The Butcher's Theatre (43 page)

“I think they’re the same. The east one’s smaller, but closer.”

He gave them directions, the boy said, “Thanks, man,” and they loped off. Stupid babies.

“Now,” he said, dragging Ibn Hamdeh up David Street and pushing him against the grate of a souvenir shop. He flipped the little rascal around, frisked him for weapons, and came up with a cheap knife with a fake pearl handle that he pulverized under his heel. Spinning Ibn Hamdeh around so that they were face to face, he looked down on greasy hair, fishy features, the hump covered by a flowered shirt that reeked of stale sweat.

“Now, Gadallah, do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir. The …police.”

“Go on, say what you were going to say.” The Chinaman smiled.

Little Hook trembled.

“Slant Eye, right?” said the Chinaman. He took hold of Ibn Hamdeh s belt, lifted him several inches in the air—the shmuck weighed less than his concrete-can barbell. “Everything you’ve heard about me is true.”

“Most certainly, sir.”

The Chinaman held him that way for a while, then lowered him and told him what he’d heard on the street, got ready for resistance, the need to exert a little pressure. But rather than harden the hunchback’s defenses, the inquiry seemed to cheer him. He opened up immediately. Laying on the sirs and talking fast in that same choppy voice about a man who had scared one of his girls the previous Thursday night, on the Jericho Road just before it hooked east, just above Silwan. An American with crazy eyes who’d seemed to materialize out of nowhere, on foot—the girl had seen no car, figured he’d been hiding somewhere off the road.

Eight days ago, thought the Chinaman. Exactly a week after Juliet’s murder.

“Why’d you take so long to report it, asshole?”

Little Hook began an obsequious dance of shuffles and shrugs. “Sir, sir, I didn’t realize—”

“Never mind. Tell me what happened exactly?”

“The American asked her for sex, showed her a roll of American dollars. But his eyes scared her and she refused.”

“Is she in the habit of being picky?”

“Everyone’s scared now, sir. The Butcher walks the streets.” Ibn Hamdeh looked grave, putting on what the Chinaman thought was a reproachful look, as if to say: You’ve not done your job well, policeman. The Chinaman stared him down until the shmuck resumed looking servile.

“How’d she know he was an American?”

“I don’t know,” said Little Hook. “That’s what she told me.”

The Chinaman gripped his arm. “Come on. You can do better than that.”

“By the prophet! She said he was American.” Little Hook winked and smiled. “Maybe he carried an American flag—”

“Shut your mouth. What kind of sex did he ask for?”

“‘Just sex, is all she told me.”

“Is she in the habit of doing kinky stuff?”

“No, no, she’s a good girl.”

“A real virgin. What did he do then? After she refused?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“He didn’t try to force her?”

“No.”

“Didn’t try to persuade her?”

“He just walked away, smiling.”

” Which way did he walk?”

“She didn’t say.” She didn’t look?”

“She may have—she didn’t tell me.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, sir. If I knew, I would certainly tell you.”

“What was wrong with his eyes?”

Little Hook painted in the air, again, caressed his hump. ‘She said they were flat eyes, very flat. Mad. And a strange smile. very wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer.”

“What made it a killer’s grin.”

The hunchback’s head pushed forward and bobbed, like that of a turkey pecking at corn. “Not a happy grin, very crazy.”

“She told you that.”

“Yes.”

“But she didn’t tell you which way he walked?”

“No, sir, I—”

“That’s enough whining.” The Chinaman pressed him for more: physical description, nationality, clothing, asking again what had been crazy about the eyes, wrong with the grin. He got nothing, which was no surprise. The pimp hadn’t seen the man, had heard everything secondhand from his girl.

“If I could tell you more, I certainly would, sir.”

“You’re a fine upstanding citizen.”

“Very surely, sir. I want dearly to cooperate. I sent out the word so you would find me. Truly.”

The Chinaman looked down at him, thought: The little bastard looks pretty crazy himself, waving his arms, rubbing that hump like he’s masturbating.

“I’m going to talk to the girl myself, Gadallah. Where is she?”

Ibn Hamdeh shrugged expansively. “Ran away, sir. Maybe

to Amman.”

“What’s her name?”

“Red Amira.”

“Full name.”

“Amira Nasser, of the red lips and the red hair.”

Not physically similar to the first two victims. The Chinaman felt his enthusiasm waning. “When did you see her last?”

“The night she saw Flat Eyes. She packed her bag and

was gone.”

“Wednesday night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you just let her go?”

“I am a friend, not a slavemaster.”

“A real pal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where does her family live?”

“I don’t know, sir.” “You said Amman. Why there?” “Amman is a beautiful city.”

The Chinaman frowned skeptically, raised a fist. Ibn Hamdeh flashed stainless steel.

“Allah’s truth, sir! She worked for me for two months, was productive, quiet. That’s all I know.”

Two months—a short shift. It jibed with what he’d been told about Ibn Hamdeh. The hunchback was small-time all ihe way, not even close to a professional flesh peddler. He promised novice whores protection and lodgings in return for a percentage of their earnings but couldn’t hold on to them for very long. When they found out how little he delivered, they abandoned him for sturdier roosters. The Chinaman pressed him a while longer, showed him pictures of both victims and got negative replies, wrote down a general physical description of Amira Nasser, and wondered if he’d see her soon, cut open and shampooed and wrapped in white sheeting.

“May I go now, sir?”

“No. What’s your address?” Ibn Hamdeh told him the

number of a hole in an alley off Aqabat el Mawlawiyeh, and

the Chinaman wrote it down and radioed Headquarters for

verification, requesting simultaneous record checks on both

the hunchback and Amira. Ibn Hamdeh waited nervously

for the data to come in, tapping his feet and caressing his

deformity. When the radio spat back an answer, the address

was correct. Ibn Hamdeh had been busted a year ago for

pickpocketing, let off with probation, nothing violent in his

file. Nothing at all on any Amira Nasser.

The Chinaman gave Ibn Hamdeh a business card, told

him to call him if he heard anything more about the flat-eyed

man, pointed him toward the Jaffa Gate, and ordered him

to get lost.

“Thank you, sir. We must rid the city of the abomination. Life is not good, this way.” The hunchback stopped before the gate, made a sharp turn on Christian Quarter Street, and disappeared into the darkness.

Flat eyes, thought the Chinaman, continuing east on David Street, then hooking north and taking the Souq Khan

e-Zeit toward the Damascus Gate. A crazy grin. A redheaded whore. Probably another dead end.

The souq had been watered before closing, the cobblestones still wet and glowing in the bands of moonlight that seeped between the arches. The market street was deserted, save for Border Patrolmen and soldiers, giving way to noise and lights as he approached the Damascus Gate. He walked past the coffeehouses, ignoring the revelry and fanning away cigarette smoke, exited gratefully into the cool night air.

The sky was a starlit dome, as black as mourning cloth. He flexed his muscles, cracked his knuckles, and began circulating among the tents of the Slave Market, buying a soda at one and standing at the back drinking it, watching a European-looking girl do a clumsy belly dance. Flat eyes, a crazy grin. The hunchback was probably a habitual liar, so maybe it was a just another con—false cooperation aimed at weaseling out of a larceny bust. Or maybe not. Maybe he had put out the word because he wanted to talk.

Still, the time frame made sense: a week between murders, the killing on Thursday night, the dumping Friday morning. If Red Amira had been tagged as number three, her escape helped explain why the time lapse since Juliet. Maybe this guy had some sort of schedule that allowed him out only on Thursday and Friday.

On the other hand, the red hair didn’t match. Maybe the whole story was bullshit.

He took a big gulp of soda, planned his next moves: Check out this Red Amira—too late for that right now. Examine the spot where the American had propositioned her, see if there was a place for someone to hide, if there was room to conceal a car. Also a daylight job.

If he found anything interesting, he’d call Dani tomorrow night. He had nothing yet that justified disturbing the guy”s Shabbat.

The bellydancer shook her cymbals and ground her abdomen; pooshtakim hooted and cheered. Bland, appraised the Chinaman, definitely European, a college girl picking up extra shekels. No zest, too skinny to make it work—you could see her ribs when she undulated. He left the tent, saw Charlie Khazak standing outside his pleasure palace, sucking

on a cigarette and wearing a snot-green shirt that seemed to glow in the dark. The shithead hadn’t forgotten their little heel-on-instep dance. When he saw who was looking at him, he threw away the smoke and backed into the tent, was gone when the Chinaman got there. Forty minutes later, he showed up, only to find the Chinaman stepping out of the shadows, using a shishlik skewer for a toothpick, yawning like some giant yellow cat.

“Shabbat shalom, Charlie.” “Shabbat shalom. I’ve been asking around for you, trying to help out.”

“Gee,” said the Chinaman, “I’m really touched.” “I’m serious, Lee. This murder shit is bad for all of us. Bad atmosphere, people staying home.”

“How sad.” The Chinaman broke the skewer with his teeth, began chewing the wood, swallowing it.

Charlie stared at him. “Want some dinner? On me.” “Nah, already had some. On you.” The Chinaman smiled, pulled eight more skewers out of his pocket, and let them drop to the dirt. He stretched and yawned again, cracked giant knuckles. More than a cat, Charlie decided. Fucking slant-eyed tiger, he should be caged.

“So,” said the detective, “business stinks. What a pity.

Who knows, you might have to turn to honest labor.” He’d been hearing the same tales of woe from other pimps and dealers. Since the papers had started pumping the Butcher story, there’d been a fifty percent slowdown on the Green Line. worse in the small pockets of iniquity that peppered the Muslim Quarter—sin-holes deep within the core of the Old City surrounded by a maze of narrow, dead-black streets, nameless alleys that went nowhere. You had to want something very badly to go there. The hint of a scare and the places shut down completely. All the whores were kicking about working with strangers, girls on the border staying off the streets, opting, temporarily, for the comforts of hearth and home. The pimps expending more effort to keep them in line. receiving less reward for their efforts.

“Everything stinks,” said Charlie, lighting a cigarette. “I should move to America—got a cousin in New York, drives

“Do it. I’ll pay for your ticket.”

The big screen TV was turned up loud; from behind the flaps came the sound of squealing tires.

“What’s on tonight?”

“French Connection.”

“Old,” said the Chinaman. “Got to be … what? Fifteen, twenty years old?”

“A classic, Lee. They love the car chases.”

“Then how come so few of them are watching? Your man behind the bar told me you had a newer one scheduled. Friday the Thirteenth, lots of knives and blood.”

“Wrong time, wrong place,” said Charlie, looking miserable.

“A temporary attack of good taste?” The Chinaman smiled. “Cheer up. It’ll pass. Tell me, Rabbi Khazak, what do you know about a whore named Amira Nasser?”

“She the latest?”

“Just answer.”

“Brunette, cute, big tits.”

“I thought she was a redhead.”

Charlie thought for a moment. “Maybe. Yeah, I’ve seen her with red hair—but that’s a wig. Her natural color is dark.”

“Does she usually go dark or red?”

“She takes turns. I’ve seen her as a blonde too.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Maybe three weeks ago.”

“Who runs her?”

“Whoever wants to—she’s an idiot.”

The Chinaman sensed that he meant it literally. “Retarded?”

“Or close to it. It’s not obvious—she looks fine, very! adorable. But talk to her and you can see there’s nothing] upstairs.”

“Does she make up stories?”

“I don’t know her that well, Lee. She connected to thej Butcher?”

The Butcher. Fucking press.

“Little Hook says he’d been running her.”

“Little Hook says all sorts of shit.”

“Could he be?”

“Sure. I told you she’s an idiot.”

“Where does she come from?”

“Hell if I know.”

The Chinaman placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

“Where’s she from, Charlie?”

“Go ahead, beat me, Lee,” said Charlie wearily. “Why the hell would I hold back? I want this thing cleared up more than you do.”

The Chinaman took hold of Charlie’s shirt, rubbed the synthetic fabric between his thumb and forefinger, half expecting it to throw off sparks. When he spoke, his voice was knotted with tension.

“I doubt that, asshole.”

“I didn’t mean—” Charlie sputtered, but the big man released him and walked away, heading back toward the Damascus Gate in a long, loose, predator’s stride.

“What’s so interesting down there?” the girl called from bed.

“The view,” said Avi. “There’s a beautiful moon out tonight.” But he didn’t invite her to share it.

He wore skintight red briefs and nothing else, stood on the balcony and stretched, knowing he looked great.

“Come on in, Avraham,” said the girl, in her best sultry

voice. She sat up, let the covers fall to her waist. Put a hand