First Tony shaved the young guy’s leg with a straight razor. Wiping it off with a paper towel, he took the plastic sheet in his left hand and poured black powder into it. He wiped off the excess until only black powder was in the grooves that made the outline of the dancing girl. “Where do you want it?”
The young guy pointed to a section of his calf. “Right here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Tony slapped the plastic sheet against the young guy’s calf, and when he pulled it away, the lines of black powder had transferred to his skin. He cleaned off the plastic sheet and left the room with it. Kowalchuk figured Tony kept the plastic sheets in another room because he was afraid somebody would steal them. Tony came back, sat in front of the young guy, and took up one of his electric needles. Wiping its tip, he dipped it in black ink, then bent over the young man’s calf and hit the button.
The machine began to buzz. The young man had his leg propped up on another chair, and the muscles in his jaw worked as the needle cut into him. Kowalchuk was fascinated by the way the blood oozed out and mixed with the puddle of black ink on his skin. Tony sketched in the outline of the dancing girl, and Kowalchuk remembered how the blood had gushed out of Evelyn’s throat. She was lying on her back on the bed and he was fucking her when he did it. The blood gushed out and he kept fucking her through her death throes. She hadn’t seen the knife coming; one moment she was alive and the next moment she was dead. She’d bled like a stuck pig, and Kowalchuk kept fucking her, getting smeared with her warm blood. He’d had a huge orgasm at the end.
Kowalchuk sat back down in one of the chairs and lit a cigarette. The young guys were showing each other their tattoos. Kowalchuk liked them, happy to be with them. He admired their young strong bodies and recalled how fat he was when he’d been their age, but he couldn’t stop eating in those days. He loved food and still did, but now he had to keep his weight down to fool the police.
Tony finished with the dancing girl and charged the young guy sixty dollars for it. Kowalchuk looked at his watch. He’d only been there a half hour and Tony had already made eighty-five dollars. That was some business he had. The young guy came out and showed his new dancing girl to the others, and whenever he moved his calf muscle the dancing girl wiggled her hips. They all were delighted by it.
Another young guy went in to get the ship put on his arm, then Kowalchuk would be next. Kowalchuk stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and closed his eyes, dozing a little. He’d spent last night in Central Park but it had started raining so he had to ride the subways to stay dry and get some sleep. But he hadn’t gotten much. Now that he had money he ought to check into a good hotel, but he couldn’t until he had some decent clothes. And he couldn’t try on decent clothes in a store unless he cleaned up first someplace. He hadn’t figured out yet how to solve this problem.
Tony finished the young guy’s ship and charged him fifty dollars. The young guy came out and showed it to his friends, who thought it was pretty nice.
“Next,” said Tony.
Kowalchuk went into the other little room and sat in the chair. He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to his forearm. “I want four-twenty-nine right here.”
Tony touched his forefinger to Kowalchuk’s forearm. “You got nice skin for tattoos. Who told you about me?”
“I heard some guys talking. I don’t remember where the hell it was.” Actually he’d heard them in the Metropolitan Garage, but he didn’t want to let on that he’d been a cabbie, because all the newspapers said that the Slasher was a cabbie.
The young guys and girls said goodbye to Tony and told him they’d be back for more tattoos. They left and Tony went for the plastic sheet of the knife tattoo, bringing it back with him to the little room where Kowalchuk was staring into the pot of red ink, reminding him of the blood of the whores.
Tony sat opposite Kowalchuk and stropped his straight razor. He pressed the button on a can of shaving cream and smeared some onto Kowalchuk’s arm. With a few strokes he shaved away the hair.
“I want you to write a word under the knife,” Kowalchuk said.
Tony wiped Kowalchuk’s arm with a paper towel. “What word?”
“Revenge.”
“Capital letters or small letters?”
“Capital.”
“Sure thing,” Tony said, reaching for the plastic sheet with the outline of the knife on it.
Chapter Eight
Detective Dorothy Owens walked into the detective division at Midtown North and saw three men sitting at desks. They all turned and looked at her.
“Can I help you?” asked one of them, who was sort of good-looking.
“I’m looking for Inspector Jenkins,” she said.
“Are you Detective Owens?”
“Yes, I am.”
The man stood and smiled; he was over six feet tall. “Hi, I’m Detective Danny Rackman.” He held out his hand. “We’ve been expecting you.”
She shook his hand. “Hello.” She was wearing green slacks and a brown sweater, her hair was honey-blonde.
“This is Detective Johnny Olivero and Detective Ed Dancy.”
“How do you do,” she said, shaking hands with both of the other detectives.
“Inspector Jenkins is right this way,” said Rackman.
He led her to the small adjoining office; the two other detectives following them in. Jenkins was seated behind his desk, talking on the telephone. Rackman motioned for Dorothy to sit down, then he and the other detectives sat on the other chairs. They all looked at Jenkins, who was talking so softly you couldn’t make out what he was saying. His desk was piled with correspondence, newspapers, photographs, and fingerprint cards. Finally he hung up the phone and looked at Dorothy.
“You must be the decoy from downtown,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m Detective Dorothy Owens.”
Jenkins looked her up and down. “Do you know what we want you for?”
“To help catch the Slasher,” she said.
“He’s a pretty big guy, and I’m wondering if you’re strong enough to deal with him if he gets out of hand.”
“I’ve got a brown belt in karate.”
“But he’s got a knife, and he’s extremely strong.”
“Well I’m not going to be all alone, am I?”
“No, but if he pulls that knife of his you’re going to be alone for a few seconds until somebody can get to you.”
“I think I could handle anybody for a few seconds.”
Jenkins shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked at Rackman. “What do you think?”
“It’s up to her,” Rackman replied. “If she wants to do it, we’ll let her do it. If she doesn’t, we’ll get somebody else.”
Dorothy was getting annoyed; as usual the experienced men were treating her like a second class cop.
“I’ll do it,” she said pleasantly.
“You’re sure?” Jenkins asked, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Jenkins picked up a copy of the New York Review of Sex that would hit the stands tomorrow. He opened it to the back pages and handed it to her. “Read the ad that’s marked in red.”
Dorothy took the paper and looked at the ad.
W/F, 25, Seeks Big Stout Man for any sexual pleasures you enjoy. I like anything and everything, I am clean, and big heavy guys really turn me on. Call Kim at 757-9424 after 6 p.m.
She handed back the paper. “There must be a million guys in this city who fit that description,” she said.
Jenkins frowned as he folded the paper on the pile of junk on his desk. “You got a better idea to catch the Slasher?”