Myth Man (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Y
OU SLEEP IN IT
;
you bathe in it
.

Myth Man was in the shower, scrubbing with fury. He awoke from a vivid dream where he was a child again and had been camping with his father. Then he reached over in bed and did not detect his wife’s presence. Groggy, he figured she’d likely passed out in the living room. An almost empty bottle of booze, a highball half empty, and an overstocked ashtray would assuredly be on the table.

But no, they’d gone to bed together and, for the first time in months, performed
sex. No old flame was rekindled. For the both of them, it was purely a need fulfilled.

Then he felt the wetness around his torso and cursed.
Again
! Like a woman’s menstrual period, he was good once a month, except there was no approximate cycle to guide him for the discharge, let alone tampons. Plus, it was just not natural. His wife once, and only once, suggested trying adult diapers. One cold look, and she never mentioned them again.

He found a note on the kitchen counter from his wife. She left to visit her sister, disgusted no doubt. His sister-in-law Allison actually held a good job. It was her husband Jimmy, or Jimbo as he liked to be called, who was a louse, jumping from job to job until being eradicated by the boss. Jimbo did excel when it came to loud beer belches and self-professed sports analysis. The two sisters were likely at brunch. Husband-bashing was certainly on the menu as they chewed their spouses into just desserts.

Next, Myth Man cleaned the scene of the crime. The sheets went to the washing machine. He sprinkled a urine scent remover, which his wife purchased from a pet store, around the bed stain, which was not entirely fresh. In eight years of marriage, they were on their sixth mattress. Sadly, it was not from broken bedsprings, he lamented.

He washed off the extra lathering and thought of better things—cleansing the world of religious slime.
Religion Busters
. He saw a circle with all the religious symbols the cross, the Jewish star, etc., and a diagonal slash through them all. He’d love to hang one in his office.

In twenty minutes, he was dressed in a black-and-white striped sweat suit. He made a few slices of wheat toast, margarine, and strawberry jam, which were washed down with a liter of orange juice. Then he slipped his rollerblades in a backpack and put headphones on. The final touch was the mirrored sunglasses.

He suspected his taste in music was unusual.He guessed most murderers liked rap or heavy metal due to the aggression and violence associated in those genres. The sophisticated types were usually portrayed to like classical music, but he hated that as well, especially since he associated much of the music with the church. He wished he could like that death metal music with much of their venom hurled toward religion, but those idiots instead praised Satan, which was equally ludicrous. Plus, they dressed like assholes, with their zombie, vampire look, and the music was without harmony. All the vocalists sounded the same, with their hoarse, Cookie Monster growls.

No, he had more in common with the killer Patrick Bateman in Bret Easton Ellis’s book
American Psycho
in that he favored sappy love ballads. Unlike Bateman however, he was quite sane, and not a finicky fuck.

He hit the play button, and Air Supply came on. One of his favorite bands. By the time he got off the subway in downtown Manhattan, he was up to
All out of Love
on the Air Supply play list. He was out of love all right. He hated his wife and despised religion’s hold on humanity. This was why he listened to love songs. They made him angry, got him in the right mood.

Ahead was a corner park. Myth Man found a park bench without a snoozing bum and void of fresh pigeon shit. He removed his sunglasses and headphones and popped a squat. He untied his laces and removed his sneakers. Then he pulled his rollerblades out from his backpack and put the shoes in their place.

He rose, took a few strides, spun in a circle, and then accelerated. He smiled, as he enjoyed the speed a simple change in footwear made, when suddenly he saw something on the edges of his periphery. A homeless man, who was apparently awake, came to life and grabbed his backpack. The vagrant was making a break for it.

Would you believe this asshole
, Myth Man thought, as he braked and set off after him. In six strides he lowered his shoulder and hit the larger-sized man. Through speed and leverage, the homeless man went airborne and crashed to the cement. Grounded, the sprawled man looked up at him and decided he did not like what he saw. “I’m sorry. Here,” he said dropping the booty.

“Leave,” Myth Man warned.

The man scrambled away, and Myth Man wondered if he had killed a friend of his in the pews that day at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He leaned down and collected his stuff. “Fuck,” he spat. One of the frames on his glasses broke in the fall. Fortunately, the music player’s protective case performed its duty well. Minutes later, he was on his way, skating to the passion of REO Speedwagon’s
Can’t Fight This Feeling
.

The anger in him surged. He didn’t fight it.

He took off toward Grace Church. Although it was an early weekend and he was a skilled skater, he treaded carefully past the parked cars. At any moment, a car door might open. When the traffic abated, he strayed a few yards from the parked cars, and if the situation dictated, he used the sidewalks.

His contact told him all about the plan to monitor every religious site on their respective holidays. This was stretching the police force, and he was glad to hear of the inconvenience. Even better was the report he got on the FBI agents. Apparently they assigned some goofy gumshoe who was hampering the case and pissing everybody off in the process, especially Detective Danko. He also learned about Danko’s problems with his wife.

Such mischief he’d started. He felt bad, which made him feel good.

He was somewhat surprised to hear that Dominick Presto was supposed to be at Grace Church this Palm Sunday. His contact had no idea if that was a coincidence or based on any deductive reasoning. Not that it mattered. Right church, wrong day. Why kill on Palm Sunday, when he could crucify another Christian without a hope in hell of an afterlife on Easter?

The security did not trouble him. He had a plan, one that he’d cultured for almost a year. The cleric’s murder took some guile and planning, but being the first religious kill, it was relatively easy. St. Patrick’s posed a challenge, but the police still had no idea of what they were dealing with, and that also went smoothly. His tactics over the Internet hampered the police. It was only after the the death of the Kali pandit that they realized the nature of the game. After Easter, they would also know his name.

Myth Man.

His music-induced reveries were broken by the sight of a few police cars at the end of the block. He brought the right rollerblade back brake down a few touches and decelerated. As he got close, he saw a platoon of cops. He smiled. This was hilarious. What a waste of manpower. Did they think he was going to walk through the cathedral doors with a bazooka and blast the reverend to kingdom come? Ridiculous.

When he reached the corner and turned toward the cathedral, he noticed a woman in a yellow dress. She was on the other side of Broadway, coming toward him. He wondered if she was the female agent his contact told him about.

He slowed to a crawl and watched the diva in the dress approach. He turned his head to watch her destination point. Only a few yards away from him, eating a sandwich while slouched against a sagging car, was Dominick Presto.

Their eyes locked. Myth’s eyes fluttered, and his mouth opened in shock. Presto’s eyes narrowed. Nervous, Myth Man looked back to the female and willed his legs to move.

It seemed his synapses misfired, but after several attempts, his legs obeyed the message, and he slowly skated away.

As he gained speed, he resisted the urge to look back. He cursed the lure of a woman’s body for the distraction and the sneaky bum who inadvertently broke his mirrored glasses.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

W
HO SAID LEAD BALLOONS don’t float?

Buoyant, Presto felt like he had futuristic jets boots on as he glided through his apartment door. Seated at the dining room table, with the newspaper open to the crosswords, his mother looked at him incredulously as he hovered over her.

“Was there a break in the case?” she questioned.

“No.”

She cocked her head. “Then what’s with the glow? You look a little too happy.”

Presto shrugged. “I guess it’s the thrill of being back on the job.”

She shot an inquisitive grin. “That’s it?”

“Oh, and Buddha’s Bistro is running the all-you-can-eat $5.99 dinner buffet this week, too.”

Cleo Presto looked away. She shook her head. “That won’t do.”

Jolted, he asked, “What won’t do?”

“Buddha’s Bistro. Good Chinese, no doubt, but the décor is too drab. Hardly romantic.”

“Romantic? What are you talking about? I was joking about the buffet special.” His feet had now firmly landed. The touchdown felt wobbly.

“Your date,” she said.

He flinched. Was his mother clairvoyant? “Date,” he said meekly.

She looked at him oddly. “Yeah. Date,” she punctuated. “Camille arrived.”

Relieved, but confused, he replied, “Camille?”

“Yes, blank brain. The Stagnuts’ niece.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I’ve been busy with this case. I forgot about that.”

She smiled sympathetically. “I know. Well if you’re up to it, she’d love to get together tonight.”

“Tonight?” he gasped.

“Yeah, can you blame her with that woman’s cooking?” Cleo’s index finger went into her throat. She gagged and simulated a vomit attack.

Gina’s cooking catastrophes are infamous throughout the Stagnuts’ side of the family tree. Arthur often, but always without his spouse present, contrasted his mother’s and sister’s cooking with that of his spouse.

Presto took a step back. “She’ll be here for a while, and I’m not taking her out every night, so she’s going to have to brave her cooking at some point. Tonight’s no good.”

She dropped the pencil in her hand. “Tired?”

“A bit,” he said slowly.

The lines in her face furrowed. “Take a nap. When you wake, I’ll have a warm meal ready for you.”

His immediate reaction was to become trite over his mother’s forthcoming inquisitiveness. But despite her wishes, the cancer did change his behavior.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“What?”

“Cooking. I have plans later.”

Her mouth opened in exaggerated shock. “What plan, Buster? Who are you standing poor Camille up for?”

“I’m getting chummy with the guys on the case. They hang at this girlie bar. I suppose it’s a thing married guys do,” he said with a chuckle, “but they swear by the chicken wings there. Say they’re the best in the city.”

Unfretted, she retorted. “Have a good time. Get a lap dance.”

“What?” His mouth opened. His shock not exaggerated.

“We women know about that stuff. That’s what daytime TV is for.”

She continually amazed him, even after all these years. He grinned. “And you approve of such conduct?”

“In your case, I’m treating. You need company?” Her visage dared.

He laughed. “I was kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Let’s reschedule that blockbuster plan. In the meantime, I’m going to my study to unwind.”

“Sure. First tell me what you’re really doing tonight.”

He snapped his fingers. “Thought I sidetracked you there.”

“Not for a second, Dominick.”

“I could lie, so you don’t harangue me. I know how you’ll twist things,” he jested.

“I would never,” she gasped as her right hand found her throat.

“No, not you,’ he deadpanned. “Tonight, however, I’m getting a bite to eat with the female agent we’re working with. Trust me, Mom, it’s strictly business.”

She scowled in jest. “Does this agent have a name?”

He countered with a stupid face of his own. “No. Today, with advances in robotics, the government, to save money, has unleashed a new breed of agents. She’s an android.” He jerked himself upright and froze like a mannequin except that none existed in his proportions. “I’m agent Ninety-nine, at your service,” he said, attempting a feminine voice.

She grinned. “That was good. Now how about her name?”

His stiffness melted back to flabbiness. “Lorraine. Agent Lorraine Ridgewood.”

“Is she married?”

“I have no idea. We never got around to personal stuff.”

She hissed slowly, like air escaping a depressed tire valve. “Nice try, Detective. Was she wearing a ring?”

“You won’t believe me, but I didn’t think to take note.” Cleo smirked in doubt, but he continued. “Yet, now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing one.”

She picked up her pencil and pointed it at her son. “So you’re standing Camille up for this hussy, who wants to pick your brain?” Her tone was mock serious.

“Absolutely. It’s called mutual cooperation.”

She blinked rapidly and asked, “So where are you taking her? If it’s just business, why not Buddha’s?”

He found his mother’s inquisitiveness amusing. “Actually, we’re headed to The Blue Tit, that girlie bar I just mentioned. They even have a caricature of the actual bird in their logo, actually two of them, one over each breast of a busty cartoon female.

“Agent Android Ridgewood, not requiring sleep, moonlights as a dancer. The Feds have inserted undercover robot agents within the sleazy, criminal world of erotic voyeurism.”

She threw the pencil at him. Despite the ample target, she somehow missed.