After disco dancing for several minutes, she stopped, faced the audience, and took off her red tights, showing the white bra and underpants she wore underneath. Then she commenced a striptease, slowly removing the bra, wiggling her bare droopy breasts with their flat half dollar nipples. Coyly, she pulled down her underpants, and Kowalchuk stared with fascination at her hairy crotch. She pranced around the stage stark naked, turned her rear end to the audience, bent over, and spread her cheeks.
Finally she lay on the bed, her lower extremities facing the audience. She kicked her legs around in time to the music, squeezed her breasts and fingered her labia. Reaching into her shopping bag, she took out a cosmetic tube. She screwed off the head, squeezed some white stuff into the palm of her hand, and rubbed it into her vagina. Reaching into the shopping bag again, she took out a big handful of swizzle sticks and held them up for the audience to see. Then she pulled one out and slowly inserted it into her hole. She selected another swizzle stick and put it in the same place. Kowalchuk watched in astonishment as the black girl inserted swizzle stick after swizzle stick inside herself. He couldn’t understand how she could fit so many in there. She must have done a lot of fucking in her life, and her cunt was like old elastic. How could she do such a thing in public?
Now she had a bunch of swizzle sticks thick as a man’s wrist in her vagina, and still she stuffed in more. The theater was silent and reminded Kowalchuk of church, except that instead of a priest performing a ritual in front, there was a whore being disgusting. Finally she had all the swizzle sticks planted inside her, and they looked weird between her legs. She raised her arms and legs in the air and the men applauded, except for Kowalchuk. He didn’t believe in clapping his hands for something like that.
A few at a time, she took the swizzle sticks out of her vagina, rubbed herself with white crème again, reached into her shopping bag, and took out a long chromium chain four feet long. Lying on her back, she held the chain in the air for the audience to see, pulled to show it was real, and then proceeded to stuff it, link by link, into herself as the loudspeakers played a disco tune entitled “How Deep is Your Love.”
Kowalchuk did not believe she could fit the whole chain inside. No woman’s cunt possibly could be that big. But link after link slipped in until the entire chain had disappeared. The girl humped her butt around and the audience applauded, Kowalchuk not joining in again. She pulled out the chain, put-it back in her shopping bag, and took out eight brightly colored silk handkerchiefs knotted together. Holding them up, she pulled them through her fingers and whipped them through the air. They must have been ten feet long. She squeezed some white drops of crème onto her black pubic hairs, rubbed them in, then spread her legs and pushed the silk handkerchiefs, knot by knot, inside. Her fingers worked daintily, as though they were kneading dough. Finally the entire length of knotted handkerchiefs were in, except for a short length of yellow silk. The audience applauded less enthusiastically this time, because the act was getting repetitious. The black girl pulled the handkerchiefs out, lifting her fanny as each knot came through. When they were out completely she waved them through the air like a long flag, then dropped them into the shopping bag.
A tall black man walked down the aisle between the rows of seats and climbed onto the stage. ‘He wore blue jeans, a brown tee-shirt, and appeared embarrassed. His hair was short as though he’d shaved his head two weeks ago, and he had the nose and features of an American Indian. He took off his tee-shirt, and his chest wasn’t very big, dotted with little swirls of black hair. He kicked off his sandals and pulled down his pants, showing brown briefs that matched his tee-shirt. Stepping out of his briefs, you could see his big dong. It was considerably bigger than Kowalchuk’s, who squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. And it wasn’t even hard yet.
The black man was unable to look at the audience. He moved to the bed, the black girl making room for him. He lay on his back, his scrotum drooping between his legs, and she took his flaccid penis in hand, bent over him, and sucked it vigorously while the sound system blared “Love is a Many Splendored Thing”.
So this is what a live sex show is like, Kowalchuk thought. The black guy isn’t even horny and the girl is blowing him as if she’s siphoning a gas tank. Kowalchuk crossed his arms and fidgeted in his seat. He was disappointed, for he’d expected attractive young enthusiastic people like in the pictures pasted on the front of the theater.
The girl raised her head, and the man had become half hard. She went to work on him again and the theater was so still you could hear her suck sounds and the occasional beep of a car out on Forty-second Street. The black guy rolled his hips and held one arm over his face to shield his eyes from the overhead floodlights, while his other hand caressed the girl’s breasts. She raised herself up again, and this time he was a little harder. She rolled onto her back and the guy crawled onto her, still not looking at the audience. Kowalchuk felt sorry for him. The poor bastard probably wanted to disappear into the woodwork, but the girl didn’t care at all. In fact, she probably was having fun.
The guy mounted her and she inserted him inside her the same as she’d inserted the swizzle sticks, chain, and silk handkerchiefs. She pointed her toes at the ceiling and wiggled them as the black guy screwed her awkwardly, burying his face in her shoulder as if trying to block out what was going on all around him.
Kowalchuk watched, feeling sick and uneasy. The poor black guy is so nervous he can hardly fuck, but the girl is enjoying it. The guy must be doing it for the money, but she’s having a good time, getting fucked in front of all us men. That’s a woman for you. Sick and depraved. And for that she shall die.
PART THREE – TRACKDOWN
Chapter One
It was nine o’clock at night at the Crandon Hotel on the Bowery, On the second floor, the guests were getting ready for bed. They were a raggedy bunch, most hadn’t shaved lately, and many stank of alcohol.
Jackie Doolan sat on his cot, his bare knobby feet on the linoleum. He had on his filthy brown pants and gray tee-shirt, and was looking at the front page of the Daily News. “The Slasher Claims Third Victim, Times Square Porno Queen Found in Alley.”
Two photographs were on the front page. The one on the left showed the victim lying bloody and twisted against a stone wall, and the one on the right was a head shot of a man. Doolan squinted his eyes and read that the man was Frank Kowalchuk of East Ninth Street, and that he was believed to be the Slasher. If anyone spotted him they were to notify the nearest policeman. The photograph was taken of Kowalchuk when he was a cab-driver.
“Well whataya know about that!” said Doolan.
“Whataya know about what?” said the man in the bunk behind Doolan, trying to read over his shoulder.
“They got a picture of the Slasher here,” Doolan said, turning around and pointing at the picture. “Ugly fucker, ain’t he?”
“He ain’t no uglier than you,” replied the man, who had a scar on his right cheek and no teeth in his mouth.
Doolan squared his shoulders and raised his chin a few inches. “I been workin’ with the police on this case, y’know.”
“Yeah sure.”
“You don’t believe me?”