American Devil (35 page)

As the song finished, an attractive brunette who’d been catching his glances sidled up to him at the bar and pulled up a stool. She was mid-thirties, wore tight denims and a top with a deep neckline.

‘You mind if I join you for a conversation?’

‘I never mind a conversation,’ Harper said.

She sat. For a moment, Harper wondered where she was from and what she did. He took in the heavy perfume, the lack of a ring on her wedding finger and the tired look in her eyes.

‘What you thinking about tonight?’ she asked.

‘Why love passes us by.’

‘My, that’s a big topic.’

‘How about you? Love pass you by?’

She smiled. It was nice. ‘Well, it stopped in the station a day or two.’

‘Same here,’ Harper said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Samantha. You?’

‘Tom.’

‘What do you do, Tom?’

‘Me, I don’t know. I really don’t know any more.’

She laughed. ‘Me neither.’

They talked for an hour - he told her all about Lisa; he heard all about her Frank. Then Tammy Wynette came on the jukebox, singing ‘Help me make it through the night’, and Samantha took his hand and led him out from the seat. She came up close to him on the dance floor and they slow-danced to the sentimental old song, her warm body comfortable against his.

It’d been years since Harper had felt another’s skin next to his own apart from Lisa’s. He felt strange, like a man doing something he shouldn’t. He was moving like a wooden marionette, and Samantha felt it.

‘It’s no big deal, Tom, just a dance: she’s not watching.’ She pulled him back towards her and leaned her head on his shoulder. Tom felt her hair brush against his skin. He remembered something Denise had once said to him.
You want to get to somewhere new, let go of the ledge
. Tom slowly moved his hand on to her back and let it lie flat against her shoulder.

‘Let’s enjoy tonight just for itself,’ she whispered.

That seemed the right thing to do. One hand off the ledge at a time. The two of them held each other tight and danced into the New York City night, momentarily parted from their loneliness.

 

O
utside, snow had started to fall. The thick white flakes turned black as soon as they hit the wet street, but the tops of cars were gathering a blanket of thick snow. Inside the one lit all-night shop on a narrow and dilapidated row, wet footprints trailed from the door to the counter. A path made of ripped-up brown boxes continued around the two aisles. In the back room of the 7-Eleven, Maurice Macy danced from one foot to the other like he was desperate for a leak. He picked up a large stack of boxes of tinned meat without breaking sweat.

Benny Marconi looked up from the old black leather La-Z-Boy in the corner of the back room and nodded his approval. Mo had only been with him a few weeks but he was the best worker Benny’d ever had - strong, silent and able to work fourteen-hour shifts, seven days a week for minimum wage without a single complaint. Mo, aka ‘Redtop’, was the perfect employee. Benny leaned out of his seat and slapped his back as he passed. ‘Way to go, Kong!’

Maurice placed the three boxes on the floor of the shop and took out a knife. He ripped open the first box. Tins of prime cooked mince. He more or less lived on tinned mince and tinned stew. He smiled and licked his lips. But his mind was a simple one and had very few avenues for thought. The idea of mince made him think of dinner, dinner made him think of home.

And home made him shiver and sweat.

It had been like that for days now. Half the time, he had too much to do and could forget all about it. Put it out of his mind. He was normal old reliable Mo. Smiling, forgetful, helpful Mo. Serving the coffee, sweeping the store, helping an old lady get something off the high shelves.

Then it’d come to mind like a sudden vision and he’d shake. He’d shake because he suddenly remembered. And it was hard to remember. Too hard. All his life he’d been cold. He didn’t want to be cold again. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be warm now. Good and warm.

He left the boxes of mince and walked over to the till. The only way to stop his anxiety was counting. He liked to count. Counting was his best thing. He opened the till.

‘Just counting up, Mr Marconi.’

Benny Marconi mouthed something under his breath, but let the big guy do his thing. Redtop cashed up about eight, nine times a day. He was compulsive like that. But in the short time he’d worked there, Maurice hadn’t lost a cent.

Now he was cashing up, but little Lottie was still coming to mind. She’d been strong. She’d cried all night long. Low horrible sobs. All night long. Even when he warned her. Even when he held his hand over her mouth and really pleaded with her to be quiet.

‘Don’t be making me do this. Please don’t be making me do this.’

He didn’t like it when they got emotional. He liked just talking to them and holding them sometimes. Looking after them was nice. His hands started trembling. He liked to pet them, that was all. A sweat formed on his brow. He knew there would be trouble if she didn’t shut up.

Now Lottie was gone and he missed her something terrible. His boss, Benny Marconi, was jabbering on from the back room. Something about cockroach suppliers and some whore he’d heard would give head for eighty-five cents. Benny’s truck was busted. When the truck was working, Mo would go up to the Bronx and get the good cheap supplies, but what they were getting delivered now was expensive shit. Benny moaned every day about it.

Mo counted the nickels and dimes slowly and methodically - he didn’t want to have to start again. He would cash up and leave. He wanted to be out on the street. Feel the night air in his lungs. He needed someone warm, that was all. He couldn’t live alone any longer. Not any more. For years he’d been alone, locked up in those small white cells on Ward’s Island. He’d told the psychiatrists that he didn’t want to touch the girls any more and he thought he would be all right. But once he was out again, he saw them on the street and the old feelings came back. He wanted one. He wanted one of his own to keep. Lottie was so nice and warm. But she had gone now and he needed more.

He wrote the total in the final column in pencil. He added across the columns. He added up thirty-five figures in each of seven rows and totalled them. It took him eight seconds. He checked the number against the till read-out.

Bingo. Not a cent out.

He liked it like that. Not a cent more or less. He worked all day making sure that not a mistake was made. All fourteen hours.

Benny emerged from the back. ‘You get that, Redtop? Eighty-five cents. She’ll take an IOU too, they tell me. It’s cheaper to get your dick sucked than get a cup of coffee in this city.’

Maurice looked up from the books. ‘It’s all correct, Mr Marconi. All exact.’

‘Just like always, Redtop. You’re a fucking marvel. You know that. A fucking counting machine. My big lump of the world’s stupidest genius!’

‘Just like to get it right for you, Mr Marconi.’

Redtop took off his blue apron and hat. He hung them carefully on a hook labelled
Mo
. He put on his jacket, over one of the bright red rollneck sweaters which had given him his nickname.

Maurice was one of life’s sad stories. The kind of guy that little guys like to take a pop at in the street. He was six foot one, clean-cut and strong. It was only the look in his eye that told you something inside wasn’t quite right.

As he got to the door he picked up the large brown suitcase that he used to carry laundry to and from the launderette.

‘You washing again, you dirty old dog? What’ve you been up to?’

‘Just like clean sheets, Mr Marconi.’

Maurice nodded his goodbye and opened the glass door. It was snowing.

‘Here,’ called Benny and flicked him a dollar as he was leaving. ‘Get your dick sucked on me.’

‘Sure will, Mr Marconi.’

‘You just make sure you bring me the change.’

 

I
t was the perfect evening for young love to blossom - to explode even. The snow had started falling on the city again. New York City in the snow - the air chill on your face and hands and the tall buildings of the city rising up to the deep dark sky.

East Drive was so quiet you could hear owls from Central Park either side. It was almost deserted. Just a happy young couple weaving along the empty cycle path, laughing as they walked.

Lucy James was twenty years old with long dark hair and a playful smile. She was dressed in a short denim skirt with a big puffa jacket. Seth McAllister walked by her side listening to her glorious ramblings. She was such an extrovert, such a force of nature. An arts major to his love of the sciences. She jumped, skipped and turned as she walked and talked. He just loved to watch her like she was some effervescent experiment and she just loved to be watched.

They’d spent the last few hours drinking and flirting together in a bar looking out over the city - a romantic view, alcohol, mutual attraction . . . his hand brushing against her thigh, her hand touching his arm. It was going to happen tonight. They’d waited months to get this far. Oh, and didn’t the wait make it all so worthwhile. Christ, it was going to be good.

They were so obviously desperate that they could see it in each other’s eyes. They would enter his college room so full of pent-up passion that they would tear at each other’s clothes, kiss deeply and wrestle each other to the floor before they even reached the bed.

They entered the twisting path of the park. It was so beautiful to see the huge snowflakes falling over the trees. They passed a man in a red top sitting strangely still on a bench with a suitcase beside him.

‘On holiday?’ Lucy asked with a giggle. The man on the bench just looked at her. He looked at her short denim skirt. She was the type. She looked like a hooker. Hookers you could take. Hookers didn’t cause a fuss like those rich girls. No one missed a hooker. They all wore clothes like that. Lucy’s laughter floated by. There was no one else around. The couple walked further into the park. Lucy was a risk-taker and a romantic. Seth was getting nervous.

‘Where are you taking me, Lucy?’

‘Somewhere private!’ she called out. She’d got this idea in her head that it would be pretty fucking amazing to do it al fresco with snowflakes falling on your face, in your open mouth.

They came to some low evergreen shrubs and left the path. Seth heard something to the side. A crack. ‘What was that?’

‘An escaped lion!’ shouted Lucy. ‘Coming to get you!’

‘Listen,’ said Seth. ‘It’s getting closer.’ They both stayed silent. They could hear something, or someone, walking close by. But they couldn’t see through the dense shrubbery. Lucy pulled up close to Seth. Why not use it as an excuse? She held him firmly. Seth was keen to listen, though.

‘It’s moving away now. What do you think it is?’

‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ Lucy said and ran ahead. ‘Follow me, Seth!’

Seth laughed. She was so impetuous. He called after her. ‘Let’s get back to my place. I’ve got an old bottle of Amaretto and a Neil Diamond CD!’

She stopped, winked and flashed him a cheeky smile. ‘Why wait till we get back to your place?’

Now it was a different game she was playing. She darted into the bushes. ‘If you can catch me!’ she called out.

Seth saw her disappear and he felt a sudden surge of adrenalin as he imagined her body against his in the cool snow. He didn’t follow her, though. No, he would surprise her. He would come round behind her and make her jump.

Lucy ran a little distance and then stopped. She could hear Seth moving now, coming through a tree with low-hanging branches. He was only a few steps away from her, but the light from the paths had disappeared and the park was suddenly very dark.

Lucy could no longer hear his footsteps. She felt strangely excited by the secrecy of the darkness and didn’t want to wait any longer. Why not make their first time memorable. Right here - in the heart of the city they both loved. Under the city sky!

She was feeling pretty adventurous after several Malibu and Cokes. She rested against a tree. Her chest was heaving with excitement. She called out: ‘Oh, Seth! I’m here! Come and get me!’

He didn’t reply. She walked a few steps back through the shrubs. There was a thin sliver of pale light from the path. It seemed a long way away all of a sudden. The night seemed unnaturally quiet.

Out of the stillness, a shuffling noise. Then she heard the shrubs rustle. She jumped. ‘Seth, you bastard.’ A figure appeared in the clearing, covered in snow.

‘Is that you?’ she called out. Again no reply. Lucy suddenly felt fear tighten around her. She wanted to run, but she managed to calm herself.

It had to be Seth playing one of his jokes! She screamed out, ‘Seth! Stop it. Stop it now. I’m scared.’ He was approaching. She could see there was something wrong. His size, his movement, was all wrong.

The guy in the red top rushed at her and Lucy started to scream but the sound was quickly cut short as a heavy cosh landed on the side of her head. She fell on to the snow and Maurice quickly opened the suitcase and put her in it. He clipped the clasp shut and lifted the case with one hand.

Then he was gone. He was smiling now. A great big excited smile.

 

T
he suitcase had been light as a feather with this one. He reckoned that she could be no more than ninety-five pounds. He lugged the suitcase up the street and no one batted an eyelid. He was just simple old Mo and no one cared enough to get involved.