“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. Maybe 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.