The Merry Pranked (14 page)

Never in a real hurry, Leslie finally made his way to the Examiner. He had a few pieces to write for the upcoming weekend edition of the paper. Unlike a lot of other sections of the newspaper, there really wasn’t anything urgent happening in the Entertainment Section; no celebrity deaths that quickly needed to be fit into the section or anything like that.

He googled Gail Russell and checked her name against the newspaper’s data bank. She had entered and exited his life like a tornado, and despite knowing he should just forget about her, he wanted to know more. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a lot out there about her, except some news stories and a few interviews after her first art collection, a series of paintings featuring famous killers throughout the decades, entitled
Blood Red
that caught the eye of the viewing public. Actually, from what he could tell, based on the articles, it wasn’t so much the paintings that drew attention to her collection, although from what he could see they were more than competent enough, it was her sympathetic interpretation of the killers, men like Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, John Wayne Gacy, and more, that seemed to garner the publicity; in early interviews she seemed to discuss these men as if they were victims of a public that just didn’t know better – who misunderstood them and as such ostracized them. She made comments that enraged the public, brought her attention, and despite having encouraged rage, helped make her work valuable. Leslie noted that the interviews had stopped; Gail had probably realized the shit storm she’d created and had shied away from doing any more. At the same time, the exhibit had been cancelled in many of the cities it was expected to be displayed, although it never mentioned if Lakeview was originally on that itinerary. These cancellations brought about even more publicity, and as a result, collectors snatched up the artwork at top price. You could say that that first exhibit failed to get Gail’s work in front of the viewing public, based on all the cancellations, but it did put her on the map as an up-and-coming artist to watch and it did make her independently wealthy.

Aside from the controversy of her first collection, there wasn’t much else regarding Gail Russell (the Internet had a lot more information on an actress from the 1940’s, which was of no help to him). There was absolutely no personal information, either online or in the press kit provided to him by the publicist for her latest showing. These press kits usually contained all the biographical information a reporter would need to help craft a story on the artist, but not so in this case. Gail was a mystery.

“So what do you think?” said Walter, startling Leslie and snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Walter standing in the doorway.

“Do you have everything you need? Is it better knowing?” asked Walter.

“I appreciate the information.”

Walter moved into his office and took a seat.

“Who knows what makes any of us who we are,” said Walter. “What the hell drove me to become a reporter and spend a lifetime writing about murder? I’d imagine there’s a better way to spend one’s time.”

“Ah, but you do it so well,” said Leslie.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, kid,” said Walter. “We’ve talked a lot about the night your parents and siblings were murdered. I know it’s hard for you. I really haven’t lived through anything overly traumatic or intense, so I don’t know how vividly it and the emotions that go with it stay with you. We’ve talked a lot about it, but there’s one thing that has always remained unspoken or unclear, and that is other than finding your family murdered, did you or didn’t you actually witness the murders?”

“Does it matter?” asked Leslie.

“I always assumed you hadn’t. I mean Morgan’s still walking around out there a free man, so I figured you were hiding, heard the crime being committed and then witnessed the state their bodies were left in, a traumatic enough experience for any young boy.”

“And if I had witnessed the killings?”

“There’s no statute of limitations on murder, kid,” said Walter. “You’ve often alluded to the concept of revenge. If you did witness the murders, I’d imagine remembering them today would be as vivid as the moment you watched them taking place. And if Morgan was one of the men there that night, you’d be the star witness at a murder trial; could have been the star witness at a murder trial when you were just a young boy.”

“Then that answers your question, I didn’t witness anything.”

“I’ve talked to my various contacts in the police force and with the Feds, and it appears to me they are also unsure about what you saw or didn’t see that night. Said at the time, back then, they didn’t think you were stable enough to testify even if you did witness the killings; a tough decision, because believe me, if they thought they had a solid opportunity to put Morgan away for life they would have taken it.”

“Taken a killer off the street,” said Leslie.

“Yes, a killer off the street.”

“You’ve been covering the crime beat for a long time, haven’t you Walter?”

Walter shook his head. He knew Leslie knew he had been.

“When is it ever over?”

“I don’t get you.”

“I testify against Morgan and he’s put away. How does that help?”

“It’s been a long time, kid,” said Walter. “How many individuals have died at his hands since your parents?”

“You tell me,” said Leslie. “Actually, I’m sure it’s quite a few. I could have testified and saved those lives, is that what you’re saying?”

Walter nodded his head.

“And this is where it’s never over; where it doesn’t help. Morgan goes to jail and what happens after that? A power vacuum in his organization? You and I both know someone else is going to step up to the plate and fill that vacancy; some other psychotic street thug who is going to be responsible for countless deaths on his own. We send him off to prison and another steps into his place, and still innocent and not so innocent people end up dead. I testify against Morgan back when I’m ten and all I’ve done is shuffled the identities of the people who’ve been murdered; there’s still blood on the streets, and a criminal organization running drugs, guns, prostitution and God knows what else in our fair city.”

“So, did you witness the murders?” asked Walter. “I’ve shared information with you. All I ask is that you humor an old man.”

“I saw nothing; heard everything, but saw nothing.”

Leslie didn’t like lying to his friend, but it seemed like the best course of action at this moment. Leslie watched as Walter got out of the chair; his friend had that look in his eye, the one that clearly stated, at least for those who knew him, that he didn’t exactly believe you.

“I’m just saying, now that you know more, maybe it’s time to close the chapter on this book,” said Walter. “A long time has passed, and I’m sure the prosecutors will tell you that if you were to agree to testify the defense attorneys will have a field day with you challenging your memory after all these years, but it’s worth a try. As I said, there’s no statute of limitations, so rather than dream of revenge, why not consider testifying. There may also be someone waiting in the wings to fill Morgan’s shoes, but who cares, let’s just take them on one psycho at a time. Just food for thought my friend.”

Walter was out the door. He had a point, Leslie couldn’t argue with that. What Walter didn’t realize was that deep down, in his heart of hearts, testifying and locking up Morgan wasn’t good enough. He was the son of Mad Dog Marshall and he knew that wouldn’t be good enough for him as well.

chapter
FOURTEEN

you
HAVE
it in you.

That’s what she’d said.

You have it in you.

Mad Dog Marshall had it in him, but not Baby Dog Marshall
, he thought

Leslie couldn’t help thinking about his last conversation with Gail; he had the time, seeing as he was once again sitting in the city parking lot across from Duffy’s. The place seemed to be drawing him to it, like a moth to a flame – or would that be lemmings to a cliff’s side?

Once again, he could feel the reassuring weight of the gun in his coat pocket. As he’d found several opportunities to make it to the gun range, its presence had less of an impact on his thoughts than it had the first time. It was still not something to be taken lightly, just not as intimidating as before.

From everything he’d read about his Father, it was easy to surmise his Dad was a man of action - violent, homicidal action, but action nonetheless. He really wanted to be a man of action.

You have it in you.

If she was right, it was time for
it
to make itself known. The last time he was here he’d nearly gotten himself killed; he’d made the mistake of assuming he was craftier than he really was. Harry Madwin had survived on the mean streets of the city for several decades; he’d survived many upheavals in the ranks of the Morgan gang, and based on his close relationship with Morgan, had also survived competitors targeting Morgan’s gang, with their sights set on taking over the gang’s lucrative rackets. Harry was a survivor and Harry was a predator. Many had not survived on these mean streets because Harry had decided it was time for them to go. Having figured all of this out, he couldn’t believe how stupid he was the last time, when he, a white collar worker with manicured nails, came down here to the cesspool of the city and thought he could eliminate one of the city’s deadliest denizens.

While he was at it, why didn’t he cure cancer as well?

He’d been naive and stupid, but not anymore. It hadn’t been that long; he knew he hadn’t turned into Dirty Harry or anything like that, but he also knew he needed to take matters into his own hands. He’d had no way of knowing that at this age the problems of his past would rear their ugly head and demand he do something about them; all those years of just living with it and daydreaming about doing something about it had at one time been sufficient enough. Now, revenge was never far from his thoughts, and after recent conversations with both Gail and Walter that desire was even stronger within him. Sure he knew Walter was probably right, and if he wanted to come clean about witnessing the murders and say he’d testify against Morgan some prosecutor somewhere would probably take a stab at it; everyone would be worried about the passage of time, but needn’t be, as he remembered exactly what he had seen vividly, as if that night was forever imprinted on his brain in hi-def Technicolor. Attempting that would be the civilized way of approaching his demons. Morgan would find out about it, put a hit out on him, and he would have to go into protective custody until he had the chance to testify – the usual dance. Chances are he’d make it to the witness stand and his testimony would be enough to do what others hadn’t been able to do, but it all seemed anti-climatic. Every step in that scenario would also be controlled by someone else; he’d just be a pawn in their game; taking matters in his own hands and getting blood on them, that seemed more appropriate and a hell of a lot more satisfying.

Leslie had thought long and hard about it and knew what he wanted to do. This time he wouldn’t be playing spy, trying to get close to Harry. He knew exactly what he had to do; he had to find an opportunity where he could come up unexpected on Harry, put the gun to the back of his head and just fire. His only hope of taking out a killer like him was to do it quickly and by surprise. He wouldn’t have the satisfaction of letting Harry know who was taking him out and why, but that really didn’t matter in the long run; Leslie was sure that someone in Hell would tell him what had happened to him.

Harry had entered the bar more than an hour ago. As far as Leslie knew, no one had spotted him in the parking lot in his car. If they or Harry had, they’d have probably snuck up on him all ready and done some damage. For the moment he was safe. Tonight was about research anyway. He needed to follow Harry and see if there was a more opportune place to take him out; he’d also have to be careful; he’d never tailed anyone before, and didn’t want to be found out. If for some reason tonight an opportunity presented itself for him to get the drop on Harry, he knew he’d have to be ready to act. In other words, he had no idea what the night would hold.

Leslie waited, his eyes fixed on Duffy’s front door. He had considered playing the radio low, listening to some talk shows to pass the time, but it was kind of like when you’re driving and looking for a specific street address, for some reason, to find it, you need to turn down the radio. Staking someone out was boring, or at least had been until he saw
her
getting out of a car.

Gail Russell.

Leslie had to take a second look when a junk heap of a car pulled up just down the street from Duffy’s at one of the broken parking meters. He’d been concentrating on the door of the bar, but had quickly glanced over at the woman who got out of the vehicle – she looked familiar. It took him a moment to realize it was Gail. Not the Gail he knew, but a transformed Gail. She was no longer the classy well put together broad he knew, but was...well...trashy. The clothing she wore was pedestrian and provocative, fishnet stockings, a very small, tight black mini-skirt, a cleavage revealing top and a Biker-style black leather jacket. Her hair was done up in some cross between Peggy Bundy on
Married With Children
and normal. Her make-up, generally subtle and effective, was now caked on. She looked like a young girl who was working the streets.

What the fuck is she doing here?
he wondered.

He was almost tempted to get out of his car and head over to her, but something held him back. Could this possibly be a coincidence? Indecision made his decision for him, as before he could decide what he wanted to do; Gail had approached the front door of Duffy’s and entered.

Fuck chivalry,
he thought,
in there, she’s on her own.

Gail looked around the bar; it felt like home. The average person, if they’d accidentally stumbled into a place like this, would immediately turn and run screaming; she, on the other hand, had been in worst dives, often with her Daddy. She knew these people as she at one time had been one of these people.

She’d been researching the names on Leslie’s list, since the first night they’d fucked. The four photos had been circled for a reason and she knew what it was; they were the men who had killed Leslie’s family; it was only logical. Since leaving his apartment, she had been conducting her own investigation; her Daddy had taught her to be resourceful. And, seeing how she had no problem going slumming, it hadn’t taken her too long to find out about Morgan Neil and his crew, and discover some of the places certain members of that crew liked to hang out. She also knew that anyone asking such information on the streets would quickly become a target for Morgan and his gang. Having grown up around a lot of lowlifes, she knew they were untrustworthy and would sell their souls for whatever drug was their pleasure. As such, she’d been selective and careful. Although it wouldn’t be reported in the newspaper, or just be a footnote somewhere in the back pages, more than one junkie or prostitute had his or her throat cut after giving her some information. They’d all thought they were getting something of value from her, and then would have the opportunity to run to someone in Morgan’s gang and see what else they could get by giving her up. Each and every one of them had a look of pure surprise on their faces, when she’d slashed their throats. It was the only way to do this properly and safe. Possibly one Detective would be assigned to the case, or the murders would be spread out amongst a couple of Detectives. It wasn’t anything like the M.O. of her previous artistic killings, and even if the police department put five murders together based on the same M.O., she was finished killing those kinds of lowlifes, and really, how hard were they going to work to solve the murder of people like that? Was putting in overtime and missing your kid’s baseball game worth it when your victim was a junkie or a whore? She knew the secret to enjoying life was in knowing how to prioritize your time.

Her research had led her to Duffy’s and Harry Madwin. Now all she had to do was meet the killer and get him to fall for her charms. She was confident if given the chance, he’d be lured by her pleasure palace and she’d have him wrapped around her finger.

“Shit.Shit.SHIT,” said Leslie as he got out of his car and started pacing beside it.

What was he going to do?

Going into Duffy’s was undoubtedly a suicide mission for him. At the same time, even though it went against every survival instinct within him, he wanted to make sure Gail was okay; even though she’d made it clear she didn’t want to see him anymore. He knew she was different, but hadn’t expected to find her frequenting a place like Duffy’s decked out like a street whore. That was her call, so why should he care?

He shouldn’t, and he knew that, but,
damnit
, he did.

Leslie looked over at the bar.
FUCK,
he thought.

It hadn’t taken Gail long to draw a crowd of admirers around her at the bar in Duffy’s; men were so predictable; not only was she fresh meat walking through their door, but she knew she was attractive to the opposite sex; her Daddy had been right in teaching her how to protect her pleasure palace; he’d said men would want to take it from her, she just hadn’t realized how many.

She flirted and they lapped it up; all except one. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Harry, who was over to the side in a booth talking to a woman that looked like she’d been rode hard and hung up wet. Why he wasn’t by her side, she couldn’t understand; she had no interest in any of these yahoos’ presently surrounding her, only in that they drew attention to her, and as such, hopefully, Harry’s attention.

It took a while. Harry wasn’t like the others; there was a coolness and calmness about him that they lacked. When he’d finally finished with the rather rough looking woman in the booth - who was probably buying crack off of him, she figured - he casually made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. When he turned to her and offered to buy her one, her admirers all backed off. He was obviously the Alpha Dog and if he wanted her, they’d all have to wait until he got tired with her before they could have their shot at her; she imagined the rough looking woman from the booth had once looked young and pretty and been the belle of the ball, until enough drugs and balling with sorts like this had drained all the youth and beauty from her being.

“What’re you drinking, little lady?” asked Harry, now that the others had scrambled away to safety.

“Surprise me,” she said with a smile.

Leslie started across the parking lot, but only got a few steps before he came to a stop. He really wanted to know what Gail was doing in Duffy’s; he really wanted to know if she was all right. He desperately wanted to be man enough to just walk in there and see for himself, but he wasn’t.

Harry had moved her to his booth, the one previously occupied by him and the rough looking woman. Between them was a half-empty pitcher of beer, and in front of them their drafts. The evening was going well; she was flirting with him and he was lapping it up. She knew how to play it just dumb enough to keep him from being intimidated.

“I’ll be right back,” said Harry as he got up from the booth, shortly after having said something that he no doubt figured was subtle sexual innuendo, but lacked the wit or intelligence to be such.

“Is it something I’ve said?” she asked in her best baby doll voice.

“I just gotta say hi to some friends.”

She watched as he made his way to the bar and two tough-looking hoodlums.

“So what’s the story? Who’s the broad?” asked Stanley Corrigan as Harry joined him and Lou Tasker at the bar.

“Fresh meat?” asked Lou.

“Rich meat,” said Harry.

Both Lou and Corrigan looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“She’s dressed down and playin’ the part, but have you checked out her bling?” he said. “The shit she forgot to take off when she came slummin’? The earrings and rings?”

“So, what do you think?” asked Corrigan.

“Rich bitch looking for some gutter action is my guess. Wants to take a tumble between the sheets with the seedier side of life.”

Both Lou and Corrigan laughed.

“I’ll take her back to my place and give her what she wants,” he said. “She wants to go slummin’ I’ll tear that bitch’s cunt apart with my lowlife dick. Wear the shit right out of her. Give me about an hour or so then come by my place. Once I’ve had my fun, we’ll convince her to take us back to her place and turn over some of her riches. Rich bitches always have lots of emergency cash on hand.”

Lou and Corrigan nodded their approval, as Harry made his way back to the booth.

Leslie was in the driver’s seat. There was no point standing out there, out in the open, pacing back and forth like a fool if he wasn’t going to go into the bar. As much as he wanted to, it just wasn’t going to happen; no point in fooling himself.