Murder in Times Square Page 3

  I nervously looked at Connie, but she had fallen into a Spanish conversation and held the drink to her lips, taking little sips. The Hispanic transvestite, Yvonne she called herself, talked with a lot of clicks and lisps, an over-exaggerated mimic of girlwannabe, but something I would've wanted if it had not been for this murder shit. But I was getting me in deeper with every minute that was passing and somehow I was losing it. I hadn't fucked Connie yet—just the fleeting insertion at the subway station followed by a few jerk off sessions that had gotten me nothing. Now here was Yvonne, an obvious blowjob queen who was used to being treated like royalty and which I was more than willing to cater to her every whim. But that was before I had my, our, run-in with Paco. Jesus Christ! I glared at Connie. It's not my fault but hers, the bitch!

  Connie and Yvonne had their heads close together, talking low to each other and Yvonne was looking at me, her mouth open.

  “I swear,” I heard Connie say, glancing at me. “I know, it doesn't show, but he's very dangerous.”

  Connie nodded and Yvonne said nothing, just kept staring at me, her eyes widening. I smiled and a few times ran my tongue over my lips. Without a word to me, Yvonne slowly got up and went to rejoin her friends at a table not far from us.

  I shrugged, “What's with her?” I asked, sipping my beer and hoping I could see those false breasts again, but didn't.

  “Nothing,” Connie said, quickly finishing her drink. “Let's get outta here.”

  When I next looked at Yvonne and her transvestite friends, they were looking at me and rapidly talking. Connie said nothing so I shrugged and followed her out.

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  Chapter Four

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  On 9th Avenue and 41st Street, we stopped in to get another pint bottle of gin. I didn't like being on anywhere near 41st Street anymore even though we were just a block from the site where Paco had died. I had no plans of staying with Connie much longer.

  “Yvonne is cool,” I heard her say. “I wouldn't worry about her.”

  I blinked my eyes and tried focusing on what she was saying. “Worry about what?”

  She sniggered. “The maricone faggot has stupid ideas.”

  We left the liquor store. “What ideas?”

  “She thinks you killed Paco,” she quietly said, looking away.

  Holy shit! I stopped and glared at her. “What? What did you tell her?”

  She shrugged, but looked at me nervously. “Nothing. Don't worry about her, she won't say anything. She's cool.”

  Right away I knew that this had gotten out of hand and I was falling deeper into it than I cared to go. All I wanted was just some more sex, fucking, blowing, stroking and then doing it again, over and over. Is that too much to ask for? It is, if the girl has just killed someone and then blamed you for doing it. Aw, shit! What am I thinking? Just get the fuck out of here!

  She also stopped and pleadingly looked at me. “Stay with me, please?” She looked like at any moment she would begin to cry. “We still didn't make any real doity.”

  I looked at her. “Huh? What are you talking about? What's making doity?”

  She grinned and looked at me very red-faced, “You know, make doity. That's how adults talk. Filthy fucking,” she blushed, “that's making doity.”

  Once again I felt a tinge of my cock stirring, coming alive. I knew I was doomed, but didn't care. I looked at her dark clothes, black skirt, black nylons, black jacket, white blouse—I suppose for contrast she had dug up somewhere—and I knew she had been doomed before I met her. All she wanted was a willing participant to join her in her funeral, which would be coming very soon. But still I didn't think I would be following her so obediently to the Elk Hotel.

  The hotel guy, Clem, winked at the red-faced Connie as she walked past, but glared at me when I followed her up the stairs, saying something under his breath. I guess he wanted a better view of Connie's dark panties going up the stairs, but since I walked behind her there was very little for him to see. Serves him right. I admired a nice view of Connie's bouncy ass before me. I could just imagine the pleasure awaiting me. My dick was hard and this would be a hell of a good fucking. Or so I thought. Still, why was I so thoughtful, as if something was brewing?

  We entered our room on the third floor and Connie immediately went for her drink, opening her bottles of gin and tonic that she had picked up along the way. This would do the trick for her, we weren't going anywhere else and her bottle was like a lifeline back to where she didn't want to be. She drank two drinks in rapid succession and then settled herself on the bed, holding the bottle like a holy orb of victory.

  “C'mon, take your shoes off,” she said. “Let's make doity.”

  I frowned. Years ago my first girlfriend, Rebecca, talked dirty in that little girl's voice that Connie was imitating. “I gotta make pee pee,” Rebecca would say, or kaka, or wee wee, or woo woo, until I finally had enough of her and said, "Bye bye." I was pissed. I couldn't stand those old memories of what could've been, like little reminders that you blew it. “Cut it out,” I said, “It's not funny.”

  She sulked, her lower lip puffed out in a little girl's expression. It's amazing how horny I felt, horny and angry. My cock was hard and my feelings were explosive.

  “But little baby like it when daddy makes doity,” she lisped.

  I stood over her, my fists clenched, my teeth gritted.

  “Make doity for me, pweese?” she sulked, an incredible mimic of a deranged horny fuckable woman.

  “You whore!” I cursed, missing her face and striking the air before her. “You fucking bitch!” But this time my slaps found their mark. Pow! Pow! It was easy, one left, one right, and she was stunned. The drink had spilled on the bed. Her eyes were wide, looking at me in surprise and fear. I glared at her, sitting straddle-legged atop her, but then she started crying.

  “Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit!” I cursed. I ripped her blouse off and was tearing at her skirt. It's amazing how easily they came off, like butter stuck in flour or sugar. I tugged at her bra, got that off, and ripped off her panties. For a moment I stopped and looked at her, streaks of slap marks like she had gotten a whipping recently on her lower body and now she was getting another beating from me.

  I lowered my pants. “You whore!” I cussed. “I'm going to fuck you like the garbage you are!” I fell on top of her and was instantly fucking her. Grunts and tears were added to my cursing, but I liked it. The more she cried, the more I felt happy, like it was a relief after a hard day's work. And seeing the bitch's tears only made the orgasm more satisfying, like she had nothing to do with it. Ha Ha! Just a piece of garbage...Holy Shit! I was cumming, plunged deep in her, with my scum pouring out into her worthless cunt.

  I clenched her pillow, like I was clenching someone's life. Hers... I don't know, but my anger didn't go away with cumming, it only got worse. I hated her and hated myself for being there with her. But there was no way out of this. The cunt had killed a guy I sort of knew... Why am I here

  I collapsed atop her, breathing heavily, then staggered up and started to get dressed. For a while, Connie just sniffled as if expecting me to say something. I put on my coat, turned, and was about to leave, when Connie leaped out of bed and barred the way.

  “Where you going?” she asked, looking at me in surprise. “I got all the booze I need.” She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, like someone unsure of themselves.

  There was hardly any evidence of my fists striking her. Just glaring red marks where I had slapped her. Embarrassed by the slapping that I did, I stared at her and tried again to leave. “Get out of my way!” I raged.

  “No, miera,” she said, “Not until you tell me what is wrong.”

  “Get the fuck out! You fucking whore!” Again I tried to get out and again Connie blocked the way. No matter what I thought, there was something funny about it, a fully dressed guy trying to get away from an almost naked woman. I shook my head and dropped down to the
bed. I wanted to laugh, but this was no longer a laughing matter. I was beginning to get nervous and looked up at her. One stocking was around her leg, but the other dangled from the other leg. Again I felt a tinge of my dick getting hard. It would be easy to fuck her again, real damn easy. I shrugged, as if I had nothing to say.

  She looked at me. “Tell me what's wrong, please?”

  I lay down on the bed and she followed, taking off the torn bra she had on. She reached for her cup and her bottle of gin, took a drink and scowled from the taste, but poured herself another one.

  I looked at her. All I had to do was wait for her to pass out, and the way she was going at it wouldn't take all that much. I sheepishly smiled and shrugged.

  I lit a cigarette and looked at her drinking. I don't know how someone could drink like that. A few drinks and I'd had it, but there was no stopping her once she got started. The gin was like water to her, but it had its effect. The appearance and look of her got very sluggish, but the drinking had slowed her somewhat. Only half of the bottle was gone, but the remnants were slowly sipped, like she had all the time in the world. Her being naked—well, only a nylon and a half-torn one at that—made it a little difficult to pay attention to what she was saying. “What? Huh?” I said. “Pissed? I'm not pissed.”

  I gazed at her, she was trying to focus on me, but the urge for another drink took over. I watched her drink, sipping very slowly. I knew that very soon I'd be out of here. What was I here, an hour or so? Seems like it. Her eyes were shut and she was breathing somewhat heavily, like she had something in her throat.

  Caroon! it sounded. Caroon! Caroon! An almost snoring-like sound, that no matter how harsh, she still seemed very peaceful. But I had to give it some time. She was falling asleep.

  I lit another cigarette and sat back. This was straight out a Times Square movie I'd seen at the Bryant or Pix, of a nylon-clad girl on the bed and a guy with his dick out, ready to enter her. I tugged at my hard-on, slightly shifting its position, when once more she came awake.

  “Did I sleep?” she asked, yawning and pushing the cover off to get under it.

  I smiled. “No big thing. You just need some sleep. You'll feel better then.”

  She slowly sipped her drink, growing quiet, like again she was sleeping when suddenly she awoke.

  “He was a stupid asshole,” she mumbled, as if to herself. “Serves him right...”

  I knew she was talking about Paco, but didn't say anything. She swallowed her drink and poured herself another one.

  “Can you imagine us getting married? Jesus fucking Christ!” She sipped her drink, scowling like she was going to throw up, but again refilled her glass. “Fucking idiot! He thinks I didn't suspect anything, but right away I caught him coming out of the Pix with his pants all wet. Christ, what an asshole!”

  I shrugged, “Maybe it was raining... Ever think of that?”

  She snorted in dismissive smartass laughter. “Rain my ass! There wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a beautiful sunny day. Jesus!” She tasted the liquor, a faint touch of her tongue on the gin. “We need some ice,” she said, making a face. “Too warm. This ain't no good.”

  I brightened, Ah ha! This would be my lucky break! “I'll go,” I said, smiling. “I'll get a bag.”

  She narrowly looked at me, as if trying to read something in my face, but maybe she was too drunk or my look was very deceiving. “Promise not to be too long, honey?” she said, curling up on the bed, pulling the blanket with her into a chaotic sleep—her need to guard over me was gone

  I looked at her. Whew! I was damned lucky to be out of that hell-hole, damn! And shut the door. I skipped down the stairs, grinning and amazed at how happy I felt, leaving behind that murdering asshole. What a loser! A few more steps and she would be out of my life forever. Good riddance!

  At the lobby desk stood Clem, talking to an old guy at the counter. He snorted at me as I walked past.

  “About time,” he said, looking at a clock and shaking his head.

  He and the other old guy burst into low chuckles, like they were sharing a ribald laugh. But there was nothing funny in their laughter.

  I shrugged and skipped down the remaining steps, ecstatic that soon I would be out of that hellhole. I couldn't wait to get into some movie house and have my cock jerked off. I need that! When suddenly I overheard Clem say, “Be my guest, Room Three Twenty...” but the rest of it was muffled.

  I stopped in my tracks at the front door. Holy shit. Isn't that the room I just left Connie in?

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  * * *

  Chapter Five

  * * * *

  On the street, the rain was starting up again. At least it wasn't a monsoon like it was the last few days. Or was it evening and the rain was dying out? I had no idea, morning or night—my days had become a mess. But I think it was night, lots of people were walking like they had somewhere to go. No matter the hour, 42nd Street lures you like a lamb to the slaughter for a fine feast. Or had I become that lamb?

  Anyway, I still was angry, but like hell I was going to give Connie to some old fart in the Elk Hotel. But would I stay and get myself put in jail? Was she worth it? What was she, an alcoholic whore who killed a faggot guy—like me—and didn't think anything of it? Aw hell, I'd just better get the hell out of here while I still had time. We drank, we fucked and she was still drinking...while some old guy would keep on fucking her. I felt the blood rushing through my brain. Like hell he would!

  I walked into a coffee shop, got a bag of ice for her and a tuna fish sandwich, which I hurriedly ate up, and headed back to the Elk Hotel. Fucking Clem was sure surprised to see me—I began to call him Clam because that's what he looked like, a fucking Clam.

  “Huh?” he stammered his face paling into whiteness. “What the hell? You back?”

  I couldn't help but starting up the stairs where the old guy had gone. I said nothing, just glared at Clem as I hurried up stairs. On the 3rd floor everything was quiet. Somewhere I could hear a fan spinning, like trying to create some air on this dull dismal day. I listened at the door. Things seemed to be all right. Just my imagination, I'm overwrought, and that's all. I knocked. “Connie,” I called. “It's me, Eddie, I got the ice...”

  There was a hurried sound, like she had gotten off the bed, but made no further movement.

  For a moment that puzzled me, but then I knocked again. “C'mon, Connie. Open up!”

  Again there were hesitant footsteps, then nothing.

  “Connie,” I ordered. “I'm waiting.”

  Still nothing...

  I banged louder, shouting her name. “Connie, C'mon... Open the door! I can hear you...”

  Just then Clem came up the stairs.

  “What's all the shouting about?” he asked, looking at the door. “I got sleeping people here you know.”

  The door slowly opened.

  “Huh?” I said. “What the...”

  It was the old guy hurriedly coming out of her room, but looking sheepishly at me and bustling behind Clem, as if for protection.

  “So you made a mistake,” Clem said, holding up his arms to keep me away from him. “Wrong room, no big thing.”

  “What mistake?” I said, angry as hell. “My ass, a mistake!” I surged toward the old guy, but Clam was in the way. Every time I could get near him, Clam blocked my way.

  “C'mon, pal,” said Clam, “mistakes happen.” He hastened the old guy before him who quickly hustled down the stairs.

  “Mother fucker!” I yelled after them and surged into Connie's room, slamming the door. She was passed out on the bed, almost nude with her tattered nylons still looping around her legs, her cunt wet, as if she had just been playing with herself or else had someone had just fucked her. I cursed. “Damn, mother fucker! Christ! Low-life piece of shit!” I smashed my fist into the wall. “Shit! Christ!”

  I fell down, looking at the red sores on my fist. I listened to the wafting of her breathing, the drunken snores sounding somethin
g like Ahh coorlompf... Ahh coorlumpf ... But a lot worse than before or that I could mimic. It was almost disgusting, the sound of it as if there were no cares in the world, just sleep, careless, drunken, comatose sleep. Real abandon to show there was nothing in the world that could disturb her. I felt strangely sorry for her, dead to the world while the world was slowly closing in. As much as she pretended not to care, it was quickly coming to a draw with the conclusion not far behind her.

  I shook my head and looked down at her, naked and just fucked. I felt my hard-on growing, like it had a life of its own and now was demanding room to breathe. I touched her arm. Nothing. I groped at her tit. The nipples were incredibly flaccid and not coming to life. For a moment, I also felt myself getting soft, like I was melting. “You bitch! Fucking bitch!” And I was down at her, lowering my pants and quickly fucking her. I fucked her good and hard, like I had never been fucked before. But even when I shot off in her, my dick stayed rigid like I was ready for another fucking. I kept grinding in her, like a tormented animal I had seen once on some nature show, fucking in a frenzy, and with teams of animals around waiting for their fucking, for as soon one was done, another took his place. I wished I could be that animal, just fucking and fucking. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I found my bliss! I am fucking her, the useless whore! And I felt very sad...

  I stopped and rolled off. The whore bitch! Murdering slut! I was exhausted, like I had fucked for hours, than did it all over again. Whew! Goddamned slut! I pulled my pants up and looked for a cigarette. The ashtray was full of half-smoked ones, the way she did it. She had said that cigarette tar was bad for you, the drunk, how do you believe her with that one?

  I lit the remnants and took a drag. Ugh! Stale. I put her half-smoked cigarette out and sat back down. If I left, Clam and the old guy would surely come back up, but if I stayed, what then? Nothing, I shrugged. I had been here way too long anyway. I made up my mind. They could have her.

  I got up, looked at her sleeping and left the room. Clam was downstairs, not looking at me and didn't say a thing. On the counter was a newspaper, I glanced at the headline. Times Square Killer it read. I froze, then hurried down the stairs, away from the hotel.