anything, it was self-reliance.
But this situation is different. He doesn't want to be connected with the act in the slightest way. Doing the job personally, though rewarding, is too risky. Besides, it feels godlike to be pulling the strings while staying safely behind the scenes. It adds more awe to his persona.
The idea came to him after violating the whore. He really hurt her. Brought her so close to death so many times. Payback for the humiliation, for the defiance, for picking on the wrong guy.
After he had finished, when he was lying naked with the body, he thought of his adversary, Jack Daniels.
Had Jack gotten the candy yet? Had she eaten it? Maybe she shared it with her squad, and fifteen or twenty pigs all got deadly little surprises. He had to know.
So he placed another call from the pay phone.
'This is Peters from the Herald. I'm following up on an anonymous tip. Were any police officers injured at work today?'
'We're not disclosing any details at this time.'
'So you're confirming the rumor?'
'Sorry, this is part of an ongoing investigation.'
'How about off the record?'
'Off the record, we got a detective with eleven stitches in his mouth.'
'A detective? My source said it was a lieutenant.'
'Your source is wrong.'
So Jack hadn't eaten any. All that work for nothing.
The Gingerbread Man seethed. He'd imagined her with needles in her tongue, and this was a giant letdown.
There had to be another way to get her attention. To show he was taking their rivalry seriously. To put her in the hospital without exposing himself to unnecessary risk.
And then he remembered this place.
The tavern is dark and smells like cigarette smoke, even though it's empty this time of day. Behind the bar is a skinny guy named Floyd, the man his cellmate told him about.
The Gingerbread Man hands Floyd a photograph of Jack, the one he'd taken during the crime scene visit on Monroe. He also gives him Jack's address, license plate number, the calling card, and five hundred bucks.
The normal price to beat someone senseless was four hundred, but Jack is a cop, so it's higher.
Leaving the calling card is risky, but there's been no mention of it in the papers yet. He wants Jack to know who did this to her. Even more, when this is all over, he wants the cops and the world to know that they could have stopped him, if they'd only been smarter.
But they'll only see the connection after he's long gone.
Floyd takes everything, making an obvious effort not to look directly at his face. Smart business.
'Whaddaya want done to her?' he says, eyes on a TV at the end of the bar.
'Break her knees.' The Gingerbread Man grins. The idea that Jack will be forever crippled is appealing. When he calls on her, she won't be able to run.
Floyd says he'll get someone on it right away, maybe even tonight.
In the meantime, he has to dump the whore. It's been a delightfully busy day, and he's tired, but if he keeps her around too long she'll begin to stink. More than one killer has been caught because neighbors complained of the smell coming from the death house.
So he has to do the garbage can trick again. Labor intensive, but effective. While it would be much easier just to dump her in the sewer, he wants the body to be discovered right away. The networks will eat it up.
Something for Jack to watch on TV while she's recuperating in the hospital.
Chapter 13
MY ANSWERING MACHINE WAS BLINKING WHEN I got back to my apartment. It was Don. He didn't want me back, but he did want the rest of his furniture, and for me to arrange having it put into storage. I was to call with the storage location.
Right. And then I might also slip him a few bucks.
I decided to be fair and meet him halfway. I called him back and got a deep female voice on the answering machine that identified itself as Roxy. I informed her and Don that I would move all of his things...out into the hall.
He had a lot of crap, and it took almost two hours. When I was finished the apartment looked barren. Except for my grandma's rocking chair, a bean-bag, the bed, and my cheap dinette set, every other stick of furniture was his. I was shocked to find out I only had one lamp. It was a crappy lamp too, with a switch that didn't work unless you wiggled it. I must have had more lamps before he moved in, so what the hell happened to them?
The only conclusion I could draw was that once he moved his things in, he began moving my things out. I suppose I never noticed because I never paid much attention. Or maybe it was because I was rarely home.
It's a wonder he left me.
I checked the fridge for food products and managed to put together a salami and mustard on rye. The mustard was Don's, some imported brand that cost more per ounce than silver. It was too tangy. When I was done with the sandwich I tossed the mustard into the hall with the rest of his things.
