Night bait, page 9
A funeral parlor silence hung in the air of the apartment. None of the other girls was there; usually by this time of the morning, they would have all returned. It seemed that Vickie and Nora had the place to themselves.
But what Vickie didn't know was that in the five or ten minutes she had gone outside to hide from Cadillac, Nora's life had come to an end.
Vickie walked into the bedroom and looked to the corner. Nora was sitting in the chair, stiff and upright. All the color had drained out of her face, and her eyes were wide open and glassy. She didn't move. A tiny Ο of horror had formed on her lips. The usual arrangement of works lay assembled at her feet: the spoon, the empty plastic packet, the candle. Nora's arm was swollen and blue, and it jutted rigidly out at her side. The piece of yellow tubing still constricted a tight circle just above her elbow, cutting into the flesh. She hadn't even had time to get the needle out: it still dangled from a gorged vein, a tiny dot of blood congealing at the point of puncture.
Vickie stood motionless for several minutes, her eyes fixed on the livid corpse. Her volition came to a pinpoint; her senses focused on what was happening. Sex, lust, drugs, and depravity were one thing, but this was murder. Sanity crashed back, and she knew then, as she stared at the white, silent thing that had been Nora, that she could take no more. Life was not worth it. Death was preferable to this kind of existence.
She fled.
The tenement shrank behind her as she trotted down the street and turned the corner. She didn't have to run far to find a cop. Waiting at the traffic light at the corner she had just turned was a rumbling white patrol car with two fishbowl-like lights on the roof. She had jumped into the back seat and had slammed the door shut before either of the officers inside knew what happened. They both turned around and looked at her with rough eyes.
"Look, you guys have got to help me," she said, spewing the words out of her mouth. "I know who's behind all these hot shots in town. Please, get me out of here fast. I can't be seen with you."
The two cops looked at each other, raised their brows, then drove off, without even saying anything. A few minutes later, they parked in the POLICE PARKING ONLY spot in front of headquarters on Indiana Avenue. She walked between the men as if they were bodyguards, and they ushered her into the white stone building and up a flight of musty stairs to the second floor.
There was a black sign screwed into a door on the left which read VICE LIAISON. Inside, her two patrolmen escorts introduced her to a compact, well-dressed man named Dignazio. They told him that "this hooker" knows something about the hot shot case. Dignazio nodded sternly, and the two officers left.
"Okay," he said, "tell me what you've got."
"First, you've got to promise to protect me," Vicki said. "If he finds out that I've been here, I'll be dead in the morning."
"Who's he?"
"Anthony Pervis, my pimp. Everyone calls him—"
"Cadillac, right? I know him. He's a schizz."
"Yeah, and he's the one who's been killing all these people with laced junk. I just found one of my friends . .. dead. Just now. I saw him give her the smack."
"Where?"
She gave him the address, and he immediately picked up the phone and sent a car out.
"If you're not pulling my leg," he said, "then I think we can nail him. How are you so sure Cadillac's the one who did it?"
Her voice rose to a squeal. "I told you, I saw him with my own eyes. He gave her the stuff, and a couple minutes later, she was dead.. .. He's crazy, always beating up girls he thinks are holding out. A couple of times I heard him tell girls he'd kill them if they didn't shape up."
"But you actually saw him give the girl the dope?"
"Yes, yes, I'm positive. Most of his hookers are on junk, and all of the hookers who have died so far have been his. The guy's sick in the head. He'll be coming after me soon."
Dignazio waved a reassuring hand. "You're safe as long as you're with us ... and as long as you're not feeding me a line. It's unusual for a hooker to point the finger at her pimp."
"It's the truth—I swear, it's the truth. He killed my friend."
The startling ring of the telephone cut Vickie's words off. Dignazio picked it up, and after a monologue of "umm humm's and nods, he put the receiver back down, and said, "Some of my men just confirmed your story. They found a body at the address you gave. I'm going to try and get a search warrant so I can shake down Cadillac's stables. If we find what I think we'll find, then we've got him. .. . You'll have to testify against him in court."
"Yeah, I know."
"And I don't want you changing your mind about this later."
"I won't."
"Good. Now I want you to stay in this office until I get back. Probably be a couple of hours. There'll be a cop outside the door to keep an eye on you, and under no circumstances are you to leave this building. If you want coffee or smokes or something, just tell the man outside, okay?"
Vickie nodded resolutely. Dignazio got up and left in a rush.
She remained in Dignazio's closet-sized office for nearly a day straight, leaving only to go to the bathroom and to ask the guard to get her some cigarettes.
Several hours after her arrival, Dignazio returned briefly and told her that he managed to obtain search warrants, and that his men were already on the scene rooting through Cadillac's stables. At midnight, he returned again and informed her that they had discovered two more bodies, both hookers with needles still in their arms. But that was not all: the searches uncovered several hidden stores of heroin, and chemical analysis revealed large quantities of potassium cyanide mixed with it. Also guns, cash, stolen merchandise, and enough stray dope to sink a luxury liner had been confiscated during the course of the search. Everything, including the pill boxes which contained the heroin, was covered with Cadillac's fingerprints. So, he had told her, it looked like the end of the line for her pimp, and, even if they couldn't pin a murder rap on him, the contraband alone would be more than enough to fix Cadillac's wagon and to put him away for a long, long time. Now, Dignazio had warrants out for Cadillac's arrest on suspicion of murder. They had him, all right. The only trouble was they couldn't find him. Again, Dignazio instructed Vickie to stay in the office until the suspect had been apprehended.
The manhunt continued all night. Vickie feared that Cadillac had left town hours ago once the word had gotten around that the police were looking for him, or even worse that Cadillac had gone into hiding someplace in town where the police would never find him. If that were the case, then Vickie still faced great danger.
All through the night, she worried, and she prayed that Dignazio's team would catch Cadillac, make it stick, and lock him up till the end of the world. Only then would she be able to live in peace.
She did a lot of thinking that night, about herself, about the future, about the mistakes she had made, and even about God. She had been brought up in a Godless environment, and she had stopped believing in Him when she had stopped believing in Santa Claus. Life had been rough on her since day one; she had never had an easy time of it, and when she had gotten into prostitution, the thought of God became even more inconceivable. How could there really be a God? she would always ask herself. In a world full of pimps, junkies, whores, thieves, liars? If there were a God, then why were there wars? Why was there corruption? Why were children born every day blind, crippled, and retarded? All of those questions seemed unanswerable enough to satisfy Vickie's contention that God was a myth. But that night, as she sat alone in a dark office, wondering if Dignazio and his men would ever catch a sick killer, she realized that for all her life she had been blaming God for man's flaws. It wasn't God's fault that the whole damned human race was bent on war and self-destruction. It wasn't God's fault that the nature of mankind was so deceitful and wretched that it bred a culture of decadence and filth. God wasn't to blame for any of these things—man was. And it wasn't God's fault that Vickie had become a whore, willing to blow or ball any unwashed creep who had money. It was her own fault, because the circumstances of her hard life were just idle excuses, because she was too weak to live right.
Vickie slumped in her seat with her head in her hands. "God," she prayed aloud, "I know that promises from whores aren't worth a shit, but if You get me out of this, if You let the cops find Cadillac and make him pay for killing Nora and those other people, if You do all that, I swear I'll never turn another trick ever. I'll get a decent job; I'll clean up my act; I'll never do another bad thing for as long as I live. Just—please—give me a fucking break.. .. Give me another chance. Please."
Less than a minute later, she heard voices echo down the hall outside, laughter, someone really whooping it up. Dignazio burst in, smiling as if he'd just won the million-dollar lottery. He rubbed his hands together vigorously. "Shitchyeah! We just got the mothafucker! Caught him hiding out in a boarded-up rowhouse with some of his pals down in South East. You should've seen the look on his face when I told him we had a material witness against him for murder. He damn near crapped his pants. As it stands now, we got enough on him to set him up for twenty, no sweat. And if the judge accepts your testimony, old Cadillac can hang it up. He'll never see daylight again."
Cadillac's trial received top priority. The date was set for three weeks, and during that time, Vickie lived in the police guest house, all expenses paid. The trial went like clockwork. Vickie took the stand, answered all the questions, and stepped down. The next thing she could remember hearing was the Doom in June voice of the judge laying a dozen consecutive life sentences on Anthony "Cadillac" Pervis. It was over.
Vickie left the D.C. Courthouse with a smile in her eye, as if she were walking away from a nightmare.
Like a nightmare, she thought in the cool silence of her living room. Like a nightmare that was finished.
She could hear Jennifer getting ready in the other room, the sharp hum of her hair dryer buzzing away like a pair of electric hedgecutters. It seemed that Vickie's roommate never had time to slow down—she was always too busy having fun. Vickie wished she could be like that too, especially at times like this. She felt her life going sour; it was bleak and with little promise. She had to work ten, sometimes twelve hours a day just to make ends meet. Sure, she had love, and she would always tell herself that that was enough. But now she wondered. Steve was a terrific guy, good-looking, considerate, with a bright future. What more could a girl want?
Purpose.
Her life lacked purpose. Her job at the typewriter store was paltry and unimportant. Same old thing day after day: get up, go to work, go to sleep, get up, go to work, go to sleep. It's a rut, she thought, a dead end. Shit.
Dreamily, she thought back to the day she had promised God that if He pulled through for her, she'd pull through for Him. God had fulfilled His part of the bargain, but she was still complaining. What a wretch I am, she told herself. Not so long ago, my life was just one big fuck and suck show. Now it's normal, but I still find room to gripe. Jesus. What's wrong with me?
It just then dawned on her that she was letting her thoughts keep her away from the important problem.
Dignazio.
She didn't know what to do. His proposition seemed so dangerous, and it would mean going back into the world of her past, reminding her of the nightmare she had once lived for real. Of course, there was the money; she could always use that. But that was a self-indulgent reason to agree to such an offer. She wished that she would be compelled to say yes for the sake of those who had already been murdered by The Electrocutionist, and for those who would be murdered if something wasn't done. For the second time in her life, she found herself faced with a killer, not directly this time, but still it involved some sick lunatic who gets a thrill out of killing people. Why should I do it? she asked herself. Why me?
Then she thought of Nora, and of the morgue photographs of Diane Slezak. That's why, you selfish bitch, she mused. You harp to yourself all day long about no purpose in your life, when it's staring you in the face. What more purpose do you need than to give the cops a hand in grabbing another nut? It's a long shot, but it's better than sitting around on your ass and letting someone else take a chance.
Jennifer appeared, all gussied up in a pair of super-tight jeans, a glittery blouse, and Vickie's boots.
"How do you like me?" Jennifer asked, standing with her arms out, as if on display.
"I was right—you do look like a hooker. Stay away from 14th and K. You might get busted."
"That's a real knee-slapper. I'll probably have every guy in the place wanting to dance with me."
"Yeah, all that and more," Vickie laughed, still limp on the couch.
"You sure you don't want to come?"
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm feeling particularly lazy tonight."
"Okay. Tell Steve I said hi. See ya later."
Shortly after Jennifer left, Steve Dern pushed the door open, a box-shaped brown paper bag under one arm. Whenever he came over straight from work, he reminded her of one of those too-good-looking-to-believe male models in the fashion mags. His hair was always in the right place, always clean shaven, always wearing great threads. He looked so good, but right then, Vickie looked like shit. She knew how lucky she was to have him, and she knew that she wouldn't if he ever found out about any of the sleazy secrets of her past. She had never told him, and she swore that she never would. True, with love, there was honesty, but that was one thing she would always keep to herself. For both of their sakes.
He greeted her with a bright smile. "Sorry I'm a little late. The Chinese restaurant was closed. Hope you don't mind Mexican."
"That's fine," she fibbed. She hated Mexican food. It always seemed to give her Mexican burps. "Come here."
Steve bent over, and she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him for several desperate moments. "I missed you," she said. "Oh, Steve, I feel so lousy today."
"Why?" he asked through his kisses.
She wished she could tell him. "Oh, I don't know."
She held onto him tightly, not wanting to let go. When he was that close to her, she felt good. The solitude and the confusion disappeared.
"If you don't let go of me soon," he said, "the enchiladas will get cold."
He was hungry again.
The dark blue Mercedes idled at the light of 14th and K.
His eyes roved up and down the sidewalk over the multitude of prostitutes. They are hungry too, he thought, but not in the same way. They are hungry for money, but I am hungry for death.
The hunger burned him like alcohol on a cut.
His need was feverish; his blood felt as thick as molasses. He must take another one. Tonight. He knew it would happen this way. He never should have taken the new post. It was an important job, with high pay and status, but he was beginning to see that it wasn't worth it. Back home, it had been easy. He could take one whenever he wanted. There were always so many. But now it was difficult, almost risky—now, he didn't have women at his disposal. Obtaining them had become a chancy operation, not that the police scared him. The police were easy to outsmart. But still, he had to be careful, and that proved an annoyance. Before, he could do whatever he wanted, take whomever he pleased. But now all that had changed, and he saw that he had no choice but to succumb to the aggravation. Besides, he rationalized, the hunting is enjoyable. It adds a new twist and makes the kill that much more gratifying.
One of the hookers on the corner looked right at him. She beckoned him with a wave of her pretty hand, inviting him. She was slim, attractive, supple. Perfect.
But no, he decided, not this time. Not here. It's unwise to strike in the same place several times in a row. He would look somewhere else tonight, and would save the prostitutes for the next time.
He drove off.
Georgetown, he thought and smiled to himself. I will go back to Georgetown tonight. It's an excellent hunting ground. He had only been there once before, and the girl he had picked up there had been superb. She had come with him instantly, and she had been delightfully responsive. He had loved the way her body had convulsed when he turned on the power switch. The pain had been so great that she had practically bitten through the tennis ball. Usually, he would leave the power on; they would be dead in seconds. But with this one, he had flicked the switch on and off, prolonging death, relishing the way she had flipped around in there all helpless and naked. Slow death. But that had only been the beginning. The best part always came after death. She had been good.
And the fact that she had been Congressman McKeever's daughter made it even better, even more fulfilling. The prostitutes were vulgar and treacherous. Leslie McKeever had been childlike and innocent.
But then, he added thought, no one is innocent. Not entirely.
It was a weeknight. That's why the streets of Georgetown seemed less crowded. A good sign? At least he would be able to find a parking space. Last time, it had taken him half an hour.
After parking, the man dropped two quarters into the parking meter and cranked the handle. Two hours. More than enough time to find what he wanted.
He began walking.
It didn't matter which pub he chose, just as long as he stayed away from the one he had gone to before. There must have been dozens of places. He entered the first one he came to.
It was dark inside. The music wasn't so loud here, probably on account of the few people inside. Three or four men sat at the bar. Two young couples danced quietly on the dance floor. The remaining six or so patrons sat at various tables around the room. The place seemed almost deserted. Noticing how late it was, he thought that he may have missed the rush. That was fine with him; he hated crowds. And the fewer people there were to see him, the better.
