Wild Card

Chapter 32

The Dresser watched Fuller and Romero check out of their motel. Each man threw a single suitcase into the back of the Chevy, then climbed into the car, and drove north toward the causeway that would take them back to the mainland. The weather had sent everyone indoors, and the Dresser tailed their vehicle while singing along to the moronic song on the radio, Bachman Turner Overdrive’s Let it Ride.

The Dresser worked for AT&T, which had its advantages. He got a company van, a spiffy uniform, and the ability to tap phone lines. He had tapped the FBI agents’ motel room, and listened to the two men’s conversations. Romero had impressed him as being morally strong, Fuller spiritually weak. Blackmailing Fuller had been a piece of cake, and now the two FBI agents were out of his life.

The Chevy drove onto the causeway and soon disappeared. The Dresser slapped the wheel in glee, did a U-turn, and headed south.

He drove to Chelsea Heights and parked in the driveway of his house, a single-story ranch with crummy heating and a leaky roof. He’d inherited the place after his parents had died, and kept living with the loud pipes and leaks he’d been putting up with his entire life, his bedroom the same he’d had as a boy. He was a native, and like most people on the island, his upbringing had been uneventful, until he’d turned seventeen.

His parents had gone to Philadelphia one weekend, gotten caught in a blizzard, and been forced to stay overnight. It had been his first time home alone. Feeling brave, he’d called a girl he’d met the previous summer. In his closet were the clothes he’d stolen from her, which he liked to look at while imagining he was making love to her.

“Hey, my folks are out of town — want to come over?” he’d asked.

“I don’t think so,” she’d said.

“But I really like you,” he blurted out, instantly sorry he’d exposed his feelings.

“Sorry, but I already have a boyfriend,” she’d said in a condescending tone.

Her words had crushed him. I’m your boyfriend, you fucking tramp, he almost shouted. Hanging up, he’d gone to the liquor cabinet, grabbed his father’s prized fifty-year-old bottle of Scotch, and gotten drunk. The liquor had brought out the monster in him, and he’d taken his parent’s car, and driven to the Greyhound bus station on the north end of the island. It was a seedy place, and he found a hooker sitting on a bench, showing plenty of skin. He paid her a hundred dollars to get into the car.

Driving to the beach, he climbed into the back seat with the hooker, his head swimming from the booze. As they started to have sex, he began to strangle her. She struggled and screamed, then fell limp in his arms.

He’d taken the hooker home with him, and dressed her in the tramp’s clothes. Seeing her in those clothes had aroused him, and set a fire deep in his soul.

He’d been killing hookers ever since. For twenty years, he’d traveled to Philly and New York on the weekends, and gone on his prowls. He would lure a girl into his car, knock her out, and bring her home with him, keeping her as a slave until she died. The traveling had been a drag, but he’d seen no other way to keep killing, and not get caught by the police.

Then Resorts’ casino had opened. That had changed things. Overnight, the island had become filled with hookers, and he’d had his pick of victims.

As the locals liked to say, it had been a beautiful thing.

He showered and shaved and made himself look presentable. He dressed well when he went to the casino, and made sure to have plenty of cash. That was all the hookers cared about.

He went to his closet. Hanging from the bar were the clothes he’d stolen from the tramp twenty years ago. He’d never liked hippie clothes until he’d seen her wearing them. On her, they’d looked incredible.

The outfit he chose tonight was his favorite. A blue jump suit that reminded him of Diana Rigg from the TV show, The Avengers. Skin tight, and sexy. He pulled it out of the garment bag, and hung it on the door.

He left the house and drove to the casino. He parked a block away in the lot of a Catholic church on Atlantic Avenue. It was the same church where he’d followed Special Agent Romero one morning and watched him pray. A man of true convictions, he’d decided.

Inside the casino, he bought a bucket of quarters at a change booth and walked up and down the aisles of slot machines. A sad-eyed brunette wearing a tight sweater caught his eye. She was sitting in front of a machine, resting her feet. He’d seen her trolling for johns before. About five-five, small-breasted, with freckles on her nose.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sissy,” she said.

He explained that he was on a losing streak, and a friend had told him to go find a pretty girl, and ask her to pull the arm of a slot machine after he put the coins in.

“My friend swears by it,” he said.

Sissy scrunched over on her stool so he could share it with her. He started feeding coins and Sissy started pulling the arm of the slot machine. Within a few minutes the bucket was empty. Sissy dropped her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze.

“Hope you didn’t lose all your money in that machine,” she said.

“I’ve got more,” he said.

“I’ll sleep with you for a hundred bucks.”

“Okay.”

He gave her the cash. She stuffed the money into a beaded purse. In his closet at home, he had a box filled with similar purses. Each contained condoms, a can of mace, and a lipstick. That was all his victims ever seemed to carry.

In the lobby Sissy stopped at a payphone and made a quick call. They walked to his car, Sissy moving quickly, like the clock was already ticking. She didn’t have a coat, and shivered from the cold.

He wasn’t the only gambler who used the church lot, and a glut of cars was trying to leave. Sissy fired up a cigarette without asking him if he cared. He hated chimney breath, and would make her pay for the inconsideration. Finally, the lot cleared and he backed out.

“I know a good motel nearby,” she said.

“Lots of satisfied customers, huh?”

“Yeah, the night manager looks out for me.”

He wondered if that was who she’d called from the lobby. Or, was it a pimp, or a strung-out boyfriend? Those were the types of losers that wasted their time with hookers. He came to a stop light and threw the car into park. Then he made a fist and punched himself in the chest, a few inches above his heart. He groaned loudly.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“What’s wrong? You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

“I get heartburn bad. I need my pills.”

The light changed, and he pulled down a darkened side street and parked, his tires rubbing the curb. He pointed at the glove compartment. “Would you mind getting my medicine out of there?”

“Sure,” she said.

Sissy popped open the glove compartment and sifted through his junk. She wasn’t paying attention to him, and he reached into the pocket on his door, and removed a flask of chloroform and a piece of folded cloth. In one practiced motion, he doused the cloth and waited for her to turn. That was the important part. Wait for them to turn into you.

Which Sissy did. She was holding the vial of medicine in her hand, and he pressed the cloth to her mouth and saw her eyes go wide. Her head rolled back, and she collapsed into her seat.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

He started to pull out. A police car blew past on Atlantic Avenue, its siren wailing. He froze, terrified. He thought about the phone call she’d made. Had she called the cops? He stuck his head out his window, and listened to the siren fade away. He was being paranoid. Of course she hadn’t called the cops. He leaned over and lifted up one of her eyelids with his thumb.

“Fucking tramp,” he said.

He grabbed her by the hair and shook her head. He felt giddy, like he’d gone into the woods and shot a deer, and was now dragging its carcass back to be gutted and its head proudly displayed on a wall. He noticed her purse lying beside him. Normally, he would have waited until later to check its contents. But something inside of him just had to know if she was carrying the same items as the others.

He dumped the purse onto the seat. A lipstick and some rubbers fell out. And a sheet of paper, folded in half. It looked like a promotional flyer, and out of curiosity he unfolded it.

He found himself staring at a composite of a man that bore a strong resemblance to himself. The flyer called him a serial killer, and said he liked hookers. On the bottom of the flyer was a phone number to call, and a name. Detective Tony Valentine. He couldn’t believe it: He had gone to high school with Tony Valentine, and had hated him. And now Valentine was chasing him.

Another wailing police car blew past on Atlantic, and he felt himself start to panic. Had Sissy called Valentine, and alerted him? He decided he couldn’t risk it. Leaning over, he unfastened Sissy’s seat belt, opened her door, and gave her limp body a shove. She rolled out of the van, and moaned as she hit the gutter.

Her precious purse followed. He started to shut the door, and stared longingly at her lovely body. He’d earned this one, and it hurt to let her go. For a few moments he listened to her tortured breathing, her lungs struggling with the freezing cold air. Perhaps no one would find her until morning, and she’d die of exposure.

He could only hope, and quickly drove away.