know … A nightcap, and then up to my room to watch TV. I’m really a very quiet guy.”
“You say,” she scoffed. “You quiet ones are the worst. Hell on wheels when you get rolling.”
He laughed, chest swelling with pride.
“Well …” he said, “maybe. I guess I’ve sowed my share of wild oats.”
He was heavy, heavy. His florid face was pudgy, neck thick, torso soft. Gallops flapped at the corners of his mouth. He had the sandpaper cough of a heavy smoker. In addition to the gold wristwatch, he wore gold cufflinks, a pearl tie tac, a pinkie ring set with, a square diamond. He was not drunk, exactly, but he was on his way: a little dazed, beginning to slur.
He ordered another round of drinks. She reached for her wine, and he grabbed her wrist and turned the chain so he could read the words: WHY NOT?
He raised his eyes to stare at her.
“Why not?” he said hoarsely.
She leaned close to him, her cool cheek against his hot, sweated jowl. She whispered into his ear:
“I told you that you quiet ones are hell on wheels. Can we go to your room? Have a little party?”
He nodded dumbly.
They drained their drinks. He paid his bill from a thick wallet. They pushed their way through the thron
g. She gave him her coat check and he paid to reclaim her trenchcoat.
“I left my coat in my room,” he said. “I’m on the thirtieth floor.”
“Way up in the sky,” she said.
“That’s right, girlie,” he said, staggering and catching her arm to steady himself. “Way up with the birdies.”
“It’s your own room?” she said in a low voice. “Or do you have a roommate?”
“It’s all mine,” he mumbled. “Yours and mine.”
They had to jam their way into a crowded elevator filled with laughing, yelling, drunken convention-goers. Another couple got off on the 30th floor, but turned down the long corridor in the opposite direction. Fred led the way around one turn to Room 3015.
He halted before the flush door.
“Take a look at this door, Irene,” he demanded. “Tell me what you see. Or don’t see!”
She knew immediately what it was—she had read about it in the hotel trade magazine—but she could not deny him his moment of triumph.
“It just looks like an ordinary door to me,” she said, shrugging.
“No keyhole!” he said. “Just that thing …”
He pointed to a narrow, metal-rimmed slot directly under the knob. Then he took a white plastic card from his jacket pocket. It was no larger than a credit card.
“Magnetic,” he explained to Zoe. “The printed code is between two pieces of solid plastic. You can’t see it. And no way for your friendly neighborhood locksmith to copy it. Not yet there isn’t.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said.
“Great security,” he said. “Practically eliminates break-ins. Who can pick a lock that doesn’t show?”
He fumbled a bit, then got the plastic card inserted into the slot. The bolt slid back, he turned the knob, opened the door and stood aside.
“Welcome to my castle,” he said.
The room was certainly larger, cleaner, and more attractively furnished than the rooms at the Hotel Granger. But it had the impersonality of all hotel rooms: everything designed to repel cigarette burns and glass stains, to require minimal maintenance. Pictures were bolted to the walls; the base of the TV set was anchored to the floor.
“Make yourself at home,” Fred said. “I gotta see a man about a dog.”
He went into the bathroom, closed the door. Zoe moved slowly and cautiously. She removed her coat, folded it once, placed it carefully on the polished bureau near the door. She sat down slowly in a high-backed armchair. She touched no surface.
She heard the toilet flush. In a moment he came out of the bathroom, smoothing strands of rusty hair across his white scalp.
“Well now,” he said heartily, “let’s get this show on the road. How about a shot of the world’s best brandy? I never travel without it.”
“You know what they say about alcohol?” she said archly. “It increases the desire and decreases the performance.”
“Lotta bullshit,” he said. “You won’t have any complaints, little lady.”
“Well … maybe just a sip.”
“Atta girl. This’ll put lead in your pencil—if you had a pencil!”
They both laughed immoderately. She watched him take a pint bottle from the top dresser drawer. He poured her a small drink in a water glass and a larger one for himself.
When he brought the drink over to her, she was deliberately busy with a compact mirror, poking at her wig. So he set the glass on the endtable next to the armchair. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. He turned to face her.
“Say,” he said, “you wouldn’t mind if I smoked a cigar, would you?”
“Of course not, honey,” she said. “I just love the smell of a good cigar.”
“You sure, babe?” he said doubtfully. “My wife doesn’t.”
“I do,” she assured him. “Go right ahead.”
So he stripped the cellophane from a cigar and lighted up, puffing contentedly.
He took the pillows from under the bedspread, propped them against the headboard. He removed his jacket and vest, took off his shoes. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. The fleshy neck, reddened, bulged free.
Then he sat back against the pillows, his feet up, ankles crossed. He held his cigar in one hand, brandy in the other.
“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” he sighed. “This is the life. Daddy told me there would be nights like this, but he didn’t tell me how few and far between. Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you make yourself more comfortable?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, giggling.
She stood, moved closer to the bed. She locked his eyes, but when she began to draw the side zipper of her dress slowly downward, his gaze followed that movement. The brandy and cigar were forgotten. He watched everything she did.
She pulled the dress over her head, being careful not to dislodge her wig. She smiled at his expression, turned, walked away with an exaggerated wiggle. She folded the dress atop her trenchcoat.
She turned to face him, hip-sprung, hands on her waist. She sucked in her stomach, thrust her bosom forward. She tilted her head to one side.
“You like?” she said coquettishly.
“Wow,” he said shakily. “Oh wow, you’re really something. Old Fred really grabbed the brass ring tonight. Come here.”
She stood next to the bed. He put his brandy on the bedside table. He touched the band of smooth white skin between bikini and stocking top. She turned back and forth, letting him stroke.
“You’re driving me crazy,” she said throatily.
She leaned over the bed, her face close to his. He reached up to touch the wig. She drew back.
“Why don’t you take off all those clothes?” she whispered. “I have to go make wee-wee and then I’ll come back to you. I’ll do anything you want. And I mean anything.”
He made a grunting sound and reached for her. But she laughed, moved away. She picked up her shoulder bag, went to the bathroom door, turned. He was staring at her. She waggled her fingers at him, disappeared inside.
She locked the door, worked swiftly. She took off sandals, garters, stockings, lingerie. She relieved herself. When she flushed the toilet, she used two sheets of toilet paper to press the tank lever, then watched as the tissue went swirling away.
She opened her bag, made her preparations. Then she just waited, staring at her image in the medicine cabinet mirror. After a while she. recognized herself.
She stayed in there until she heard his call:
“Irene? What’s keeping you?”
She unlocked the door, opened it a crack, peeked out. He had turned off the overhead light, turned on the bedside lamp. The bedspread and blankets had been thrown off. He was lying back. The sheet was pulled up to his waist. His naked torso was haired and puffy. His plump breasts made almond-shaped shadows. He was smoking his cigar.
She draped one of the hotel bath towels over her right forearm and hand. She switched off the bathroom light.
“Ready or not,” she said lightly, “here I come.”
He turned to stare at her naked body moving into the cone of lamplight.
“Ah Jesus,” he breathed.
She went around to the right side of the bed, away from the table and the lamp. She bent over him, smiling tenderly.
He turned to the left to put his cigar in the ashtray. She lowered her arm, let the towel fall away.
Handling the Swiss Army knife like a dagger, she plunged the big blade into the left side of his fat neck and sawed back toward her.
He made a sound, a gargle, and his heavy body leaped convulsively from the bed. Blood spouted in streams, gobbets, a flood that sprayed the air with a crimson fog. It soaked the bed, dripped onto the floor.
Zoe Kohler threw back the sheet, exposing his pulpy abdomen, veined legs, his flaccid penis and testicles, half-hidden in a nest of grayish-brown hair, tangled.
With bloodied, slippery hand, she drove the knife blade again and again into his genitals. No triumph or exultation in her face. Not grinnin
g or yowling, but intent and businesslike. Saying aloud with each stab, “There. There. There.”
2
FORMER CHIEF OF DETECTIVES Edward X. Delaney had two methods of eating sandwiches.
Those he categorized as “dry” sandwiches—such as roast beef on white or what he termed an interracial sandwich, ham on bagel—were eaten while seated at the kitchen table. The top was spread with the financial section of the previous day’s New York Times.
The meal finished, crumbs and newspaper were crumpled up and dumped into the step-on garbage can under the sink.
“Wet” sandwiches—such as potato salad and pastrami on rye, with hot English mustard, or brisling sardines with tomato and onion slices slathered with mayonnaise—were eaten while standing bent over the sink. Finished, Delaney ran the hot water and flushed the drippings away.
Both methods of dining were anathema to the Chief’s wife, Monica. She never ceased in her efforts to persuade him to adopt more civilized eating habits, even if it was only a midday snack.
Delaney tried to explain to her, as patiently as he could, that he had spent thirty years of his life with the New York Police Department, most of them in the Detective Division. He had become addicted to sandwiches since, considering the long, brutal hours the job demanded, sandwiches consumed while working were usually the only sustenance available.
“But you’re retired now!” she would cry.
“Habits are habits,” he would reply loftily.
Actually, he loved sandwiches. One of the recurring fantasies of his increasingly onerous retirement was the dream that he might one day compile a slim volume, Chief Delaney’s Sandwich Book. Who had a better right? Who but he had discovered the glory of cold pork and thinly sliced white radish on pumpernickel?
On the evening of March 19th, Monica Delaney, with the assistance of Mrs. Rebecca Boone, wife of Detective Sergeant Abner Boone, was preparing a buffet for fourteen members of her women’s group. The dinner was to be preceded by a psychologist’s lecture followed by a general discussion. Then the buffet would be served.
Third Deadly Sin Page 4
