The Serial Killers Club Part 15

Burt immediately shakes off my arm. "I'm not giving you my number, you little f.a.g."

I look hard at Burt. "It's a matter of life and death." I hold his gaze. "Your death."

Burt's features freeze over, and he looks like a badly chiseled statue. He starts to say something but stops. He looks completely bewildered.

I lean in closer to him, maintaining direct eye contact as I do. "It's a personal thing, you understand. But Tony told me he really doesn't like you, Burt. Not one little bit. Truth is, none of the Club do. It's cuz you fit so many serial-killing agendas. They all want a piece of you. Anyway. Safe journey."

I leave Burt openmouthed and wide-eyed. Like he's just been electrocuted.

HOLDING, NOT FOLDING.

I HAVE BEEN DESPERATE HAVE BEEN DESPERATE to hear news of Burt's demise, but so far nothing has happened. I haven't been able to sleep for two days now and badly need something to happen. It's worse than waiting for Christmas. to hear news of Burt's demise, but so far nothing has happened. I haven't been able to sleep for two days now and badly need something to happen. It's worse than waiting for Christmas.

I am at the zoo and speaking in hushed tones over the phone to Betty. Agent Wade had been following me, but I managed to give him the slip when I climbed out the back of a temporary latrine and disappeared down a RESTRICTED VEHICLES RESTRICTED VEHICLES pathway. My arm is out of the sling, and I can move it a little more freely now. pathway. My arm is out of the sling, and I can move it a little more freely now.

"Has Tony found out who the killer is yet?"

"If he has, he's not telling anyone."

I really need to know more, and I push Betty. "Why's he not telling anyone? The killer could strike at any moment."

"He just told me to hold tight . . . that he's got a plan."

"What plan, though?"

Betty is getting a little tetchy with me, and I know I have to be careful not to overplay this. "I don't know. As soon as I do, I'll let you know. Okay?"

"Did he, uh . . . you know . . . mention Burt to you?"

"Burt? As in Burt Lancaster?"

"Yeah."

"No."

Dammit!

"Why? What's the deal with Burt?"

"I dunno. The guy gives me the creeps. He's got killer written all over him."

"We all have, Douglas."

Speak for yourself, Betty.

"Just calm down. You're getting paranoid. Now come on, take some deep breaths, Douglas. One, two-breathe. . . . That's right. One, two-are you feeling any better, Douglas? Come on, now-one, two. Breathe, Douglas, you sound like you're hyperventilating."

There's something in the way that Betty p.r.o.nounces my name that sends a tingle down my spine. The booth I'm in is plastered with calling cards and numbers of call girls and phone-in s.e.x lines. I keep looking at the tawdry ads and imagining Betty as a dominatrix.

"Do you ever take your gla.s.ses off?"

"Pardon me?"

I realize what I've said and turn away from the s.e.x ads, trying hard to focus. There's so many things going on, I'm starting to feel like a boxer fighting an invisible opponent. The punches keep on coming, and I don't know how or when to hit back.

"I, uh . . . I meant . . . when you do what you do . . . do you take your gla.s.ses off?"

"Uh . . . no . . . I wouldn't be able to see a thing if I did. I wouldn't even know which end of the blowtorch to light." Betty laughs, but it is unconvincing. She is still finding me odd, and I wish I could start this whole conversation again. "Why, uh . . . why do you ask?"

"It's just that sometimes I wear gla.s.ses when I . . . you know. . . . Not real ones, fake ones. Just for a change."

"But you haven't killed anyone in years."

This conversation is leading nowhere fast. "It's this horrendous block-it's ruining my life, Betty."

"Breathe, Douglas. One, two . . . in, out . . ."

I breathe for Betty's sake and make myself completely dizzy. "It's just been a really bad time for me. What with the killer and this other punk hounding me."

"Oh, hey. About that guy who's blackmailing you . . . I think I've got a plan."

"You have?"

I decide to listen and maybe grunt a "yeah" or an "uh-huh" every now and then. It's the only safe way for me to get through the conversation. "What you've got to do is find out where he's hiding the photos."

"Uh-huh."

"My guess is it's an if-anything-should-happen-to-me-then-these-pictures-get-sent-to-the-cops-and/or-the-press type of thing."

"Yeah."

"So what you've got to do, Douglas . . ." Cue another tingle. "What you've got to do is find out who would do that for him."

"I see." I can't help myself as I look back at one card in particular that advertises a call girl service. The girl on the card is blond, well endowed, almost a Chesty Morgan, and devastatingly pretty. She is also only a sketch. Her name is Hanna, and she is willing to do "anything and everything, inclusive." I think about taking the card down and giving it to Agent Wade. Then I figure he's probably already got one.

"Now, have you any idea who that someone might be?"

I fall silent, not because I'm thinking, but because I'm not thinking. I don't have anything to offer Betty. She waits a moment.

"Douglas? Are you still there?"

"Uh-huh . . ."

"Well?"

"Uh . . ."

"There must be someone."

"Uh . . ."

"A friend, a girlfriend, maybe?"

Before I know it, I have taken down Hanna's calling card and read aloud from it. "Her name's Hanna and her number's 555-SWEAT."

I can hear Betty pause, surprised by my direct and incisive response.

"Uh . . . 555-what? Hang on, let me get a pen."

I study the picture of Hanna and wonder if it is at all possible that she looks as good as this in real life.

And as I do, I see Agent Wade's face peering in the phone booth. It shocks me rigid.

"Who are you phoning, Dougie?"

"No one-" I immediately hang up.

"Douglas . . . ?" Agent Wade's eyes drill into me.

I reluctantly bring up the picture of Hanna and show him, doing my best to look embarra.s.sed. "You're absolutely right. I do covet women."

It takes another three days for me to shake Agent Wade long enough to manage to speak to Betty again, and we arrange to meet back in the cafe with the devastatingly pretty waitress and the yes-to-dogs policy. I'm not sure what I'm going to say, so I decide to go with the flow and see what happens. I can always fall back on the hyperventilating ploy if things don't work out.

Betty studies Hanna's calling card, looks at the drawing of the impossibly endowed and fantastically beautiful Hanna smiling hungrily back at her, whip in one hand, hammer-headed vibrator in the other. She seems concerned as she hands the card back to me.

"Are you sure you've got the right person, Douglas?"

"Absolutely. You see, the guy who's blackmailing me is very depraved. He, uh . . . he goes to a lot of strip joints. And also a lot of prost.i.tutes. So my guess is he has become friendly with this Hanna."

Betty sips her cappuccino and then very quickly dabs at her top lip with a napkin when she sees me about to wipe her with my own napkin. She pushes the cappuccino away.

"When I rang the number you gave me, they told me to go to a certain motel room and wait. So I did. About five minutes later two Mexican-looking guys walked in, pointed a gun at me, and then took my purse."

I truly don't know what to say and feel a little fl.u.s.tered.

"So you didn't get to see Hanna, then?"

"I don't think Hanna exists, Douglas."

"But she's got a card . . . that card there. I found it in my, uh . . . I mean, it fell out of the blackmailer's pocket. She must exist. How else would she be able to do a drawing of herself?"

"Douglas, listen to me . . ." Betty is very calm, very rational, and it is only after about a minute that I realize her hand is touching mine. "Listen a moment . . ." I look up and see Betty's near crystal blue eyes. They hypnotize me. "Forget Hanna. That was you being desperate, okay? You were just clinging to something, anything."

"She does exist, Betty. There was probably just some huge misunderstanding at the motel you went to."

Betty tries to talk over me. "We need another plan."

"Maybe I should call her up. Maybe they thought you were from the vice squad or something. Maybe if I went to meet her, it would be different."

Betty withdraws her hand. I make a grab to get it back, but she is too quick, and I knock the salt cellar over instead. I immediately grab a handful and toss it over my right shoulder.

"For luck."

Then I toss more salt over my left shoulder because I don't know which shoulder is meant to be lucky. I then do them both again, just in case. I'm not sure the customers at the table behind ours are too impressed, and I can guess from the look on her face that Betty isn't, either. I lick my fingers, tasting the salt.

"So . . . how much did they take?"

"Pardon me?"

"These Mexicans, the muggers . . . how much did they take?"

I already have my wallet out, and I have a desire to give Betty all I own in recompense; she can even have my apartment-or at least she could have if I weren't renting.

"Don't be silly, Douglas."

"No, Betty. I insist. How much did they take?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you."

"A hundred? Two hundred?"

"Douglas . . ."

"Five hundred?"

"As if I'd have that much in my purse. . . ."

I fish out all the cash in my wallet. I try to press it into Betty's hand. "There's what? Maybe three fifty there. You take it . . . have it all. . . ."

Betty tries to push the money back into my hands, but I close my fists into b.a.l.l.s, tight b.a.l.l.s that she could open only if she smashed my knuckles with a hammer.

"I don't want this, Douglas."

Before she can give the money back to me, I quickly s.n.a.t.c.h my hands away and shove them under the table, fists still in tight b.a.l.l.s. "That mugging was my fault. I mean, my G.o.d, you could have been killed."

"I wasn't, though."

"But they could have . . . you know . . . raped you . . . or forced you into p.o.r.n movies. Or even sold you into the white slave trade. Because they do that, you know? These people, they're real opportunists. They drug you, tie you up, and when you wake you find you're suddenly in Africa and guys with bones through their noses are bidding for you."

Betty laughs. She obviously thinks I'm being funny, that I'm making a joke out of something that in truth I happen to find pretty alarming.

"They wouldn't have gotten much for me. I'd be strictly bargain bas.e.m.e.nt."

I stop, amazed that Betty could think so little of herself. I look at her, take in her pulled-back hair, the simple but effective rubber band that holds her ponytail in place, the huge gla.s.ses that cover half her face. I see her snow white skin, her dimples, and even though her lips are on the thin side, I know that with the right lipstick or even a ma.s.sive injection of collagen, they would look eminently kissable. I see the money I tried to give her lying on the table between us. I lift one of my bunched fists from under the table and nudge the money toward her.

"I'd pay through the nose for you." Our eyes meet.