He was a good photographer, and he worked swiftly. He posed her in a variety of spots—leaning lazily against the bridge, sitting at the base of the tree, staring moodily into the water. He taught her how to pose, how to smile, and she was a good pupil. Falch was surprised to discover that his interest in the pictures was almost as great as his desire for Saralee.
He was careful not to try any real cheesecake that first day. He did take a few leg shots, but he kept her fully clothed and avoided the more provocative poses. Saralee attracted him more than any girl he could remember, and he didn’t want to spoil things at the start. She was so young and inexperienced, he’d have to play things very slowly. And he had all the time in the world.
Getting into the car for the ride back, she brushed against him accidentally, and the softness of her skin startled him and sent his pulse up. He wanted to reach for her, then and there, but he forced himself to bide his time.
At night, he covered the cracks and light openings in his room with masking tape and developed the pictures. They were better than he had expected. The girl could project herself, could endow the pictures with real vitality. He thought how she would be in his arms, with her blond hair spread over a pillow.
Gradually, day by day, he took increasingly sexier pictures of her. He taught her to bring her body into harmony with the camera. He photographed her in a skimpy bathing suit, with the sun glistening on her flawless skin. He posed her in a low-cut gown that he bought just for that purpose, and with her blouse open part way down the front, so that it barely hid her breasts. That time he could barely stand it, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Saralee took it all in stride. She never faltered, accepting it all as part of the job of becoming a model. She showed more and more of her legs and breasts, and never so much as blushed.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” he’d asked one day.
“I used to go with Tom Larson, but not anymore. He’s too young for me. Maybe you met him,” she’d added. “He works at the drugstore.”
Falch remembered the boy—thin, with pimples on his face. He would be no problem at all.
And then one day, when the curves of her breasts and belly and thighs filled him with a desire he couldn’t suppress, he knew that the time had come. “Saralee,” he said, “I think we ought to try something a little bit different. Unless you’d rather not.”
She looked at him. “Nudes? Is that what you mean, Jake?”
“Well…”
“I think that would be nice,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I mean, all the top models did nude shots first, didn’t they?”
He nodded, breathing heavily. “I’d love to,” she said. “But we can’t do that here, Jake. Somebody might see, and besides, there’s a law against it.”
“Maybe at my room, in the hotel.”
“Wait,” she said. “I have a better idea. How about my house?”
He stared at her incredulously. “Your house? But your folks…”
“They’re out of town for the weekend. Could you come up about nine?”
It was better than he’d dared to hope for. The clerk might be nosy at the hotel, and if she got rough it might be noisy. But at her house there’d be no worries. “Nine,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
He was there early, and when she stood nude before him he felt that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. There was not a hint of shyness about her, just pride and pleasure in her own loveliness. He began taking pictures.
After he’d shot a roll of film, he took a pint of whiskey from his camera bag. “This calls for a celebration,” he explained. “Your first nude shots. We have to have a few drinks.”
She protested weakly that she had never had whiskey before, but gave in without much argument. They had a drink each, then shot another roll, and then had another round of drinks.
It was easy to see that she was unaccustomed to alcohol. A glow came into her cheeks and her eyes became even brighter than usual. They went on drinking and taking pictures, and he knew that he was almost ready to take her.
When he posed her, he let his hands linger longer than necessary upon her smooth skin, and he felt the heat building up within her. She breathed faster, deeper. It was time.
He said nothing; he didn’t have to. He set down the camera, switched off the lights, and took her by the hand. His right arm encircled her waist, his hand stroking the soft flesh of her belly. He led her down the hall, to the darkened bedroom, and disrobed swiftly. His hands raced over her body, he pressed a long hard kiss upon her lips, and then he took her.
When the morning sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds, Falch rolled over and swore softly. His mind filled with memories of the night and he chuckled to himself. God, she had been good! Fresh and new and hot as a stove. And she had enjoyed it as much as he had.
He turned over to look at her, but the bed was empty. Must be cooking up some breakfast, he thought, chuckling. Breakfast in bed.
It had taken a lot of hard work, but you didn’t get things like that easily. And she had been worth it. He had a good life to look forward to now, with no more fooling around. He’d have her whenever he wanted.
“Saralee!” he called. “Saralee!”
Seconds later the door opened. But it was not Saralee. It was a boy.
“Who the hell are you?” Falch demanded. Then he took a closer look, and he recognized him. It was Tom Larson, the boy from the drugstore.
The boy smiled, and it was a smile very much like Falch’s. “Shut up,” he said. “You just keep quiet there, Mr. Falch.”
Falch gaped at him, unable to utter a sound.
“Got a surprise for you,” said Tom. He reached into a pocket of his jeans and pulled out a picture, passing it to Falch.
Falch stared at the picture and his mouth fell open. “Got lots more like that,” the boy said. “Took ’em last night, a whole mess of pictures. They’re going to cost you, Mr. Falch.”
The boy tapped the picture significantly. “Nice and clear, huh? Saralee’s a good little model, Mr. Falch. And only seventeen, too. A nice respectable girl like that, it’s going to cost you plenty. They’re rough on guys like you in this state.”
He pulled the picture from Falch’s hand and studied it, grinning with satisfaction.
“Came out perfect, the whole batch of ’em. Used infra-red film and a fast shutter. Just stood in the closet and snapped ’em off. Didn’t need a drop of light.”
The boy laughed. “But I don’t need to explain all that to you, Mr. Falch. Hell, I bet you’re an old hand at this sort of thing!”
MURDER IS MY BUSINESS
I LIVE IN A POORLY FURNISHED ROOM a block off the Bowery. I used to live there because I couldn’t afford anything better. But times have changed. I live there now because I like it. It’s almost cozy, once you get used to it. The smells stop bothering you after the first week or so, and the people down there never bother anybody. The other tenants are upper-caste prostitutes. The winos are always drunk and the prostitutes are always available. I like the setup.
It’s also a good business location. I live in my room, and I run my business from the bar a few doors down the street. Some of my clients don’t like the neighborhood, but they manage to come here anyhow. They need me more than I need them. Business has been good this year.
I was sitting in the bar at my usual table in the back looking at a beer and watching it get warm. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I never drink before dinner. Eddie doesn’t like me to sit without drinking, so I usually buy a beer or two during the afternoon and watch it go flat. I was reading a book of Spanish poetry when she came in.
I knew right off she was a prospective client. Women like her don’t hang out in Skid Row bars. They were either kept in penthouses or married to Scarsdale millionaires. You could tell from one look at her.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, but that was a part of it. The women who live here have used up their best years on Eighth Avenue, and all the flavor has gone out of them. They all drank too much, and most of them have scars on their faces from men who drank too much. And they walk with a what-the-hell shuffle. The women on the Bowery aren’t beautiful, and this one was.
She had blond hair, and not the kind that comes out of a bottle. It was cut short, and curled around a very passable face. She was wearing a suit, but it couldn’t hide her body. It was a more than passable body.
But as I said, it was more than her beauty. She had class, and that is something which never winds its way to the Bowery. It’s something you can’t pin down, but it’s the visible difference between Nashua and the horse that pulls Benny’s peanut wagon. This babe had class.
She walked in as though she had every right to be there, and every eye in the place turned to her. They didn’t watch her for long, though. The people who hang out in Eddie’s Bar are only interested in wine, and a woman is something which just stirs up memories.
She looked around for a minute, and finally met my stare. She came over and I pointed to a chair. She sat down, and we stared at each other for a while.
“Are you the man?”
It was a hell of an opener, so I played it cool and asked her just what man she was talking about.
“The man who…does jobs for people.”
“That depends,” I said. “What kind of job?” I was enjoying this.
“Couldn’t we go someplace more private?”
I shook my head. “Nobody listens here,” I said. “And if they do, they won’t remember. And if they remember, they won’t care. So speak up.”
“A man told me you…killed people.” It was an effort for her to get the words out.
I asked her what man, and she described Al. That meant a quick ten percent for Al, and it also meant that the chick was an honest customer.
“Did he tell you my fee?”
“He said five hundred dollars.”
I nodded. “Do you have it?” This time she nodded. “Well,” I said, “whom do you want taken care of?”
“My husband,” she said. “He found out I was playing around and he’s cutting me out of his will.”
That was standard enough. “Okay,” I said. “When do you want the job done?”
“Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight is fine,” I said. “Give me the address.” She did and it wasn’t Scarsdale, but Riverside Drive came to about the same thing. I memorized it quickly.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be up about nine-thirty.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go out.”
I shook my head. “Stay home. What do you usually do nights?”
She nearly blushed. “Watch television,” she said. “My husband is old.”
I could see why she wanted to kill him. A woman like her needed to be loved plenty. She was wasted on an old guy.
I got back to business. “Stay home tonight,” I said. “Watch television. I’ll make like a burglar and take care of him, then you give me time to get away and call the cops. That way if I should get picked up, you can say I wasn’t the murderer. Get it?”