He quickly drops the binoculars and looks to his right. A boy, no more than ten, is staring in at him. Black kid, big head, wide eyes.
It had been a long time since he'd killed a child. Almost another life. Before prison. The last one was a little girl. She'd been playing in front of her house. He grabbed her on impulse. She was so fragile and small. Screamed like an angel.
'What do you want?'
'Bomb Pop.'
He reaches into the cooler behind him and pulls out a Bomb Pop. First sale of the day, not including the freebie he'd given that cop earlier. It sells for two dollars. He pays a dime wholesale. Since he works independently and the truck is his, the only overhead is gasoline. Not only does he have the perfect urban camouflage, but he's even making a profit.
The kid pays him in change, counting it carefully. Little shit has no clue how close to death he is. Just a quick tug on the shirt, and the boy could be his. He scans down the street for witnesses and sees nary a soul.
But not today. Today he has other plans.
The kid lopes off, licking his ice cream.
The front door to the apartment opens, and the whore strides out. He runs through the grab one more time in his head. Pull out in front of her. Jump out. Stick her with the needle and haul her in back. Shouldn't take more than ten seconds. Then he'll have her for his use, for as long as he can keep her alive.
Tapping his foot, impatient, he lets her get a block ahead of him before he starts the truck. His hands are sweating and he has a sudden attack of the giggles. The syringe is in his pocket, filled with fifty milligrams of Seconal. Not much, but a little goes a long way. He'll pump it straight into her arm, and it'll begin to take effect within five seconds.
First she'll become drowsy and disoriented. Then she'll begin losing muscle control. It takes about five full minutes before she will be under completely, but until then he should be able to handle her without difficulty. Seconal has a soothing effect, and so far everyone he's used it on has remained compliant, if not downright helpful.
He practiced on winos when he'd first gotten the Seconal. There are plenty littering the streets of Chicago, begging for handouts. The first one he gave six ccs, killing him almost instantly. He halved the dosage, and the next one never woke up. One to 1.5 milliliters turned out to be the right dose for women, depending on how chunky they were. These whores aren't chunky. They're racehorses. Whorses. He giggles.
The alley is coming up. He pulls into it ahead of her, taking in everything. There's no one nearby. Perfect. She approaches the truck without even noticing it.
Wait! She's crossing the street! He's watched her walk to work almost a dozen times, and she's never crossed until she reaches the intersection. His mind races. Call it off, or improvise?
'Theresa?'
He's out of the truck, coming at her on an angle, syringe palmed in his right hand.
'Theresa?'
She stops and looks at him. He smiles brightly. Smiles disarm people. His pace is fast, but he puts some bounce in his step and tries to look in a hurry rather than threatening.
'I thought it was you. Charles, remember?'
He says it at normal speaking level, which is too low for the twenty-foot distance between them.
'Pardon me?'
She cranes her neck forward a bit. Her posture isn't defensive, but her expression is confused. She isn't sure if she recognizes him or not.
He takes two more steps. 'I'm sorry, you don't remember me, do you? I'm Charles.'
Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to place him. 'Sorry, I...' She shrugs.
'You mean you don't even remember the truck?' He takes three more steps and makes a grand sweeping gesture toward his ice cream truck. 'I thought you'd remember the truck.'
'Look -- I'm late for work...'
'At Montezuma's. That's where you work, right?'
'Have I served you before?'
'No.' The Gingerbread Man grins. The smile is genuine now. 'But you will.'
The girl doesn't like his leer and subconsciously shifts her weight away from his approaching form. He detects the subtle change, and knows that if she bolts or screams, he won't get a second chance.
'Here, let me...' Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a handful of quarters. Trying to look clumsy, he lets the change spill from his hand and all over the curb.
'Aw...my boss is gonna kill me!'
He kneels down and begins picking up coins, hoping he looks really pathetic.
He must, because she only watches for a few seconds before coming over to help.
'Thanks. This is a whole morning's work here.'
She crouches down, picking up a quarter. 'What did you say your name was?'
He checks for witnesses. A guy on the end of the street, walking past, not paying attention.
