Slice

CHICAGO

He spotted her on Randolph, walking slowly, looking straight ahead, and his eyes targeted first on the thin fabric of the white dress that reminded him for some reason of an actress in the movies. His computer showed him a mental image and he pulled the car over to the curb, lowering the window as he forced a huge, crinkly smile onto his face. She was thin, ordinary-looking, anywhere from nineteen to twenty-three years old, alone, and she met all the requisite minimums.

One may have trouble understanding how this 460-pound killer with the bandaged face could work his magic. The fact that this was not an unattractive young woman makes it all the more incomprehensible to some, but age, sex, personality, they have very little to do with the phenomenon that a man like Daniel Bunkowski exploits.

His eyes saw a female form alone and zeroed in on the legs, which were silhouetted through the thin material of the dress by the sunlight. The fact that she wore a dress—that alone triggered a whole battery of responses in him. Then there was her vulnerability. Who can say why some individuals project this quality and others do not? Vulnerability runs the full range of a wide and complicated spectrum of auras—from projected vulnerability, a far different thing, to true vulnerability, the brand of the profile one so often sees among life's casualties. This young woman had that thing. It was a quality the star-maker machinery looks for in females. When you find it in concert with overt sexuality, the package is dynamite. But in this one it simply said to Daniel, I am vulnerable to the taking.

Even as he pulled to the curb, hitting the electric window controls and reminding himself not to turn his face too far to the right while he was speaking to her, he was sizing up his pitch by her appearance, the clothing, the shoes, the degree of cleanliness, the gait of her walk, the purposefulness or lack of purpose in her physical movements, the tilt of her head now and the way it changed when his voice drew her eyes, the eyes themselves—which so often will give it all away even in the most practiced liar—the hair, the hands and what she was carrying, everything about her told him a quick story. It said, VICTIM.

“Hi.” There was no response as she turned. “Excuse me,” and a mumble of words followed, calculated to pull her over by the side of the newly stolen wheels.

“What?” She moved a little, warily.

“Do you have any idea why I can't get across the [something] to the other side of [something else]?” The inflection was that of a sincere question, his eyes cast downward as if in a map, his Pillsbury-Doughboy-meets-FrankenKong face a pleasant, beaming, lost, wrinkled, jowly, and deceptively cherubic mask of fat and friendly exasperation.

“Huh?” She had moved closer and looking into the front seat of the car she saw a huge man of indeterminate age staring and shaking his head at a street map.

“Can you help me?” he asked, pointing at the map. She moved closer, right by the window and he had her then. He knew if he could get them within touching distance he had them. Always. That was the reality of the track record.

If they were reluctant to get within arm's length, it usually meant that they were too wary to con into the vehicle. But if they got that close to him, he always had them. They'd get in a car with Daniel Bunkowski no matter if he was bleeding, drenched in sweat, covered in sewer filth, or immaculate and in a rented summer tux. The ease with which a victim went with Daniel seemed to be in almost inverse proportion to the social acceptability of his appearance. It was as if anybody who looked like THAT couldn't possibly be a bad guy too. It was too much of a cliché, perhaps.

The trust factor. He began working on it now with the girl. His eyes never looked at anything but the map, and at her eyes. He let himself blink a lot, squint, shake his head, and put more movement into his normally static and inert facial features, sniffing, grimacing, scowling, licking his ups, shaking his head, all the while the torrent of words flooded out of his mouth, a river of busy verbiage lapping against her resistance.

“When I tried to cut through there it was a one way street, see?"

“Yeah. They got the town all screwed up now with the one-ways."

“Yeah. They got the town all fucked up now.” He said the word to her naturally, really bummed out by the crazy street system. “You can't find your way around for shit.” The big head moved, the words testing her probing getting the lay of the land and the temperature of the water.

“Yeah,” she agreed, laughing, the phrase “fucked up” as common to her as blue sky.

“I haven't been here in a few years,” he said. “Are you from here or what?” Big friendly smile.

“God, no. I came here with Mom a couple years ago. We're from California."

“No shit,” he said, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Where ‘bouts in California?

“Bakersfield,” she told him.

“Oh, God. That's wild. I'm from L.A."

They both laughed.

“No kiddin?” she said, having to stop herself from saying “no shit.” And he was telling her the first thirty-five things he could remember from doing time with cons from the Los Angeles area, saying things about how great it was out on the Coast, how much it sucked back here, and in the wave of California dreaming and nostalgia for the palm trees and the ocean and all, she was soon sitting in the front seat of the car and the car was moving then as he talked and, yeah, she agreed, “I can't wait to get outta this shitty city.” And he laughed like that was the funniest remark he'd ever heard in his life. And she smiled at his recognition of her wit and acumen and personality.

“God, what happened to you?” she said, natural as you please. He told her about the accident on his Harley, and they talked bikes for a while. God. How cool, she told him, “I love bikes.” And before he could stop her she was off and running on the long and intensely boring tale of how somebody named whatever asshole name—Kevin or whatever—used to take her riding in the “hills,” and that went on to the point where it was starting to give Daniel a headache to concentrate even fractionally on the pitch so he finally had to interrupt her and say, “Hey, excuse me and all, but shit, I just gotta ask. Have you ever done any modeling?"

“Modeling?” She looked over at him like she'd never heard the word before in her life.

“Yeah. You know. Posing for pictures in magazines. Being photographed. High fashion work. Swimsuits. That sort of thing."

“Naaaaw.” She laughed a little and looked to see if he were putting her on.

“Boy,” he said, his face deadly serious, “what a waste. You know, that's what I do."

“Photograph models?"

“Well, no, I don't photograph ‘em. Oh, sure, the story-boards and all I do, but I'm a concept producer, and I work with beautiful models all the time. God. You put ‘em all to shame. You're a knockout if you don't mind me saying so.” His eyes remained straight on the road, so sincere you'd think he were sitting next to Brooke Shields now. He began some double-talk gobbledygook about concept production for the “big slicks.” And she was beaming from the compliments.

“You know,” she said, “you might laugh at me but I've been thinking about trying some high fashion modeling."

He couldn't believe the nitwit said it—TRYING SOME HIGH FASHION MODELING. What an idiot. He smiled and shook his head in amazement. “I just can't believe nobody's ever asked you. Wow! Listen, I don't know if you'd have any interest, but I'm on my way back out to the Coast to do a big spread for a major advertiser and I need a girl who looks just tike you. But she has to be unspoiled-looking, pure, beautiful—like YOU. I need somebody new. A new face.” He was really getting into it now. Riffing. The rumbling basso profundo lapping at the listener's brain, never letting up, the stream of vocalese scatting away at reason, the rising tide drowning them in compliments, favors, begging, imploring, dangling lost opportunities and rich promises in front of them, giving their own language back to them slightly altered, the sea of words taking the victim under. “I need ... I can't use those skuzzes out there. I have to find a new girl."

“Hmmm,” she hummed in agreement, hanging on his words.

“Would you have any interest at all in going with me? I would pay all your expenses, and when we got to California you'd be getting a big cash fee for just a few hours’ work. How does that sound?"

“God! Yeah. I mean it sounds real good. What would I have to do?” Her face was wary.

“That's the beautiful part.” He beamed his biggest smile yet. “Absolutely nothing!” And her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and he read her for an easy yes.

“When would I have to go?"

“Well, see, that's the thing.” He was very earnest now, hurried, intense with the excitement and challenge and just that soupçon of threat mixed into it, like you know—"if we don't go right away you'll miss out on the job, and it's so perfect for you, and you're so beautiful and I can't believe my luck.” And on and on until she fancies herself a free spirit and she goes, “Well. Shit. Why not? I'll go home and tell Mom,” and what a crazy, spur-of-the-moment chick I am, and let's do it. Devil-may-care me, I'm always ready to try anything once, ha ha.

But then Chaingang tells her, “I've got even a better idea than that,” and he begins spinning this bullshit about how they can surprise her, and the best way to handle things of this nature based on his past experiences, and how he is going to personally buy her AN ALL-NEW WARDROBE so that she doesn't even have to stop to pack, not even pack a toothbrush, and here's a dime to call Mom and stuff soon as we stop for clothing, and he hands her a ten and peels it off a role of bills the size of a grenade that he can barely jam back in his pocket, or so it appears.

And even as she starts to protest, his foot has gently dropped just a little on the pedal and they are moving toward the city limits even as he speaks, that overflow of wordplay still inundating her with the dream of sunny Cal and the beach and the tan—my God how great she'd look with a deep tan.

“Yeah. I been wanting a tanning bed, but—"

“Why would you want a tanning bed when you can lay out in your new string bikini on the golden sandy beach—” But he misread her and she says, “Oh, I hate the hot beach,” and before the word “hot” has had time to resonate in his computer he has rephrased the whole thing and they are talking about how he will buy her the finest tanning bed on the market, and which kind of tanning bed is the safest, and he pours out the pitcher full of liquid charm and she settles back in the seat of the big stolen car, thrilled to her core that this is happening and beginning to consider the possibilities of this ego-stroking act of kind fate, and he intrudes upon her daydreaming fantasy as he says, “Hey. Listen. I don't even think we introduced ourselves. I'm Daniel. What's your name."

“Oh, yeah. Hi. Sissy Selkirk."

“Sissy?"

“Yeah,” she said apologetically, “I way—” but he quickly stopped her before she could begin some interminable tale about her goony name.

“Sissy is real different. Pretty. I like it. Like Sissy Spacek."

“Yeah, I spell it same as her."

“You LOOK a little like her too,” he lied. She was very ordinary-looking. Far from pretty but not homely. Her face was attractive in profile, but when she turned, the jawline was exaggerated like Sub-Mariner's in the old comic books, and she was so thin as to be almost without a figure.

“Sometime when I get two thousand dollars I'm goin’ to get my boobs done,” she said.

“Pardon me?” He had no idea what she'd said.

“You know.” She touched her chest. “I think it would give me more confidence to model and that. Kevin said I should get boobs exactly like Morgan Fairchild's.” She showed with her hands approximately where Morgan Fairchild's breasts would be if they were on her chest. For the first time Chaingang had just a little tremor of nagging regret. She was almost too stupid. He wondered how long he'd be able to tolerate her as a cover before he let the tide of rage wash over him and he lashed out and killed her.

“Morgan Fairchild's,” he mused aloud, having no idea who that was. “Well, we'll have that two thousand for you soon enough. What are you going to charge for modeling—do you know yet?” Anything to keep talking.

She didn't know what to say. He could sense he'd erred again, asking her a question that required some degree of intellect to respond to. He quickly said, “You'll have to set a fee. A bare minimum. Get it?” He laughed inanely. “A BARE minimum—for when you do bikini modeling."

“Yeah!” She laughed with him. He seemed like an okay dude. She thought for a moment and asked carefully, “How much do you pay?"

“Thousands,” he said expansively, nodding to show her he was serious, “so the bare minimum is even good.” They laughed again. Rarely heard, his natural laugh was a weird kind of barking noise. He knew it frightened the hell out of people, so he had learned to fake a passable human laugh, a cross between laughter and the sound of an outboard motor starting.

And there they were, Daniel Bunkowski and Sissy Selkirk, two strangers in the warm afternoon, getting to know all about each other in the front seat of a stolen car rolling along toward the sunset across the distant horizon.

Fifteen minutes before, Sissy had been on her way to pick up something she'd put on layaway downtown, just walking down Randolph minding her business. And now she was sitting next to a perfect stranger, a 460-pound lunatic killer, on her way to God knows where in California to model for thousands of dollars an hour. Life can sure play some big surprises on you, she thought, her heart beating rapidly with the unbelievable rush of this exciting offer.

Soon Daniel would begin his tale of how they'd need to keep their expenses as low as possible to get her a wardrobe or whatever, and would she mind terribly if they'd SHARE a motel room? And that would be just the beginning.

But the suggestion, while not even a hair off-key in tone, jars some vestige of caution in the girl and she begins a big number about how she just can't leave without calling home.

“I gotta tell Mom. God, she'd shit if I, you know, would just leave ‘n that—not say anything. GOD! ‘N you know, I gotta get some things, ‘n I gotta—” And he smiles, nodding with her as he decides how he'll handle it when Mom draws the line. He has a fluid game plan. He will go with the flow as always. Ride with the tide. Boogie with the oogie. What a MORON. I gotta feed my goldfish, wipe my ass ... He has tuned her out as he searches for a pay phone at sidewalk level. One where he can closely monitor the girl's side of the conversation.

He is parked. She is depositing money. He catches fragments of a no and he begins to formulate his next move until he hears, “HEY WELL YOU KNOW JUST FUCK IT THEN IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL FUCK IT!” The girl slamming down the receiver, Daniel fighting to look sincerely worried as she hurls herself back in the car. “You know, like you said, I just won't bother with any luggage ‘n that. I mean, we can PICK UP whatever I need. Right?"

He can't believe it himself. “Right, sure. Absolutely.” He starts back into traffic as she begins recounting the lifelong battle of wits between mother and daughter. Bunkowski scores again. Too facile, perhaps? Yes, for the average person, maybe. But he does not have Daniel's inner compass which points toward the vulnerable heartbeat. Somewhere you have your Sissy Selkirk. The thing is, you and Sissy may never meet. If you DO find her, will you be able to spot her in a crowd? Chaingang can always find them. It is part of his nature.

He looked over at the girl as if he'd homed in on that excited throbbing in the childlike bosom smiling his most disarming and trustworthy smile, the gruesome, bandaged face turned as far away as possible, the right side crinkled in warmth and good humor as he eyed her flat chest, smiling, beaming at her wonderfulness, and when she paused for a gasp of air, saying, “Morgan Fairchild,” nodding slowly, knowingly as he looked at her. “Yes. I think so. Definitely.” And that was just the incentive to set her back on course, and she started off on a long, aimless, circling butterfly flight of airheaded jabber as he let himself tune out with a contented smile.