“Which is what?”
“I’ll let you know soon as I think of it,” Boomer said, watching the door open and Junior’s body fill the entryway.
• • •
IF JUNIOR WAS surprised, he didn’t show it.
He took the key from the lock, slid it back into his pocket, and closed the door softly behind him. He gave them an arrogant smirk as he walked into the living room, a lit cigarette cupped in his right hand, and tossed his Bill Blass lamb’s wool coat onto the back of a dining room chair. He was wearing cuffed tan slacks, brown loafers with tassels, a button-down cream-colored Calvin Klein shirt, and a brown Hickey-Freeman jacket. Everything about Junior smelled of money and upbringing.
And everything about his apartment smelled of a depravity that would elude any rational explanation.
“You two look too stupid to be burglars,” Junior said, smiling and sitting down in a leather recliner. “So I figure you must be cops. Am I right?”
Boomer walked over to Junior and stared down at him for several seconds before he slapped him across the face with the back of his hand, the hard crack echoing through the room. A red finger welt covered Junior’s face from the side of his head to his jawline.
“I have a few questions I need to ask,” Boomer said in a calm voice, feeling the cop gears clicking back in. “And I want the answers I’m expecting.”
“And if I decide to tell you shit?” Junior said, his arrogance only slightly tempered. “What then, assholes?”
Boomer reared back and landed another slap across the same side of the face, only this one was harder. A thin line of blood formed on Junior’s lower lip.
“I ask the questions,” Boomer said. “You’re here only to give the answers.”
Junior wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked past Boomer and over to Dead-Eye. “And what’s the nigger here to do?” Junior asked with a smirk. “Take notes?”
This time Boomer punched him flush to the forehead, sending Junior’s head snapping against the back of the recliner, a large red blotch forming in the center of his head, just above his nose, which was now flowing blood down to his mouth.
“Be polite,” Boomer said. “It counts toward your final grade.”
“You two have no idea who you’re playing with,” Junior said, trying to sound tough, blood running past his chin and down onto his shirt collar. “None at all. If my father knew any of this, he would have the both of you in jail before dark.”
“Pop ever been up here?” Dead-Eye asked. “Check out your collection? Or he just pays out whenever psycho son gets jammed up?”
“You’re gonna be a dot on the sidewalk outside before your father even knows where the fuck you are,” Boomer said. “So save the my-daddy’s-rich routine for people who scare easy. Now, I wanna know names and places and I’m gonna get them from you. If I don’t, I start putting your body parts up there on the wall. Nod if you’re starting to understand.”
Junior nodded, blood streaming down the front of his shirt, his arrogance giving way to uneasiness.
Boomer snapped open the top two buttons of Junior’s shirt, exposing a gold chain around his neck. Boomer’s fingers slowly began to scan the items hanging down from it. They were dried animal parts mostly—teeth, nails, stretched skin.
Boomer stopped when he saw the finger.
It was human and the cut was fresh, pink polish still gleaming on the nail. The flesh around the finger was unlined, free of scars and the bruises of age. It belonged to someone young, and the lack of calluses told Boomer that someone was a girl.
A hard look filled Boomer’s eyes and Junior was quick to catch it. Fear started to creep into his voice.
“I don’t know where that came from,” Junior said. “I swear to you. It was a gift.”
“Hey, Dead-Eye,” Boomer said, his eyes not moving away from Junior.
“Yeah, Boom?” Disgust etched across the angles of Dead-Eye’s face.
“I think I just came up with plan B,” Boomer said.
• • •
MALCOLM PUT A light to the top end of the sheer plastic pipe and closed his eyes, letting the thin vapors of smoke fill his lungs and jolt his brain. His lips curled into a smile as he rested the hot pipe on his lap and looked across at the man with the long scar running down the right side of his face. The man sat with his legs crossed, staring out onto the empty side street.
They were in the back of a new four-door Cadillac that had plush leather seats and a well-stocked bar. A driver in a dark blue suit sat up front, keeping the engine on idle and the car warm.
“I never smoked rock was this clean,” Malcolm said, the smile on his face growing wider, his words coming out slow and slurred.
The man turned from the window and looked at Malcolm, eyes hidden by a pair of dark, wraparound ski shades. “You supply what I need, Malcolm,” the man said, his lips barely moving as he spoke, “and you’ll die with a clean pipe in your hand.”
“A man can’t ask for more,” Malcolm said with a nervous laugh.
“A man like you shouldn’t,” the man said.
He had jumped out in front of Malcolm by the Eighth Avenue side of the Lincoln Tunnel entrance. A smart man in a smart suit, standing by a new car, wanting to talk over a little business. He said he got Malcolm’s name from Smiley Glimmer and was waiting there, ready to offer him all the free smoke he could handle. All Malcolm had to do in return was sit back in the car, get high, and listen.
Malcolm was in a hurry, rushing to get back to his room and do the girl a few more times before handing her over to Junior so he could start shredding her up. Then he planned to wash down the taste of the girl with a week’s supply of smoke Junior was going to dish as payoff. But the promise of a taste of rock, a taste that cost more than Malcolm would see in a year, was too strong for him to pass up. Besides, taking a couple of slides off the pipe would put him in a better mood, make him enjoy the girl even more.
The driver never spoke and the man only in short sentences. The man put a hand into his coat pocket and handed Malcolm two more cocaine rocks.
“These are for later,” the man said. “Help you get to sleep the right way.”
“What’s your market?” Malcolm asked, shoving the rocks into his shirt pocket.
“Girls,” the man said, lifting the crack pipe back to Malcolm’s lips and lighting it with a flick of a gold butane. “The younger the better.”
“Only kind I know to deal in,” Malcolm said, drawing in a deep breath. The smoke turned the soft skin behind his eyes a cloudy shade of gray.
“And there’s one other thing,” the man said, smiling for the first time.
“What’s that gonna be?” Malcolm asked.
“Babies,” the man said.
“Babies?” Malcolm held the pipe inches away from his mouth. “What kind of babies?”
“The kind that cry till you rock them,” the man said, turning his attention back to the street. “The ones that make men smile and women want to hold.”
“These babies for you?” Malcolm asked, still confused by the request.
The man turned back and looked at Malcolm. He removed the shades, dark eyes cutting a sharp path past the crack smoke and Malcolm’s dulled senses. He reached a hand into his shirt pocket and slid out a black business card.
“For my boss,” the man said. He handed the card to Malcolm, who stared down at it, glassy eyes unable to read the name and Arizona address stenciled across the front in white letters.
“Keep it,” the man told Malcolm. “And remember the name. When you have something, you call that number and someone will find you.”
“How much?” Malcolm asked, slipping the card into his jeans.
“Ten thousand for a baby,” the man said, putting the shades back on. “Five thousand for a girl who can give us one. Twenty for both.”
“I always liked babies,” Malcolm said, nodding, a wide smile on his face. “Now I like ’em even more.”
“They can help make you rich,” the man said. “If you’re smart.”
“I’m a doper,” Malcolm said, “not a dummy.”
“The card in your pocket will decide that.” The man now leaned over and placed a Polaroid snapshot between the fingers of Malcolm’s right hand. Malcolm brought the picture to eye level, squinting, trying to focus.
The photo was of a male body, charred beyond recognition, washed ashore on a desolate strand of beach.
“What’s this?” Malcolm asked.
“It’s not a what,” the man said. “It’s a who. He lost the card and let someone else see the name. That forced me to come get him. It took a long time to find him and it took him a long time to die.”
“What’s on that card stays with me,” Malcolm said, seeing the photo in his hand with a clear eye. “Bet your life on it.”
“I’ll do one better, Malcolm,” the man said. “I’m going to bet yours.”
• • •
JUNIOR MOVED SLOWLY down the street, sandwiched between Boomer and Dead-Eye, two blocks away from where they had parked the car. Cold blasts of air hit against his sweat-stained clothes, causing him to shiver and bury his hands deeper into his pockets.
“I told you the address,” Junior said, turning his head from the wind. “Why do you still need me?”
“In case you lied to me,” Boomer said. “I don’t wanna have to go all the way back uptown just to kill you.”
“You aren’t fooling anybody,” Junior said. “You’re gonna kill me no matter what.”
“Don’t know about him,” Dead-Eye said. “But I’m sure leaning that way.”
“Work with me on this one,” Boomer said. “You come up with us and finger old pal Malcolm. He takes a ride in a patrol car and kills a few months down at Rikers. He’s got nothing but time to tell all the brothers that you were the one stooled him out.”
“That’s not right,” Junior said, shifting his head from Boomer to Dead-Eye. “You said all I had to do was point out the building and give you the apartment number. You didn’t say anything about me going up. You promised.” His voice degenerated into a whine.
“Here’s a lesson for you, Junior,” Boomer said, gripping his arm to prevent a bolt. “Never believe what a cop tells you.”
“Your daddy’s got enough money to buy himself a judge or maybe pay off a family too scared to know better,” Dead-Eye said. “But not enough money’s been made can keep a street stool alive.”
“Like walking around with a loaded gun to your head,” Boomer agreed. “Sooner or later, the trigger’s gonna click.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Junior’s voice had risen to full-throttle panic. “And who says I have to show you the right building. I could keep you two walking all fucking night if I wanted.”
“We better get there before my leg starts to ache,” Dead-Eye said. “My mood turns ugly when that happens.”
“Does your father know?” Boomer asked, hand still wrapped around Junior’s arm. “About your little hobbies?”
“Who you think I learned them from?” Junior said, a heavy dose of sarcasm moving in beside the fear. “Some kids play catch in the backyard with their dad. And some don’t.”
“And I was pissed at my dad for making me collect stamps.” Dead-Eye shook his head.
“You missed out on the big-time,” Boomer said. “Coulda been out on the cannibal circuit with Junior here and his old man, making finger neckties and toe necklaces instead of getting glue on your tongue.”
“Yeah. And even money says his collection’s worth more than mine,” Dead-Eye said.
“But at least you can always send somebody a letter,” Boomer said. “That’s gotta count for something.”
• • •
MALCOLM WAS ON his knees, naked, a knife in one hand, his other gripping Jennifer Santori’s waist. The force of his thrusts banged the top of her head against the side of the wall, but his mind was too clouded by drugs and drink to hear her screams and moans. With the knife he slashed thin lines across her bare shoulders. Her blood ran down her body and splattered up onto Malcolm’s face and chest.
She was naked, numb, and ready to die.
Jennifer wanted Malcolm to kill her. She mentally begged him to free her from the torrent of sexual assaults and abuse. She had lost all sense of time, but felt as if she had been cuffed to the pipe forever, held captive to a madman’s demons. The blood over her severed finger had caked, but it still ached from the pain. The cuts down her back felt like sharp pinches, the kind she’d given her brother when he teased her too much about the way she combed her hair. Only the pinches from Malcolm’s blade drew blood and left scars.
As if from afar, she heard Malcolm groan with pleasure, then he eased out of her, falling face down on the floor.
“I’m gonna miss you, baby,” he said, out of breath and drenched with sweat, right hand clutching the bloody blade. “You one of my favorite catches.”
Jennifer stared at him, her mind darting with quick, brutal snaps of all that had been done to her. She took a deep breath, felt the sting settle in her lungs and the dryness coat her throat. She leaned closer, stretching her arm as far down as the radiator pipe would allow.
“Whatta ya need, baby?” Malcolm asked, still breathing hard, watching her move closer. “Ain’t no time for any more lovin’. We gotta get you ready for Junior. Coupla hours from now you be playin’ in his house and you gonna be beggin’ for me to come save you. That’s a fact.”
Jennifer closed her eyes, her legs cut and scraped, inching along the wooden floor, smelling the foul mixture of urine, semen, blood, and drug residue. She stopped when the cuff cut deeper into her wrist, the skin already sliced away, white bone exposed. She brought her head down and could smell Malcolm’s breath. She opened her eyes, looked at him one more time, holding the stare, wishing she could reach over and pounce on the face she would never be able to erase from her memory.
She knew that if she lived, if she somehow escaped from Malcolm’s hold, she would always be his prisoner. The days and nights spent captive in this room had ensured that he would always be alive inside her, crawling to the surface at any moment, bringing with him the visions and the pain, resurrecting the horror and misery she had suffered.
She knew that smiling face would be as much a part of the rest of her life as her own skin. And as young as she was, as innocent as she’d been, she realized that if, in some way, she survived this nightmare and was set free, she would wait for the moment and then commit the one act that would break his hold on her.
At that moment Jennifer Santori knew that if Malcolm did not kill her, she would one day take her own life.
Malcolm stuck the edge of the knife into a floor panel and used it to help lift his face up. He inched closer to Jennifer, always with the smile, his brain still reeling from the smoked rock and the Four Roses pint he’d lifted from a street rummy.
“Why you lookin’ at Malcolm like that?” he asked her. “There something you want to say? Is there, baby?”
Jennifer nodded her head.
“What, baby?” Malcolm said in a voice that for him passed as soft and concerned. “Tell me.”
Jennifer drew up all that was left of her strength, took in one more long breath, and then spoke her very first words since Malcolm had taken her finger.
“Fuck you,” she said.
Malcolm reacted with a rage not even Jennifer could have imagined. He jumped to his feet, dropped the knife to the floor, and began punching her, his two closed fists balled into stone. He forgot all about Junior and cleaning Jennifer up for his approval. His fury was unleashed now, and there was no reeling it back.
His punches landed hard, heavy, and often, smashing bone and breaking skin. Within minutes there wasn’t a part of Jennifer’s body that wasn’t bruised, bleeding, or broken. When he tired of throwing punches and landing kicks, Malcolm grabbed her hair and slammed the front of her head against the base of the cold radiator.
 
; “Talk to me like that?” Malcolm shouted. “After all I done for you. You bitch! You spoiled, rich, fuckin’ bitch! You gonna die here. You gonna die for talkin’ to me like that.”
Malcolm’s words were heard by no one.
Jennifer was long past hearing him, her mind having entered a warm room surrounded by familiar sounds, smells, and features. A room where she would be loved and trusted. A room where no intruder would ever be allowed in to cause her harm.
A room far away, removed from blood, pain, and misery.
A room that would always remain unknown to a crazed man named Malcolm Juniper.
And a room where the shadows of Boomer Frontieri and Dead-Eye Winthrop would soon loom large.
• • •
JUNIOR CAME CRASHING and flailing through the wooden front door, crying out in pain as he landed on his hands and knees, his right hand inches from the handle of Malcolm’s bloody knife. Boomer and Dead-Eye stood in the entry way behind him, arms out straight, guns cocked and drawn, aimed at Malcolm’s head.
“Move away from the girl,” Boomer told Malcolm, looking down at the still body. “I want you with your back to the wall and your hands out flat.”
Malcolm let go of Jennifer’s hair, took two steps back, and pressed his body against the wall. He was breathing through his mouth, his body tense and coated with a foul-smelling sweat.
Boomer stepped over Junior, sliding the gun back into his hip holster as he walked over to his friend’s daughter. He crouched down and held her battered face, wiped away strands of hair and brushed off lines of blood and mucus. He slid his hand down to her neck and felt for a pulse. It was beating at a low rate, just enough to keep her alive.
“She needs a doctor fast.” Boomer cradled Jennifer’s head with both hands. Fighting both the impulse to cry and the desire to kill, he turned to Malcolm. “Where are the keys to the cuffs? And I don’t wanna hear anything more outta you than the fuckin’ answer.”
Malcolm kept his eyes square on the barrel of Dead-Eye’s gun. “Front pocket of my jeans.”
Boomer rested Jennifer’s head against the wall and took four quick steps over to Malcolm’s jeans, which were crumpled in the center of the room. He picked them up and took out a tiny set of silver keys. Along with the keys, Boomer pulled out a business card, black with white lettering. He pocketed the card and walked back to Jennifer. It was then that he noticed the missing finger.