“It’s too bad nobody told us about her, or that she never stepped forward herself.”
“Those Ukrainians are awfully close-mouthed,” Olivero replied, “or at least they were. Now everybody who ever knew the son of a bitch is calling for police protection.”
“Her boyfriend,” said Dancy, “wants to move into the Ninth Precinct until they catch Kowalchuk. He thinks Kowalchuk might want to kill him.”
Jenkins shrugged. “He might. There’s no telling where he’ll turn up next. Does Rackman know about this yet?”
“Yeah,” said Olivero. “I called him as soon I found out about it myself.”
“What’d he say?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“No. He was quiet for a few moments, then he said thanks for telling him and hung up the phone.”
Jenkins scratched his eyebrow. “He’s counting on the stakeout to get the Slasher. The ad will be in the paper next Wednesday?”
Dancy removed his pipe from his mouth. “Next Thursday.”
Jenkins sighed. “Let’s hope the Slasher doesn’t get anybody else before then.”
Chapter Seven
It was night and Kowalchuk was walking down a street in South Brooklyn. Three-story buildings with long stoops lined the sidewalks and on the corner at Wykoff Avenue a bunch of Italian kids were horsing around in front of a candy store. Kowalchuk passed them by, his hand on his switchblade, and kept walking, looking at the numbers on the buildings, most of which were identical to each other. After a few more blocks the sidewalks were deserted of pedestrians, and an occasional moving automobile was the only sign of life. Kowalchuk remembered a movie he’d seen about a city that was deserted because all its people had died of atomic radiation. It had looked something like this.
Finally he saw the number he was looking for. It was on the other side of the street and he looked both ways before crossing over. The building was like most of the others, three stories with a long stoop leading up to the second floor. Kowalchuk went to the side of the building and saw an Anchor fence with a car behind it. Attached to the building beside the fence was a sign that said: Please ring bell twice. If there is no answer, please go away and come back later. Please do not hang around in front of this house. Thank you. Kowalchuk pressed the button twice and put his hands in his pockets, waiting. He’d called first to make the appointment, and the fucker had better be here. A door opened at the side of the building and a stout man with black hair came out wearing overalls and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Joe?” asked the man.
“Yes,” said Kowalchuk. “Are you Tony?”
“Yeah. You’re a little late, aren’t you?”
“I got a little tied up.”
“There are a few people in front of you. You’ll have to wait.”
“That’s okay.”
Kowalchuk followed Tony into the building and down a flight of stairs. They passed through a dark corridor and finally came to a small room.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Tony said.
Four young guys and one young girl were standing around in the room, smoking cigarettes and looking suspiciously at Kowalchuk. On the walls were tattoo designs: ships at sea, pirate ladies, skulls, and hawks. In the adjoining small room a girl straddled a chair, her arms crossed over its back and her face cradled in her arms. Tony sat behind her and lifted one of his tattooing machines off the table. He wiped the half-finished tattoo on her shoulder with a paper towel and went to work on it again.
Kowalchuk watched through the glass window that separated the rooms, and was fascinated by the needle zigging into her skin, spitting out blue ink that mixed with her red blood. The girl had her fists balled up as though it hurt. Kowalchuk wondered why such a pretty young girl would want to get a tattoo on her back. Tony wiped it off again and Kowalchuk could see that it was a butterfly.
Tony looked up at Kowalchuk. “You know what you want?”
Kowalchuk pointed to his forearm. “I want a knife here.”
“I got some knives on the wall in the corner. Pick one out.”
Kowalchuk went to the corner and found the drawings of knives. There were long ones and short ones and some said “Death Before Dishonor” underneath them.
“Gonna get a knife?” asked one of the young guys, who was wearing tight jeans and had slick black hair.
“Yeah,” said Kowalchuk.
“I got a knife right here.” The young guy rolled up his sleeve and showed a three inch knife on his bicep. It was made to look as though it pierced his skin, and drops of blood were tattooed around the wound.
“That’s a nice one,” Kowalchuk said. “You get it here?”
“Naw, I got it in Hoboken. Don Kelly done it— ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s pretty good, but I don’t think he’s good as Tony here. How many tattoos you got?”
“I don’t have none,” Kowalchuk said.
“No?”
“Uh-uh.”
“This’ll be your first one?”
“Yuh.”
“Shit,” the kid said, smiling. “I got one here,” he rolled up his other sleeve, “and here,” he unbuttoned his shirt and showed an eagle on his chest, “and here,” he pulled up a pant leg. “I’m going to get another one here.” He pointed to his other bicep.
“Gee, you got a lot of tattoos,” Kowalchuk said.
“Yeah, I like ‘em.”
A blond guy with a tooth missing rolled up his sleeve and showed Kowalchuk a skull with a Nazi helmet on it. “I just got this one two weeks ago and now I’m going to get a panther on my other arm.”
“Panthers are nice,” Kowalchuk said. He turned to the drawings again and tried to figure out what knife to get. The black-haired kid and the blond huddled around him.
“I like that one,” said the black-haired kid, pointing to a seven-inch dagger. “Maybe I’ll put one on my leg.”
“It’s too big,” Kowalchuk said. “I think I’ll get this one.” He pointed to a four-inch dagger with red and green jewels in the handle.
“Which one’s that?” called out Tony from the other room.
“Four-twenty-nine,” replied Kowalchuk, reading the number underneath the knife.
“Oh that’s a good one,” Tony said.
“Hey Tony,” yelled the blond guy, “you should get an assistant in here.”
“I need an assistant like a rabbi needs a pig,” replied Tony.
Kowalchuk sat on a chair and twiddled his thumbs. The young girl sitting opposite him had straight black hair and an Irish pug nose. Couldn’t be more than sixteen years old. Above her was a drawing of a little boy peeing. Kowalchuk wondered what kind of an idiot would want that on his arm.
Tony finished with the blonde girl, and she stood up, looking at her butterfly in the mirror. “How much?” she said.
“Twenty-five dollars.”
One of the dark-haired Italian guys paid the money, and the girl came into the room where Kowalchuk was. The other girl got up and looked at the butterfly.
“It’s nice,” she said.
“Why don’t you get one?”
“My mother would kill me.”
One of the young guys went into the room with Tony, and Kowalchuk got up to watch from the doorway. The guy rolled up his pant leg and pointed to the side of his calf.
“I want it right here.”
“Which one was that?”
“Number three-fourteen. The dancin’ girl.”
“That’s a nice one.”
Tony left the room and came back with a sheet of plastic with the outline of the dancing girl on it. Tony’s shirt was open now and Kowalchuk could see part of a big blue tattoo, but couldn’t make out what it was. The lines were faded; it must be very old.