“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.”
“I think so.”
“You think so or you’re pretty sure?”
“Well, I remember that right after I got the jacket I landed on this corner here.”
Rackman looked down Ninth Street. Old tenement buildings were on both sides of the street, garbage cans huddled in front of each one. He’d arrange to send policemen into every apartment on the block and surrounding blocks to see if they could find somebody who resembled the composite drawing of the Slasher. He turned to Doolan. “You’d better not be sending me on a wild goose chase, you old fucker.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, copper.”
“If I find out you’ve been fucking me around, I’m going to throw you in the East River.”
“I ain’t lyin’, because you been good to me. Better’n anybody in my whole life.” Doolan started blubbering.
Rackman patted him on the shoulder. “Okay Doolan, I believe you. You want that other pint of wine now?”
“That’d be real nice.”
Rackman walked back to the car, pulled the bottle out from beneath the front seat, returned to Doolan, and gave it to him. “Here you go, champ. Don’t drink it all in the same place.”
“I’ll drink it right over there.” He chinned toward a stoop next to the newsstand and unscrewed the cap.
Rackman reached into his pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. “Go get yourself a hot meal.”
“Thanks copper.”
Doolan slouched toward the stoop, sat down, and started sucking the bottle like a baby at its mother’s breast. Rackman watched for a few moments, wondering what catastrophes had broken that man. Then he returned to his car and drove to Midtown North.
Chapter Nine
Patrolmen McGowan and Holland were one of the eight teams of cops in the East Village knocking on doors inquiring about the Slasher. They spoke to stoned hippies, old-country Ukrainians, and emaciated artists. After four hours of inquiries, they hadn’t found anyone who knew him.
McGowan was a black-haired Irishman who’d been with the NYPD for eighteen years; Holland was a rookie who had only recently graduated from the Police Academy. McGowan had a beer barrel belly; Holland was slim as a rail. They were referred to as Laurel and Hardy at the Ninth Precinct on East Fifth Street.
In the vestibule of 329 East Ninth Street, they looked at the mailboxes and found that the super’s name was Ihor Martienko of apartment 1-C.
“I hope this bird speaks English for a change,” McGowan muttered as he opened the inner door and entered the downstairs corridor.
They walked along looking at the numbers on doors, and at the end near the stairs was apartment 1-C. McGowan nodded to Holland, then knocked on the door. There were shuffling footsteps on the other side. A woman’s voice said something in Ukrainian.
“Anybody there speak English?” McGowan asked.
“Who you are?” the voice asked.
“Police. We want to talk to you.”
“Why for?”
“I’ve got to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Open the door.”
McGowan winked at Holland, who put his hand on his gun. You never knew who might come out of these goddamn apartments.
The door opened a crack, held back by a brass chain. “Yes?” asked a dark-haired woman in her fifties.
“You the super?” McGowan asked.
“My husband is.”
“Is he home?”
“He is at work right now. Why do you want to see him?”
McGowan took the composite picture of the Slasher out of the big manila envelope he was carrying. “Have you ever seen this man?”
“That is the face of the man in the newspaper, the man who kills women, yes?”
“That’s right. Do you know anybody who looks like this?”
The woman shrugged. “I am sure many people look like this.”
“Anybody in this building look like this?”
She smiled. “I do not want to make any trouble for anybody.”
McGowan and Holland exchanged glances.
“You’re making trouble for yourself if you don’t cooperate with the police, ma’am,” McGowan said with a hint of threat in his voice. “I asked you if anybody in this building looks like this.”
The old woman swallowed. “Well, Mr. Kowalchuk on the fifth floor looks something like this.”
“What apartment?”
“Five-A, it is in the front.”
“Do you know if he wears a red and black wool jacket?”
She pursed her lips and thought for a few moments. Then she unlatched the chain on the door and opened it wide. “Would it come down to here?” she asked, pointing to her hip.
“It would.”
“Mister Kowalchuk has a jacket like that.”
McGowan and Holland looked at each other again.
The old woman shook her head. “Mr. Kowalchuk could not be that person. He only looks like him a little bit, that is all. A lot of people must look like that I am sure.”
“How long has this Kowalchuk been living in this building?”
She looked at the ceiling and moved her lips as she counted. “Oh, twenty years at least. He lived here with his mother and father but they are dead now and he is all alone. He is a very nice man. Never makes trouble. It could not be him you are looking for.”
McGowan tipped his hat. “You’re probably right, but we have to check on these things anyway. Thanks very much for the information.”
McGowan and Holland stepped back, and the woman closed the door. The two patrolmen walked to the stairs and stopped, searching each other’s faces.