Murder in Times Square Page 4

  On the night street I felt renewed, like I had just bathed and was ready to face the day, but it was evening with the brightness lighting upon 42nd Street. There was only one place for me to go, which had been my first intent, Bryant movie house, and watch girls in garter belts and nylons and get myself a blowjob by a male or female, I didn't care.

  I walked along 42nd Street, throngs of people teamed together with me walking down the street. Girls in short skirts showing off their lovely legs and guys with their tongues hanging out. Christ! How did I stay away so long?

  I grinned when I came to Grant's Bar, where I had been with Connie and her transvestite/tramp friends, Zelda...or Monique...or something like that—I always forget names, especially fake phony French ones.

  I gazed into the bar through the steam-fogged windows. The place was packed with people getting burgers, franks and fries, drinking or going to the bathroom to make their trysts. It seemed like a ritual, like a holy alcoholic mass and the deacons stood at the bar and ready to serve you another drink. I shrugged and smiled to myself, ready to take off when the front door flew open. Out came Connie's friend, the hot looking transvestite, who looked like I had done something wrong with her friend. “Hey, what's up?” I smirked .

  “Where's Connie?” she firmly asked, looking around.

  I shrugged. “Sleeping it off, I guess.”

  She studied me. “Don't you know? You were with her...”

  Again I shrugged. “Sleeping. Or fucking... Who the hell knows?” I laughed, trying to dispel her foul mood. “Hey, I'm going to the Bryant, want to come?” I knew I had seen her there before, but she was always bending down before a guy. I was hoping she was going to do that to me tonight.

  She thought a moment. “Just wait, I gotta see my friend. It'll only take a minute, then we'll go.”

  She went to back inside Grant's, where I could see her figure whispering to another transvestite and pointing at me. Boy, my luck has finally changed!

  After some minutes, she came out with a shy male-looking transvestite.

  “This is Francette,” she said, introducing me to a young transvestite wannabe who didn't look like female at all. The male features were still there, as if undecided which sex it wanted to be. Something was still trying to stress itself in him.

  I wondered which one would win over, male or female? “And you are? I forgot your name.”

  She glared at me for a second, then said, “Yvonne.”

  I marveled at how French names were chosen as they continued to jabber in Spanish, disappearing in a flutter of Hispanic gibberish. I interrupted. “Is she coming with us?” I looked at Francette.

  The two of them stopped talking and looked at each other.

  “No,” Yvonne said. “Just walking us to the Bryant, you got a problem with that?”

  I shrugged and walked along with them. Yvonne wore a short skirt, but I could see the tops of her pantyhose peeking out. The skirt just didn't reach far enough. I had a hard-on even though I knew these were guys. I still like their sex, even if it was all fake. Yvonne and Francette drifted back and walked slowly, a step behind me, very serious, as if they were discussing the state of the world. Christ! Some sorry state the world would be in if they were in charge!

  I had to wonder about Yvonne as that's the same way she was with Connie, very serious and judgmental, like being humorous was all wrong. I shook my head. Oh well, as long as she gives me a good blowjob, that's all I care about.

  We came to the Bryant theater alcove lined with movie pictures of fake sex—women pretending to suck cock, getting fucked or screwed up the ass, but nowhere was the copulation done for real as it was all pretend and a sham, yet that's the way I liked it. Because Bryant was a soft porn theater and for hard core stuff you had to bury yourself deeper in 42nd Street, in jam-packed adult movie houses like the Victoria or the Sylvan or the Globe, but they were always packed so you couldn't find a seat, much less get a blowjob. That's why I always picked the half-empty Bryant, the pornography was soft, tame, boring, but the opportunities for it were real, almost hard core. You couldn't walk into the Bryant before someone, a transvestite or a fruity man, offered to suck your cock. That's why I always went there. It was rather delicious.

  I smiled at Francette and caught her staring at my crotch.

  She blushed and looked away.

  Yvonne glared at me, angrily whispered something to Francette.

  Francette nodded. “Si, Si.” She walked off.

  With that, Yvonne took my arm as I paid to get in the Bryant, but once again I regretted the fact I had never learned Spanish, besides the usual words of manana, adios, hasta luesta, puta or maricone. A funny language.

  The Bryant had a wall of mirrors as you entered up a long hallway and surprisingly, Yvonne looked very sexy as we walked up the ramp and entered the dark movie house. The sounds of fake fucking, lots of moans, deep sighing and heavy groaning were evident as we tried to get used to the darkness. The back rows of seats were filled with sitters as though they were couples intertwined with each other rather than solitary gropers, each one feeling and stroking or sucking the other.

  I eased Yvonne down the aisles of seats and led her somewhere to seats in the middle. There were not too many people there and it was just the perfect place for lovers, no matter their sex. I focused on her risen skirt to see it had gone still higher as she sat down. She crossed her legs like she was protecting her virgin cunt or something like that. I shrugged, prodded a few dollars in her hand and put an arm on her shoulder. I don't know if she winced from my touch, but there was something panicky and nervous about her. In the darkness, I saw that she kept turning around as if expecting someone to come and save her. Weird, that's for sure...

  Making my move, I placed one hand on her lap, ready for anything when she pushed herself up and gruffly said, “Gotta go to the bathroom.” She was pushing my legs out of the way.

  I cursed, stood up, letting her pass quickly, and feeling her legs graze against my erection. The look of fear on her face had me confused. I let her pass as I fell back down in my seat, gazing up at the soft core film. What's with her? I looked at the tits on the screen. I like tits, soft, round, bouncy, delicious, like they were made for sucking. That would be my dream, sucking tits and playing with someone's cock. Man, I could suck them for hours...but I never did.

  I began to study the movie tits when I realized she was taking longer than expected. I turned around and in the flickering lightened movie theatre, I recognized her once again talking with Francette. I smiled. Now what the fuck is she doing back here? I grinned. Besides some sucking, this is gonna be my lucky day! Is this anything to do with Connie? I frowned.

  I got up and went to see what the fake chicks were up to. I was beginning to have had enough with them. Maybe I should go back to Connie?

  Francette again disappeared out that long front mirrored entrance.

  What the hell? Maybe they got a deal with the ticket taker to get in here? Who the hell knew about transvestite chicks

  Yvonne didn't look very happy to see me coming up the aisle, like she had something on her mind. Hell, I just want a blowjob, then you can go wherever you want. Who gives a fuck? I came up to Yvonne. “Is anything wrong?” I asked, watching her nervous quivering lips. I could just imagine my hard cock entering them.

  “No, no,” she blurted. “Let's sit down.” She pushed her way to a row of seats, saying, “Excuse me,” a few times to the guys sitting there who were also blocking our way. On my left was a guy looking angrily at us while on his right another was spitting something out of his mouth. We must have interrupted something.

  “Let's go back to where we were sitting. It sucks here,” I said, turning to go. “Are you coming?”

  She looked at me, but then got up to follow me. The two guys glared at us, but made lots of room for us to pass. We quickly walked down the row of aisles as a few heads turned to look at us going past. Most of the lookers, who briefly eyed us, went back to their jerki
ng off shielded by an ever-present raincoat. We took some centered seats and I put my arm around Yvonne and nudged her to get down. She looked at me, bit her lip and didn't move. I was pissed.

  “What the fuck you want?” I angrily said. “You gonna suck my dick or not? I paid you three bucks.” I'd had enough of her bullshit. This wasn't working out at all. I was certain that I should go back to Connie.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “I'm just afraid.

  I laughed. “Afraid of what? Just put your lips around it and give me good head, okay?” I beamed broadly and slightly nudged her head, trying to hold it down my lap. “You have sucked cock before, haven't you?”

  She nervously looked at me and turned around, “Uh huh, lots of time...oh, there's Francette!” She pushed herself up and frantically waved her arm. “Psst...hey, Francette! Psst, c'mere!”

  Boyish Francette girlishly hurried down the aisle toward us, plopping right next to me, and said, “They didn't believe me,” lapsing into Spanish with Yvonne.

  Whatever was going on with them I'd had enough. “I'm getting the fuck out. You're both fucking nuts.” I stood, but Yvonne grabbed my belt.

  “No, please,” she begged. “Don't go...”

  Her pleading look got the better of me and I fell back down.

  “Francette will blow you,” she said. “I gotta go to...the little girls room.” Smiling and blushing, she squeezed past us, disappearing up the aisle.

  Good luck. There were little girls here like there were angels on Times Square. Nada. Zilch. No way! Well, maybe at the Amsterdam or the World, but who knew? I looked at the nervous looking Francette. What's with these faggots? This one is more crazier than the last one!

  I smiled. “Suck my dick,” I whispered, with the intention of taking off if she didn't. She looked at me, fluttered her fake eyelashes, and then lowered her head to my crotch. Boy, she's gonna do it!

  She fumbled with my zipper, than succeeded in getting her hand in. I melted from her touch on my cock and pushed my pants down, slightly rising up as my dick plunged deeper in her mouth. And she didn't gag! Oh, boy! It was a good thing her fake blonde hair streaked around my lap. At least I didn't have to look at the stubble peeking out on her chin that I had seen just minutes ago as we walked to the movie house. That would have been disgusting. It was a pity that the Cover Girl facial cream they used didn't cover everything up. Yet it was also obvious she was out of her league. Hell, probably just a beginner. I chuckled to myself.

  My cock plopped out of her mouth and she sheepishly smiled at me, then crawled down between my legs, almost disappearing while a lump of her head remained at my knees. She looked up, smiled and started to lick my balls. My cock grew harder, stiffening as hell, like I was going to fuck her like crazy. But I wanted to cum in her mouth, none of this licking stuff. No sir! Get ready for a creamy mouthful, baby! Oh boy!

  “That's him!” Yvonne squealed, “The Times Square Killer. He killed Paco!”

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  * * *

  Chapter Six

  * * * *

  I don't know how it happened, but at the instant I squirmed, I felt that spurt rushing upward at the base of my cock and the house lights went up. I heard a groan going up through the movie audience as Yvonne was pulling Francette off me. I shot out a load of my scum that landed right on a cop's pants.

  “Jesus Christ!” he cursed, and spat at me in disgust. “Mother fucker!” He swung his nightstick.

  I luckily leaned away from him when another cop struck me right in the face. I just remember the awesome stars and the daze of confusion before I passed out.

  When I came to, I was handcuffed behind my back and an awesome pain was tearing and cleaving me in half. And quickly things were coming back into focus. My pants were un-zippered and unbuttoned, and my denim jacket, which I was using to cover Francette's head at my groin, was gone. Plus I was incredibly thirsty, like I hadn't had a drink of water in days. And to top things off, I was missing two of my front teeth, I think, if not more, from the nightsticks smashing into my face. I could just imagine what my face looked like, beaten, scarred, forgotten, like an old alcoholic from 8th Avenue who has had too much, but not enough because there's always room for just one more.

  I must have passed out again. When I came to I was in a police station with two guys in jeans and t-shirts talking to each other. One was in black t-shirt with longish hair while the other with short hair, had a white t-shirt and scowling at me—an obvious good-cop/bad-cop set-up.

  They looked at me and at each other, than the black shirted one rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. “You were read your rights? You understand?”

  But they looked at me as if I was about to jump at them and they were only trying to protect themselves. Plus the fact that I was still handcuffed behind my back didn't seem to matter, in their cop heads I was no-good, no matter what I may have done or not done. The image of Connie crossed my eyes and I blurted out. “It's Connie,” I exploded. “She's the killer. She can tell you everything you need to know.”

  The two cops looked at each other as if they've have heard this before. I could just imagine them saying to each other, Gimme a break!

  “Why don't you tell us,” said the longhaired cop. “From the beginning...”

  I began talking about Connie, how we met, how we drank, how we fucked...or at least how we tried to fuck while she kept on drinking, until I left her in the hotel with Clem. “She's with him,” I said, naming the Elk Hotel where she could be found, even gave them the room number where I was sure she was screwing the old guy and Clem, too.

  I don't know if the cops believed me or not, but at the mention of Elk Hotel and Clam, they did exchange curious looks with each other.

  Still handcuffed and my pants un-zippered, they took me into a cell.

  “What does Clem have to do with him?” one cop asked the other as the padlocked door swung shut.

  “Beats me,” faintly shrugged the other cop. “But let's pay a visit to the Elk...”

  I was all alone, something which I don't mind being, alone. Loneliness is an emotion I've never been akin to. I could go for days not seeing people and wouldn't mind. As a matter of fact, people get on my nerves, gossiping, pretending to have a good time and becoming real assholes once they're alone. I've seen it lots of times, people going crazy for company and giving up too much for it. As if someone being with you is worth your soul that they demand and you're more than willing to give it up. Well, not me.

  I once knew a girl who was nothing when she was alone—that's all she ever talked about, the no-good guys who deserted her—until she was with me. It was like night and day, winter and summer, life and death, because that's what I felt like in just a few days with her. Her entire personality changed into mine, like she was becoming me and I was disappearing into what she assumed I was. Her image of me was just the way she wanted it to be. Little by little, I saw myself losing my distinctness and becoming her sham, her pet, her lover. Some people can't stand being alone and by the time I broke off with her, I couldn't stand being with her. Jesus Christ! To heal myself out her fake friendship I had to commit myself to total isolation, being apart from the world, spending my time in feverish solitary activity, watching TV, reading cheap paperbacks, sleeping like the dead. Ah, I felt renewed! After a week of solitude, I shrugged and went back to Times Square. When I saw her again, she was arm in arm with a new beau and I was quickly fading and disappearing. I smirked, and just went on with my life.

  But in the jail cell I kept thinking old thoughts, old faces, really nothing but repetitive drivel. Sitting with my hands cuffed behind my back, my zipper opened as if for a good time, I knew I had done this to myself. But why did I stay so long with Connie? What was I after? It was my own fault. I had done it to myself. I guess I had hit rock bottom with no way out for me. And to top it off, smelling like a Bowery wino bum. But hell, this must have been some kind of punishment for shooting my wad off on the cop's pants, I suppos
e. But what if I had to take a shit, what then? Oh stop it, don't think of it. I had pissed twice on myself—once in the holding cage they put me in at first, then the second time when I was in this cell—and each time I couldn't hold it in because there was no way I could get my pants down and reach in for my dick. Fucking cops! Wish I could piss on them. But shit, I had to pee again.

  I stood up, my groin pulsing explosively, and the only place I could go was on myself! When from somewhere I heard a door clanged open in that loud metallic rattling creeping thud. Footsteps walked slowly through the halls, coming closer, when they stopped.

  “What the fuck?” said the longhaired cop. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  I stood there while the piss dribbled down in a soft patter of shame.

  “You fucking pig!” the longhaired cop cursed, then spat at me, which was all I could do to move my head out of the way.

  “I had to go,” I said, “And real bad, too.”

  “Fucking animal!” the hairy cop said and left the cells.

  I stood there, my arms and hands hurting even more than they did before, when once more I heard footsteps coming through the hall. I lowered my head again when I heard the shorthaired cop say, “Turn around.”

  I immediately turned around. The shorthaired cop rattled with my handcuffs and easily took them off. It felt like bliss sweeping through my hands and wrists, like I was getting new replacements that had never touched or felt before. I turned around again to thank the cop.

  “You'll be brought some dry clothes. Get out of these... And wipe this damned piss!”

  I immediately started wiping with my shirt I had taken off and watching him disappearing down the hall. The corridor was quiet again. Once, someone screamed from another cell but it fell quiet again. It felt good to be able to move my arms up and down, or hold them like a crucifix ready for my slaughter. When I heard a door being opening again, footsteps coming my way.