Urge to Kill

70

Quinn sat with Zoe at a corner table in Hammacher’s, a German restaurant on the East Side. It was a place that afforded privacy, with high-backed wooden booths and lots of cloth and green carpeting to mute sound so voices wouldn’t carry. Deals legal and illegal were made here.

Quinn had courted some of his upper-echelon snitches in Hammacher’s, but hadn’t visited the restaurant in over a year. Nothing had changed. Still the hushed ambience, still the elderly waiters who kept their distance unless summoned, and still the indefinable mingled scents of spices, boiled sauerkraut, and something else that almost made the eyes water.

They’d both ordered German draft beers with unpronounceable names and the sauerbraten special and were waiting for their food to arrive, their gigantic frosted mugs of beer in front of them. No one was seated within twenty feet of their booth.

Zoe had on one of her psychoanalyst outfits. A light gray blazer over a white blouse, a blue skirt of modest length. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, which only tended to make her look younger. There was a frankness and receptiveness about her features. Patients might tell her everything.

Quinn explained to her about the plan to lure the killer into the open by agreeing to what he, the killer, regarded as a hunt.

Zoe listened carefully, then took a sip of beer. The foam left a slight mustache, and Quinn resisted the impulse to reach across the table and touch it, touch her lips.

“So the sport is that the two hunters are evenly matched,” she said. “Sometimes one is stalking the other; sometimes it’s vice versa.”

“That’s pretty much it,” Quinn said. “Usually the participants are accustomed to hunting in the wild. I suppose the urban setting is supposed to negate any advantage one might have over the other because of familiarity with certain types of terrain.”

Zoe gave him a slight smile. “At least the prey gets to shoot back. That’s what the anti-hunting movement has always dreamed of.”

“Are you part of that movement?”

“I’m not terribly zealous about either side of the argument,” Zoe said. “But two human beings stalking each other, and then one of them dying—that’s something different from hunting.”

“I’m not so sure it is,” Quinn said.

“This is a male thing. Is that why it appeals to you?”

“I don’t know that it appeals to me,” Quinn said.

Zoe smiled at him. “But it does.”

Quinn regarded his oversized beer mug. “Yeah, I guess on a certain level it does.”

Zoe reached across the table and touched his hand. “I do understand, Quinn.”

“And you approve?”

“If it’s something you feel you have to do, I’m behind your decision.”

“A friend of mine described it as…what did she say…‘mano-a-mano bullshit.’”

Zoe leaned back. “Well, it is in a way. But your friend simply doesn’t have a great enough understanding or appreciation of the compulsion to adhere to the male code. If she knew you at all, she’d know that you have to do this. Not only do you see it as your job, but you see it as your destiny. You are what you are. It’s a challenge between your ego and your id, and you must accept it to retain your manhood.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Quinn said. He hadn’t really thought it out. He’d simply known within seconds that to accept the killer’s challenge, to play the game by his rules, was the honorable thing to do. “Honor,” he muttered.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Zoe said. “Your honor. That is not a small thing, Quinn. And I think it’s important that you know I appreciate that and I stand behind you.”

“The classic male and female roles,” Quinn said.

“That’s true. They’re roles that are ancient and deeply rooted in human experience. Remember all those medieval tales about dragon slaying and rescuing the princess?”

“Enough of them,” Quinn said. “So you’re my princess?”

“Sure am,” Zoe said. “After dinner I’ll show you.”

For her birthday dinner, Rob took Mitzi to Mephisto’s, a marvelous restaurant in Lower Manhattan. It wasn’t where you’d go to dine economically. Mitzi was impressed by the fact that Rob would spend so much simply because she was turning twenty-five. She sampled her marinated mushroom appetizer and glanced around. Of course she knew no one. This wasn’t the kind of place her friends from the club would frequent.

Mitzi smiled across the white tablecloth and glittering crystal at Rob. It was obvious that he wanted to make this an occasion. He’d worn a perfectly tailored blue suit, a white shirt, and a silky floral pattern red tie with a gold tie clasp. There was a gold pin in the form of a soaring bird on his suit coat’s left lapel. Mitzi had to admit she’d never expected to dine in this kind of place with a man so perfect for her on her birthday. And he’d brought a gift for her. At least he’d intimated that it was a gift. It was in a blue carry-on bag that sat beneath the table. She’d tried to pry out of him what the bag contained, but he wouldn’t say anything other than that he wanted it to be a surprise. Men liked to play games. They made games out of just about everything they did. Mitzi had an entire routine about it.

Rob raised his champagne glass to her and fixed her with a smile that dazzled like the crystal. She reached across the table and clinked her glass against his, but not hard. The thing must cost a fortune.

“To Mitzi at twenty-five,” he said. “May you always remain so young.”

She grinned and sipped champagne from the delicate stemmed glass. “If only that were possible.”

“Maybe it is,” he said, “if you believe hard enough.”

“No,” Mitzi said. “Mother Nature’s a joker, just like me.”

“Then you and Mother Nature should be friends.”

“We are,” Mitzi said, “but she’s a bitch sometimes. Like most of my other friends. She seems to get a laugh out of women growing old and men getting tired of them. Look around. You see it happen all the time.”

“You don’t have to worry about that with me, Mitzi. I promise.”

She stared hard into his deep dark eyes and rested her hand gently on his. “For some reason,” she said, “I believe you. More importantly, I think you believe you. But don’t you see that’s the joke? You’ll change your mind. Lovers do. They honestly think they won’t, but they do.”

“Not me,” Rob said. “I’ll love you for the rest of your life.”

With the polished toe of his wingtip shoe he nudged the blue canvas bag beneath the table.

Mitzi sipped champagne and continued gazing into his eyes. Despite the mystery there she decided to believe him with every beating cell of her heart, at least for tonight. If he wanted to make tonight her night—their night—it was fine with her.

How many Robs were there?

How many nights like this were there?

Carpe diem. Seize the day. Like in the Robin Williams movie. How would you say seize the night in Latin?

There had to be a joke in there somewhere. Maybe even in Latin. Latin could be a terrifically funny language.