money with great satisfaction. The boy called something after the man in the usual grating falsetto register that was, for the uninitiated, so strange and disturbing; and then he walked by us very playfully, promising a full evening’s entertainment should we choose him from among his mates. Marcus turned immediately away and stared at the ceiling, but I answered the boy, telling him we were not customers and that we wanted to see Scotch Ann.
“Oh,” the boy droned languorously in his natural voice. “More cops, I guess. Ann!” He moved toward a large room farther inside the basement, from which emanated raucous laughter. “There’s more
We followed the boy for a few steps, stopping at the entrance to the large room. Inside it were a few pieces of once ostentatious but now-decrepit furniture, and over the cold, moldy floor was thrown a well-worn Persian carpet. On the carpet was a squatting, half-naked man in his thirties, who crawled about and laughed as several even more scantily dressed boys vaulted over him.
“Leapfrog,” Marcus mumbled, taking it in with a nervous glance. “Didn’t they lure Parkhurst into something like that when he came here?”
“That was at Hattie Adams’s, up in the Tenderloin,” I answered. “Parkhurst didn’t last long in the Golden Rule—when he found out what actually went on here he bolted.”
Sauntering out from the area of the back rooms came Scotch Ann, heavily painted, obviously drunk, and well past her prime, if indeed she had ever had one. A flimsy pink dress clung to her powdered body (rising so high on her chest that one could not say if she was, in fact, a woman at all), and her face bore the harassed, weary scowl common to disorderly house owners when presented with an unexpected visit from the law.
“I don’t know what you want, boys,” she said, in a gruff voice that’d been destroyed by alcohol and smoking, “but I already pay two precinct captains five hundred bucks a month each to let me stay open. Which means there’s nothing left over for fly cops. And everything I know about the murder I already told one detective—”
“That’s lucky,” Marcus said, showing his badge and taking Ann by the arm toward the front door. “Then it’s all fresh in your mind. But don’t worry, information is all we want.”
Somewhat relieved that her recitation would cost her nothing, Scotch Ann gave forth with the story of Fatima, originally Ali ibn-Ghazi, a fourteen-year-old Syrian boy who had been in America just over a year. Ali’s mother had died within weeks of the family’s arrival in New York, after picking up a lethal disease down in the Syrian ghetto near Washington Market. The boy’s father, an unskilled laborer, had subsequently been unable to find any work at all, and took to begging. He put his children on display in order to spur the generosity of passersby, and it was while Ali was serving in this capacity, on a corner near the Golden Rule, that Scotch Ann first caught sight of him. The boy’s delicate Near Eastern features made him, as Ann put it, “a natural for my place.” She quickly “came to terms” with the father, terms that closely resembled indenture or perhaps even slavery. Thus was born “Fatima,” at the mention of which absurd appellation I discovered that I was rapidly losing patience with the practice of renaming young boys so that they could be proferred to adult men who either had inane scruples about who they molested or were aroused by particularly ridiculous perversions. “She was a real moneymaker,” Scotch Ann told us. I felt like belting the woman, but Marcus pursued the investigation calmly and professionally. Ann could provide us with few other particulars about Ali, and became concerned when we said we wanted to both see the room out of which he’d worked and interview any boys who were particularly friendly with him.
“I suppose there weren’t many,” Marcus said casually. “He was probably a difficult young man.”
“Fatima?” Ann said, pulling her head back. “If she was, I never knew about it. Oh, she could play the hellcat with the customers—you’d be surprised how many of them like that kind of thing—but she never complained, and the other girls seemed to dote on her.”
Marcus and I exchanged a quick, puzzled look. The statement didn’t match the pattern we’d come to expect concerning the victims. As we followed Ann down a dirty little corridor that ran among the partitioned rooms in the back, Marcus puzzled with this apparent inconsistency, then nodded and murmured to me, “Wouldn’t
The other boys who worked in the Golden Rule, however, provided no information that substantially contradicted their whoremistress. Standing in the narrow corridor and individually interviewing over a dozen painted youths as they exited from their partitioned rooms (forced, all the while, to listen to the obscene grunts, groans, and declarations of lust that emerged from those confines), Marcus and I were consistently presented with a portrait of Ali ibn-Ghazi that lacked any angry or obstreperous details. It was disturbing, but we had no time to dwell on it, for the last rays of daylight were fading and we needed to examine the outside of the building. As soon as the room Ali had regularly used, which faced an alleyway behind the club, had been vacated by a furtive pair of men and an exhausted-looking boy, we entered it, braving the warm, humid atmosphere and the smell of sweat in order to check Marcus’s theory about the killer’s method of movement.
Here, at least, we found what we were looking for: a filthy window that could be opened, above which were four stories of sheer, unencumbered brick wall leading to the roof of the building. We would need to get a look at that roof before the sun set fully; nevertheless, as we left the little chamber, I paused long enough to ask one momentarily idle boy in a neighboring room what time Ali had left the Golden Rule on the night of his death. The young man frowned and struggled with the question a bit as he stared in a cheap slab of decaying mirror.
“Damn me—that’s peculiar, ain’t it?” he said, in a tone that seemed too jaded to be coming from so young a mouth. “Now that you mention it, I don’t remember ever seeing him go.” He threw up a hand and went on with his work. “But I was probably engaged. It was the weekend, after all. One of the other girls must’ve seen her leave.”
But the same question, put a few more times to various painted faces as we walked out of the club, brought similar answers. Ali’s departure, then, had almost certainly been effected through the window in his room, and then up the rear wall of the building. Marcus and I ran outside, up to the first-floor entrance and the small vestibule, then into a vermin-infested staircase that wound up to a pitch-black doorway splattered with tar that opened onto the roof. Our quick movements were inspired by more than the dying sunlight: we both knew that we were tracing our killer’s steps more precisely than we’d been able to do before, and the effect was both chilling and exhilarating.
The roof was like any other in New York, spotted with chimneys, bird droppings, ramshackle utility sheds, and the odd bottle or cigarette end that indicated the occasional presence of people. (Because it was early in the spring and still chilly, there were none of the signs of regular habitation—chairs, tables, hammocks—that would appear during the summer months.) Like a hunting dog, Marcus strode directly to the back of the slightly sloped rooftop and, with no thought to the height, peered over and into the alley. Then he removed his coat, spread it below him, and lay down on his stomach so that his head hung out over the edge of the building. A broad smile came to his face within moments.
“The same marks,” he said without turning. “All consistent. And here—” His eyes focused on a close spot and he picked something that was invisible to me out of one of the many patches of tar. “Rope fibers,” he said. “He must’ve anchored it to that chimney.” Following Marcus’s pointing finger, I glanced at a squat brick structure toward the front of the roof. “That’s a lot of rope. Plus the other pieces of equipment. He’d need a bag of some kind to carry it all in. We ought to mention that when we’re asking around.”
Studying the monotonous expanse of the other roofs on the block I said, “He probably wouldn’t have come up through this building’s staircase—he’s smarter than that.”
“And he’s familiar with getting around on rooftops,” Marcus answered, as he got to his feet, pocketed some of the rope fibers, and picked up his coat. “I think we can be pretty sure, now, that he’s spent a lot of time on them—probably in some kind of professional capacity.”
I nodded. “So it wouldn’t be tricky for him to size up every building on the block, find the one with the least activity, and use its staircase.”
“Or ignore the staircases altogether,” Marcus said. “Remember, it’s late at night—he could scale the walls without anybody seeing him.”
Looking to the west, I saw that the reflective expanse of the Hudson River was quickly turning from bright red to black. I turned fully around twice in the near-darkness, seeing the entire area in a new way.
“Control,” I mumbled.
Marcus stayed right with me: “Yes,” he said. “This is his world, up here. Whatever mental turmoil Dr. Kreizler
