Wild Card

His parents had gone to Philadelphia one weekend, gotten caught in a blizzard, and been forced to stay overnight. It had been his first time home alone. Feeling brave, he’d called a girl he’d met the previous summer. In his closet were the clothes he’d stolen from her, which he liked to look at while imagining he was making love to her.

“Hey, my folks are out of town — want to come over?” he’d asked.

“I don’t think so,” she’d said.

“But I really like you,” he blurted out, instantly sorry he’d exposed his feelings.

“Sorry, but I already have a boyfriend,” she’d said in a condescending tone.

Her words had crushed him. I’m your boyfriend, you fucking tramp, he almost shouted. Hanging up, he’d gone to the liquor cabinet, grabbed his father’s prized fifty-year-old bottle of Scotch, and gotten drunk. The liquor had brought out the monster in him, and he’d taken his parent’s car, and driven to the Greyhound bus station on the north end of the island. It was a seedy place, and he found a hooker sitting on a bench, showing plenty of skin. He paid her a hundred dollars to get into the car.

Driving to the beach, he climbed into the back seat with the hooker, his head swimming from the booze. As they started to have sex, he began to strangle her. She struggled and screamed, then fell limp in his arms.

He’d taken the hooker home with him, and dressed her in the tramp’s clothes. Seeing her in those clothes had aroused him, and set a fire deep in his soul.

He’d been killing hookers ever since. For twenty years, he’d traveled to Philly and New York on the weekends, and gone on his prowls. He would lure a girl into his car, knock her out, and bring her home with him, keeping her as a slave until she died. The traveling had been a drag, but he’d seen no other way to keep killing, and not get caught by the police.

Then Resorts’ casino had opened. That had changed things. Overnight, the island had become filled with hookers, and he’d had his pick of victims.

As the locals liked to say, it had been a beautiful thing.

He showered and shaved and made himself look presentable. He dressed well when he went to the casino, and made sure to have plenty of cash. That was all the hookers cared about.

He went to his closet. Hanging from the bar were the clothes he’d stolen from the tramp twenty years ago. He’d never liked hippie clothes until he’d seen her wearing them. On her, they’d looked incredible.

The outfit he chose tonight was his favorite. A blue jump suit that reminded him of Diana Rigg from the TV show, The Avengers. Skin tight, and sexy. He pulled it out of the garment bag, and hung it on the door.

He left the house and drove to the casino. He parked a block away in the lot of a Catholic church on Atlantic Avenue. It was the same church where he’d followed Special Agent Romero one morning and watched him pray. A man of true convictions, he’d decided.

Inside the casino, he bought a bucket of quarters at a change booth and walked up and down the aisles of slot machines. A sad-eyed brunette wearing a tight sweater caught his eye. She was sitting in front of a machine, resting her feet. He’d seen her trolling for johns before. About five-five, small-breasted, with freckles on her nose.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sissy,” she said.

He explained that he was on a losing streak, and a friend had told him to go find a pretty girl, and ask her to pull the arm of a slot machine after he put the coins in.

“My friend swears by it,” he said.

Sissy scrunched over on her stool so he could share it with her. He started feeding coins and Sissy started pulling the arm of the slot machine. Within a few minutes the bucket was empty. Sissy dropped her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze.

“Hope you didn’t lose all your money in that machine,” she said.

“I’ve got more,” he said.

“I’ll sleep with you for a hundred bucks.”

“Okay.”

He gave her the cash. She stuffed the money into a beaded purse. In his closet at home, he had a box filled with similar purses. Each contained condoms, a can of mace, and a lipstick. That was all his victims ever seemed to carry.

In the lobby Sissy stopped at a payphone and made a quick call. They walked to his car, Sissy moving quickly, like the clock was already ticking. She didn’t have a coat, and shivered from the cold.

He wasn’t the only gambler who used the church lot, and a glut of cars was trying to leave. Sissy fired up a cigarette without asking him if he cared. He hated chimney breath, and would make her pay for the inconsideration. Finally, the lot cleared and he backed out.

“I know a good motel nearby,” she said.

“Lots of satisfied customers, huh?”

“Yeah, the night manager looks out for me.”