Wild Card

Chapter 26

Special Agents Fuller and Romero had hit a wall.

Their investigation was going nowhere. Not a single hooker on the island had responded to their fliers, nor had they gotten any concrete leads from the autopsy done of the latest victim, who the Dresser had dumped in their motel room.

Out of frustration, they had decided to change their approach, and focus on males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five living in Atlantic City who’d committed sexual offenses against women. It was scattershot, but their investigation was going nowhere, and they needed to try something different.

Sergeant Banko had supplied them with the arrest records of thirty-eight men in Atlantic City who fit their profile. In order to save time, the agents had divided the records in half, with Romero taking suspects on the south end of the island, Fuller the north. Grabbing his coat off the bed, Romero went to the door of their new motel room.

“I’ll meet you at six o’clock at the pancake house. We can trade notes, and see what we’ve found,” the Mexican agent said.

“Sounds like a plan,” Fuller replied.

“Sure you don’t mind cabbing it?”

They had drawn straws, and Romero had gotten the rental.

“Not at all,” Fuller said.

Romero left. Fuller counted to ten, then went to the window, and parted the blinds. He watched his partner pull out of the parking lot in their rental. Romero had been getting on his nerves, and he was happy to have him out of his hair.

Taking a phone book off the night table, Fuller opened it to the yellow pages section for escort services. There were pages and pages of salacious ads of women willing to go the extra mile. He found a service called Discreet & Willing, and dialed it on the rotary phone. A woman with a husky voice answered.

“Hold on,” the woman said.

“Make it fast,” Fuller replied.

The woman put him on hold. Fuller was hungry. It had been a week since he’d satisfied his cravings. He’d be thirty-four in the spring, and had assumed that as he’d grown older, his cravings would diminish. It wasn’t working out that way. She came back on the line.

“I’d like to arrange a date,” he said.

“In call or out call,” the woman asked.

“Out call.”

“Rate’s a hundred an hour, two hour minimum, plus fifty for the room. Pay before you play.”

“Deal. I’m looking for a girl named Amber.”

“Have you used our service before?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

Fuller thought back to the name he’d used the week before. “Harold.”

“Oh. I remember you. Amber said you were rough.”

“Should I call someone else?”

“No. You’re on.” She gave him the name of a motel not far from where he was staying. She gave him a time, then said, “Make sure you identify yourself to the manager.”

Fuller acknowledged her instructions before he hung up the phone.

An hour later, Fuller left his motel, walked a block to Atlantic Avenue and headed south. Out in the ocean, black storm clouds were forming, and he turned up his collar to the bitter wind. Four blocks away, he spotted the blinking sign of his rendezvous point, and felt himself get aroused. No matter how many times he arranged to meet a call girl, it was always exciting. Call girls understood that men had different needs. More importantly, they understood his needs. Reaching the motel, he glanced through the window into the office, and saw the slovenly manager sitting behind the counter. He went in.

“What’s up?” the manager asked.

“I’m here to see Amber,” Fuller said.

“You must be Prince Charming. Room costs fifty bucks. No credit cards.”

Fuller paid up. Picking up the phone, the manager dialed a number and said, “A gentleman requests the presence of your company. Will do. I’ll send him right up.” The manager hung up. “She’s in room 9F. As in fuck.”

“Much obliged,” Fuller said.

“I’m sure you are.”

The motel was a dump, and Fuller had to search for the room. His heart was beating faster now, the sound like a bass line in his ears. He found 9F next to a soda machine, and tapped lightly on the door. “It’s open,” a voice called from inside.

He took a deep breath and entered the room. Amber lay beneath the sheet of a queen bed. She’d put a low wattage bulb in the lamp on the night table, and it cast a creamy patina on the room’s cheap furnishings and nautical wall paper. Fuller thought about the two hour minimum as he removed his wallet and extracted his money. Maybe he would use it up this time. He started to throw the money on the bed, then froze.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Krista,” the girl said.

“I asked for Amber.”

“Amber’s sick.”

She slipped out of bed and came over to where he stood. Naked, about five-seven, with everything he liked in a woman except for the scar running across her belly. A C-section, he guessed.

“Amber called me, and asked that I take the job. She told me all about you.”

Fuller was holding the money in his hand. Krista tried to take it, but Fuller wouldn’t let go. “What does that mean?” he said.

“Amber said you were into bondage.”

“That’s right. Are you?”

She flashed a devil’s smile. “Isn’t everybody?”

Krista had brought two pieces of white clothesline and a silk gag. She talked about herself while Fuller tied her arms to the headboard. She’d gone to Atlantic City High, liked to smoke grass and party, blah blah blah. Normally, he tied his girls so they were lying face up, but the scar on her belly was a turn-off, so he tied her face down. To make her comfortable, he put a pillow under her stomach. Then he stripped off his clothes.

“You want to use the gag?” Krista asked.

“Only if you keep talking,” he said.

The fun left Krista’s eyes and she grew silent. Fuller liked it when a girl was a little afraid. It made him feel in control.

“I’m going to turn off the light,” he said.

“Do whatever you want.”

He turned off the light on the night table, then started to climb on top of her. He heard a door bang open, and felt a blast of cold air invade the room. He looked fearfully over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a baggy green Army jacket and a plastic Richard Nixon mask, cradling a sawed-off shotgun.

“Hello, Special Agent Fuller,” the man said.

The man entered, shutting the door with his foot. Krista’s head snapped around, and she started to scream at the top of her lungs.

“Shut her up!”

Fuller did not want to die. He shoved Krista’s face into the pillow, silencing her.

“Guess who,” the man said.

Fuller hesitated, his mind racing. “You’re the Dresser.”

“Yes, I am. I followed you from your motel. You were so anxious to see your friend, you didn’t even see me.” The Dresser waved his shotgun. “Release her.”

Fuller let her go, and Krista pulled her face out of the pillow.

“Oh, god,” she sobbed.

“I need to have a chat with Special Agent Fuller. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Please, let me go.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. In fact, I’d like you to help me. You see, Special Agent Fuller is with the FBI. I need to search his clothes, and find his gun. Then, I’m going to drop his gun in the toilet. Special Agent Fuller may try and run. And that leaves just you and me. Am I making sense?”

“What do you want me to do,” Krista said.

“You appear to be a limber young lady. I’m going to have Special Agent Fuller put his legs between yours. I want you to tie his legs up with your legs. Think you’re up to it?”

“Okay.”

The shotgun’s cold barrel touched the crack in Fuller’s ass. Fuller moved his legs between Krista’s, and she wrapped him up. The Dresser crossed the room and proceeded to search through Fuller’s clothes. Finding his gun, he disappeared into the bathroom, and they heard a loud plop in the toilet.

“I can disarm him,” Fuller whispered.

“Don’t even dream of it,” she said.

“But—”

“Shut your mouth.”

The Dresser returned to the bedroom and stood by the bed. From the pocket of his Army jacket he removed a cheap Polaroid camera, and held it with one hand.“Say cheese,” he said, and began snapping photographs. As each one popped out of the camera, he placed them in a row on the bed. He was close enough for Fuller to punch in the stomach, only Krista had him in a death grip. As the snapshots developed, the Dresser showed them to Fuller. In every one, he’d included Krista’s arms being tied to the headboard.

“Pick your favorite,” he said.

“I don’t have a favorite,” Fuller said through clenched teeth.

“Pick one anyway. I’m going to send it to your boss in Washington.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“That would be a taint on my resume. No, I prefer to ruin you.”

Fuller stared at the snapshots. He’d already been put on leave for beating up his wife. These pictures would be the end of the line, at least at the government trough. He didn’t want that. He liked being in the FBI; it gave him a power that no other job in the world afforded him. He didn’t believe in truth and justice the way Romero did. He believed in power, and holding onto it. “Maybe we could make a deal,” Fuller said.

“I’m listening,” the Dresser said.

“I’ll leave Atlantic City and drop the investigation.”

“Is that in the realm of your power?”

“Yes. I’ll tell my superiors I’ve traced you to another city. They’ll never know.”

“What about the wet back?”

Fuller had to think. Getting Romero to leave wouldn’t be easy, but he saw no reason to tell the Dresser that. “Romero will do as I tell him,” he said.

The Dresser ran the shotgun’s barrel between Fuller’s legs. “Is that a promise?”

Fuller grit his teeth. “Yes.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“You have my word.”

“And I’m sure your friend will also keep her mouth shut.”

“I won’t say nothing,” Krista said.

The Dresser picked up the snapshots from the bed and slipped them into his pocket. “I’ll keep these, just in case you change your mind. Have a nice day.”

He went to the door, opened it, and another blast of cold air invaded the room. It was snowing outside, and he walked backwards out the door, and disappeared.

Fuller felt Krista’s legs untangle themselves from his own. Climbing off the bed, he went to the open doorway and stared outside. The snow was coming down hard, the giant flakes covering everything in sight. He envisioned himself running naked down the street after a man with a shotgun. He shut the door and locked it.

“Let me go,” Krista said.

He untied Krista from the headboard. She grabbed her clothes from the closet and started to throw them on. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her violently.

“You’re not going to go to the police, understand?”

She looked into his eyes. “You’re just as crazy as he is.”

“Answer me.”

“You’re hurting me...”

“This is nothing.”

“Okay... no police. I promise.”

Fuller let her go, and she ran half-naked out the door.