Without Mercy by Len Levinson, Leonard Jordan Read Free Book Online Page A

her and thought of the whores and peepshow girls of Times Square, reflecting that they were once twelve years old too, guileless and romantic, dreaming of princes on white horses, party dresses, and lollipops. He wondered what terrible things had happened to them, and hoped Rebecca wouldn’t take a wrong turn someplace and go in that direction.
    She spun around, holding before her a frilly white dress with little red flowers on it. “Do you like this one, Daddy?”
    “It’s very pretty, sweetheart. Why don’t you take it to the dressing room and try it on?”
     

Chapter Four
    It was the next night and Rackman was back on duty driving west on Fifty-seventh Street to meet with one of his informants. His police radio was on, crackling with routine messages. As he neared the Sixth Avenue intersection, the radio broadcaster’s voice became urgent, “Signal ten-fourteen . . . signal ten-fourteen . . . Possible homicide at the Polka Dot Lounge, 757 Eighth Avenue . . . Which car responding?”
    A few seconds later a patrol car in the area reported it was on its way to the scene. Immediately thereafter another patrol car said it was proceeding there too. Rackman hooked a left on Seventh Avenue and drove in that direction. The Polka Dot Lounge was in his territory, and as duty homicide detective, he’d have to file a report if a murder had actually taken place.
    As he crossed Fifty-first Street, an excited male voice came on the radio, “Signal ten-eighteen . . . signal ten-eighteen . . . Car three-four-seven reporting confirmation of homicide at 757 Eighth Avenue . . . Requesting backup services . . . over.” Rackman turned on his siren and stomped on the gas. He’d had a hunch the homicide was real. The Polka Dot Lounge was a camouflaged whorehouse on the worst block in Midtown North, and people could be expected to get killed there. When the airwaves were clear he picked up his mike and reported that he was on his way over.
    Cars and taxicabs pulled out of his way as he sped down Seventh Avenue, his siren wailing. Drivers and pedestrians looked at him curiously, wondering where the action was. He thundered down the center of the avenue hunched over his wheel, a Lucky dangling from the corner of his mouth. At Forty-third Street next to the big OTB parlor he screeched a right turn, shot like a cannonball to the end of the block, and turned left. Four patrol cars were parked at different angles in front of the Polka Dot Lounge, and policemen held back a crowd. Rackman parked parallel to the curb, left his car, and pushed through the crowd. When he got near one of the policemen, he showed his shield and was let through.
    Rackman entered the dark, seedy bar. A bunch of hookers and two men sat at tables nervously smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. A patrolman was a few feet away, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt.
    “Where’s the body?” Rackman asked.
    “In one of the back rooms.”
    Rackman walked through the bar, passed the pool table, and saw a patrolman standing in the rear corridor. The patrolman knew Rackman and nodded toward an open door. Rackman went inside the tiny cubicle and saw the woman lying on the floor. Her throat was slashed, his mind clicking as he flashed on Cynthia Doyle in the alley on West Forty-fifth Street. It looked like the same kind of murder.
    ‘‘Nobody touched anything I hope,” Rackman said to the patrolman.
    “None of us did.”
    “How about the people who work here?”
    “They said they didn’t either.”
    Rackman knelt beside the body. She was an old whore with bags under her eyes. The right side of her throat had gotten the worst of it, just like Cynthia Doyle. She lay on her back with her legs spread apart, one hand on her breast and the other twisted at her side. She probably had been unconscious before she hit the floor. Her eyes were wide open and glazed over. There was no murder weapon in view and the sheets on the bed were stained with blood. The killer had evidently