Urge to Kill

“It would be more like a hunt,” Helen said. “That’s the point.”

“And hunting is in your contract,” Renz said, “however it might be phrased. Hunting is what we do.”

“We?” Pearl asked.

“I’ll do it,” Quinn said, before Renz could answer Pearl. He smiled at Renz. “It’s true that we have nothing to lose if the killer doesn’t respond.”

“We knew you’d want to do it,” Helen said.

Pearl gave her a dark look. Helen seemed unimpressed.

Renz took the letter back from Quinn. “I’ll fax this to Cindy Sellers at City Beat,” he said. “Give them a shot at a special edition. The other papers won’t be far behind.”

“They’ll all be behind the Internet and cable news,” Fedderman said. They all knew how newspaper offices, as well as the NYPD, sprang leaks.

Renz shrugged. “That’s the plight of print journalism. Sellers will have to understand it.”

“I hope the killer doesn’t respond,” Pearl said, as they were standing up to leave the office.

Renz began to fume. His jowls actually shook.

Quinn raised a hand before Renz could speak. “Let’s all keep this running smoothly,” he said, looking at everyone but Renz.

“Helen knows the mind of the killer,” Renz said, as they were filing out.

“It will work,” Helen added.

Quinn turned to look at her. “Do you guarantee it?”

“No,” Helen said. “There are no guarantees in what we do. This is more like an extended warranty.”

“My new idea for some fresh material,” Mitzi said. “Two serial killers, married to each other.”

Mitzi and Jackie Jameson had run through their routines and were killing time sitting and sipping cold drinks in what passed for Say What?’s green room. It was a twelve-foot-square windowless room with a few old easy chairs and recliners, some gray steel folding chairs, mirrors and more mirrors, and an old refrigerator. Nothing in it was green. The two comics faced each other in opposite threadbare easy chairs. Jackie was drinking a Coke in intermittent gulps. Mitzie, one Levied leg thrown over a chair arm, sipped bottled water.

“It could be funny, Mitz,” Jackie said. “But keeping a marriage like that together could be murder.”

“In sickness and in health,” Mitzi said.

Jackie grimaced.

“See what I mean?” Mitzi said. “Possibilities. Grim, so probably funny. And I could recycle some of the old husband-and-wife jokes in a new context and they’d seem fresh.”

“I dunno, though,” Jackie said. “Considering what’s going on out there these days, will people think you oughta be joking about serial killers?”

“I’m not sure. Whaddya think?”

“Yeah, it might go over okay. Take it from a guy who’s got no taste.”

“That’s why I sought your advice.”

“If you do decide to go in that direction, maybe you oughta learn some more about serial killers, give your material more edge.”

“Talk to a few serial killers?”

“Might be easier to talk to a guy named Quinn,” Jackie said. “He’s—

“I know who he is,” Mitzi said. “I read the papers every day for material. Oh, that Middle East.”

“So give him a call. He might help you out.”

“In his spare time,” Mitzi said.

Jackie grinned at her. “You scared to call him?”

“He’s a scary guy.”

“He’d be awed to hear from a celebrity like you.”

“I could tell him I’m Whoopi Goldberg.”

Jackie dug his cell phone from one of his pockets and tossed it over so it landed on what there was of Mitzi’s lap, the way she was sprawled in the chair.

“So call him,” he said, and threw back his head to drain the rest of his Coke. He bent a kink in the empty can and tossed it into a plastic-lined trash receptacle.

“You into throwing things?” Mitzi asked.

“It’s a kind of therapy. Helps me to let loose. Go ahead and call him.”

“Anybody ever tell you, Jackie, you’re kinda pushy?”

“You got nothing to lose, Mitz. He might surprise you. Serial killers might be a barrel of laughs.”

“They’ve got other uses for barrels,” Mitzi said. She flipped up the lid on the phone. “Whaddya think, nine-one-one or information?”

“I dunno,” Jackie said. “They’re both a bundle of giggles, but nine-one-one tends to take things more seriously.” Looking at her, he thought, that law against two comics, what a shame.

66

Martin Hawk sat that evening in the bar of his hotel and watched the reflection of a television screen on the glass partition of his booth. The TV was over by the cash register. Its sound was down, but volume wasn’t needed for what was being shown. It was a big mob scene somewhere in the park. Backward in the screen’s reflection Martin could see the lettering on the signs and shirts. He mentally flipped the letters: FREE BERTY.