A Cast of Killers (46 page)

"Look, son, I'm not here to hurt you," he
reassured the boy in as calm a voice as he could manage. "You have
no reason to be frightened of me. No reason at all. Who do you
think I am? I'm as confused as you are about this."

"I'm not confused. I know who you are," the
boy spit back angrily. He took a step backwards and looked behind
him. He was checking out the fire escape, T.S. realized.

"It won't do you any good," T.S. lied. "I
have a friend on the fire escape." Sure, some friend. Herbert was
probably at home in bed asleep, leaving T.S. to deal with this
pint-sized homicidal maniac.

"Don't come near me," the boy warned T.S.,
moving back and forth in a semicircle with the blade extended in
front of him.

"Son, please." T.S. held a
hand up. "You've seen
West Side
Story
one too many times. Put the knife
away and tell me who you think I am."

The boy did not put the knife away, but he
did lower it. He eyed T.S. suspiciously. "You're the man who had
dead pictures of Timmy's grandmother," he said bitterly. "I saw you
pick them up from the photo store. You were practically drooling
over them. You're the man who killed her."

"Me?" T.S. stared at him incredulously,
remembering the frightened child who had darted toward him before
veering off into the shadows. He certainly looked a hell of a lot
more grown up standing four feet away with a knife in his hand.
"No, no, no, no," T.S. told him. "A thousand times no. I am
definitely not the person who killed Emily. I took those pictures
of her at the morgue, after she was dead. I'm trying to find out
who killed her. Don't you remember the background of those photos?
White? Like a hospital?"

The boy's eyes narrowed. He was, at least,
considering believing T.S. "How do I know you're not lying?" he
finally allowed.

T.S. remembered that the boy had talked to
Auntie Lil. "Look, I'll prove it to you. Your name is Little Pete,
right?"

The boy stared at him. "Maybe. So what?"

"I know all about you. You're Timmy's friend.
You called Emily 'Grandmother,' too. She bought you presents on
your birthday. You have nice table manners. You eat your green
beans last. How am I doing?"

"How do you know those things?" Little Pete
asked sullenly.

"You had dinner with my aunt. Auntie Lil. The
old lady who bought you dinner at the Delicious Deli a couple
nights ago."

"You're lying," Little Pete said. "That was
Emily's sister."

"No, no. She was just a friend of Emily's.
And she is my aunt. Here, look." He thrust his face into the light
and Little Pete stared at it blankly. "See," T.S. said. "We've got
the same nose. Big. Look at this." He turned his head so Little
Pete could see his profile. "And check out these cheeks. They're
exactly the same. And the hair. Face it. We're practically twins."
He was desperate and sounded like a babbling fool, but it was
better than grappling with a knife-wielding teenager.

Besides, it worked. Little Pete relaxed and
folded the knife away. "You sure do look like her," he admitted
grudgingly. "What are you doing here? You'd better leave. I'm
waiting for somebody."

"You're waiting for me," T.S. explained. The
look this statement inspired in Little Pete instantly shamed him.
"But not for the reason you think," T.S. added quickly.

"The man is not going to like this at all,"
Little Pete answered. He moved to a large, sagging bed that
dominated the bare room and sat on it dejectedly. "He'll beat me to
death like Timmy."

"What?" T.S. moved toward him. "What did you
say?" He knelt beside the boy and Little Pete buried his face in
his hands. T.S. patted his back and the fatherly gesture summoned
what was left of the little boy in Little Pete. The child began to
sob and talk at the same time, his garbled explanation discernible
only in bits and pieces. It took ten minutes for T.S. to figure out
what had happened. And he finally had an idea of where Auntie Lil
might be.

Timmy had been beaten up, Little Pete
explained. On the orders of a man who used to be nice to Timmy and
Little Pete. Because Timmy had done something wrong. At first,
everything had been going well. The man had gotten them customers,
clean ones. And paid them plenty of money. Given them clothes and
shoes. Food. Then, a couple of days ago he told Timmy he had to do
him a favor. Timmy never told Little Pete what the favor was, but
it had something to do with a priest. Timmy didn't want to talk
about it. He'd done what the man asked, but then he'd started to
feel bad about it. So Timmy had changed his mind, Little Pete
explained, and the man had sent someone after him. Little Pete was
sure that Timmy had been beaten up to teach them both a lesson
about crossing the man. They'd come and taken Timmy to the hospital
and Little Pete didn't even know if he was still alive or not.
Little Pete figured he'd been spared his own beating only because
he had this job to do tonight. The man in charge had told him to
come here and take Timmy's place. But now Little Pete was
frightened. He'd been thinking about it. He was sure that once
tonight's job was over, the man would send Rodney after him,
too.

"Rodney?" T.S. asked, "Who's this Rodney
guy?"

"He works for the man in charge sometimes.
Tall dude. Skinny, but strong. He has an eagle tattooed on one
arm."

The Eagle. He did exist. At last they had a
name for The Eagle.

"Who's the man in charge?" T.S. asked him.
"Who pays you and Timmy to come to this apartment?"

Little Pete shrugged. His tears had slowed to
a trickle and T.S. saw with some dismay that the tough little
street survivor was about to take over again. "I can't tell you. If
I tell you, he'll have me killed."

"You told me about Rodney," T.S. pointed
out.

"I don't care about no Rodney anymore." The
boy looked up and fierce hatred twisted his face. "I'm getting me a
piece from a friend. After tonight, the dude will be dead."

If it was true, T.S. would have to do
something to stop him. But for now, he needed more information.
T.S. knew that he'd never convince the boy to tell him who the top
man was, so he tried another approach. "Look, if you won't tell me
who the man is who hired Rodney, at least tell me why he has you
and Timmy come to this room?"

"Why?' Little Pete spat the word out like
T.S. was too stupid to live. "Why do you think?"

"No, I know that..." T.S.'s words trailed off
and his face flushed pink. Then he swallowed and continued,
reminding himself that the new T.S. was in control. "I know about
that part. But why does this man want to make the men you see
happy?"

Little Pete shrugged. "Guess they pay him
money. They sure don't pay me. The big man pays me, through
Timmy."

T.S. thought hard. Hustling two boys didn't
seem like a profitable enough venture to merit renting an apartment
like this. "What does this man tell you to do with the men?" T.S.
was fishing and he knew it.

"Whatever they want. Look, you sure you know
what goes on up here?" Little Pete's distress had turned to
incredulity. Who was this pathetically uninformed old geezer? Did
he know nothing about real life?

T.S. surveyed the room. There had to be
another reason why everything took place here. Yet it seemed an
ordinary, if drab, apartment. There was a chair, a bed, a coffee
table, small refrigerator and a makeshift bar in the room. The door
to a small, empty bathroom stood open. And there was a single large
cabinet against one wall with an old black-and-white television
perched on top of it. Not a very nice place for an assignation. But
not very nice assignations, either.

"Where does all your, um… action take place?"
T.S. asked.

"We do it here, in the room," Little Pete
pointed out patiently.

"Where in the room?" T.S. stood in the
middle, turning in slow circles. It was as bare as a prison cell
and not nearly as charming. Why did the meetings take place here,
instead of the homes of the men? Or a hotel? And why was the
cabinet here? It was tall and a rather nice piece of work. It
gleamed with a black enamel finish.

"Here on the bed," Little Pete answered
slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid individual. This old
dude was hopelessly out of step.

"Always on the bed?" T.S. confirmed.

"That's what the man says. Says he doesn't
want his apartment trashed. Keep it on the bed, boys, he says," the
kid answered sullenly.

Trash this place? T.S. stood by the bed next
to Little Pete. The cabinet was lined up directly against the far
wall. There were two sets of double doors on the cabinet, one on
top and one below.

"I heard music coming from this apartment one
time," T.S. told Little Pete.

"Sure. Stereo's in the bottom of the cabinet
there. We're always supposed to turn on the music and say it's
because of the neighbors. We turn on the music and the lights."

"The lights?" T.S. stared up at a large
fixture hanging from the center of the room.

"Yeah. They get off on it," Little Pete
answered dully. "Like to see what's going on, the man explained.
The lights come on with the music."

What? T.S. winced at Little Pete's
matter-of-fact explanation of what went on in the room, but at the
moment he was more interested in why the lights went on with the
music. There had to be more to it than giving perverts an eyeful of
their perversion. Why always music? And why was the stereo in the
bottom of the cabinet, instead of the top?

Maybe the men who hurried up to this room for
their fun were too blinded by lust to consider the odd setup, but
T.S. was clearly not sidetracked and knew that something odd was
taking place.

"Turn on the music," he told Little Pete.

The boy stood suddenly and stared at him.
"Hey, man, you said that..."

T.S. was appalled. "I don't care about
anything but the music," T.S. quickly assured him. "I would never
lay a hand on you, son." He felt a little sick to his stomach. What
kind of world did he live in, where trust was so hard to
maintain?

Little Pete clicked open the bottom doors of
the cabinet and pressed a button. Loud music filled the room and
the light above came on, illuminating the room with an even glow
that was somewhat discreet, but nonetheless very thorough.

"Can you turn that music down?" T.S. asked,
wincing at the pounding beat. "And what's in the upper
cabinet?"

Little Pete shrugged, twisting the volume
dial. "Don't know. It's locked."

T.S. examined the wooden front. Though the
bottom doors were secured with magnetic latches, the upper ones had
not one, but two large traditional keyholes. And the upper keyhole
had lost its center bolt. He looked at it closely. Of course. It
concealed a camera lens. "Let me have your knife," he told Little
Pete. Dumbfounded, the boy handed it over.

It took several minutes and, by the time he
had finished, the front of the cabinet was splintered and ruined.
Little Pete was moaning about what the man who called the shots
would do to him as T.S. finally pried the upper doors open.

The device was surprisingly simple. Anyone
with the money for a smaller lens could have set it up. The cabinet
housed a video camera and the red light showed that the unit was
busy recording. T.S. was sure it had been turned on as soon as
Little Pete had flipped the music switch. Other equipment was
stored in the locked cabinet— including an enlarger, chemicals and
darkroom supplies—indicating that other photographic activity went
on in the apartment. And there had been those strips of Polaroid
paper on the fire escape shared with Emily's apartment, T.S.
remembered.

Little Pete was staring at the camera. "It's
on," he said, genuinely enraged. "The man's going to see you
talking to me." He reached for the tape.

T.S. stopped him. "It's all right, son. He'll
never know. We'll make it look like someone broke in and stole the
tapes. He'll never even find out." T.S. was desperate, lying,
promising anything he could. Because he knew that he needed that
camera on. It had occurred to him that it was a very good time to
have Little Pete go over what he could reveal about The Eagle. On
tape. In case the kid decided to pull another disappearing act.

Besides, it was also a good way to preserve
his own integrity.

There was nothing to do but to wait,
surrounded by the misery of the overcrowded emergency waiting room.
It was nearly ten o'clock and they had been at the hospital for
over five hours. Stubbornly, they still sat there, thinking of the
young boy upstairs, old far beyond his years, without friends or
family.

It was an assorted group that kept vigil.
Each of them was determined not to budge for his or her own
reasons. Auntie Lil wanted to keep an eye on Father Stebbins and,
yes, she admitted it, Annie O'Day. Herbert stayed put in case
Auntie Lil needed his services, but also because it would be
unthinkable of him not to contribute what goodwill he could in such
a sad situation. Adelle refused to budge, waiting out of curiosity
and a desire to help. Her two followers would stay as long as
Adelle. Fran waited because Father Stebbins had helped her so much
in the past, and now he truly needed her. And Father Stebbins,
well, he waited for reasons unknown to most of the others, overcome
with guilt, fingering his rosary as he prayed over and over.

They were there for so long, hoping for more
news of Timmy, that even the elderly couple had been administered
to and the young boy with the basketball injury bandaged. Others
had limped and coughed their way inside to take their place by the
time Annie O'Day reappeared.

"He's going to be sleeping through the
night," Annie told the group. "There's nothing more that we can
do."