Dead for Life: A Novel (Black, Ethan)

Book by Black Ethan

Chapter One

"You'd think I'd get the shakes, considering what I'm planning today. But I'm okay. Last night I worried that I wouldn't be able to follow through on things, but now as the saying goes, so far so good."

At 6 A.M. on a bright, happy, blue-skied morning, Wendall Nye -- failed father, failed husband, failed servant of the vast metropolis -- steps briskly along the cobblestoned sidewalk bordering Brooklyn's Prospect Park, its jewel of public places, jauntily swinging a battered leather attaché case like any well-adjusted citizen and speaking softly into a neck mike suspended two inches from his mouth. From a distance he looks like one more preoccupied early morning commuter talking on a cellphone, reminding his wife to pick up his shirts at the laundry or giving orders to his secretary or to the harried broker who buys his stocks.

Wendall Nye, striding toward the subway, joining the trickle of type-A workaholics hurrying toward Manhattan well before rush hour begins, appears to be a man not wasting one second of time that can be spent on potentially profitable commerce, on moneymaking plans.

"The real commuters would throw a fit if they knew what I'm carrying in this attaché case. They'd run."

He speaks into a tape recorder hidden in his shirt pocket, addressing only himself and the man who will eventually hear his tapes. He says, "Laws distinguish between crimes of passion and premeditation. But what is premeditation but the coldest passion? That drums into you for months, that drives you to sleeplessness and turns your dreams red, that makes you follow strangers on the street, diagram exits of their houses, phone them and lie about your name?"

He falls silent as a real commuter passes from behind, talking loudly into a cellphone about the Hong Kong stock index, which seems to be diving. The man passes, recedes briskly, and then Wendall starts up again.

"Passion's the link, and when I am finished today and you hear my tapes, you who never had to deal with failure in your miserably privileged life, remember that. Last night I stood at my window looking toward Manhattan...at thousands of lights without warmth...and I was afraid I would chicken out this morning. I was filled with despair. But then, thanks to you, I felt passion surge inside me, as if I was sucking up all the intensity off the island...and I knew then that I would use every one of the items in my attaché case. I hope you remember that every day until you die."

Electronics are wonderful. One little invention changes the whole way that thousands of strangers perceive each other in the street. There was a time -- not long ago -- when the sight of a lone man talking and gesturing to himself caused passersby to stiffen or move away.

Now the few commuters paying Wendall any attention at all admire his foresight in wearing the neck mike so as to free a hand to carry his New York Times or bag of Krispy Kreme donuts or, once he enters the subway, for gripping a pole in the packed car so he can keep chatting stupidly to his kids, wife, mistress, plumber. Any one of the people who, in the modern city, careen down sidewalks as obliviously as carnival bumper cars, shouting inanities inside their cellphone cocoons.

"What are you doing at this moment, birthday boy? Having sex with your blonde girlfriend? Opening your expensive presents? Sleeping in that fucking grand old historical house of yours?"

He halts, pauses, breathes, calms. It will be counterproductive to release his monumental rage too soon.

Across from the park, in ones and twos, men and women who are not contemplating murder emerge from the fine, refinished brownstones and condos lining Prospect Park West. They are visions of success. They have reaped the rewards that the city offers: season tickets to the Knicks; country homes near Stockbridge, Massachusetts; four-wheel-drive Range Rovers, and access for their little Johnnies and Lolitas to the finest private schools.

Suits crisp, bodies smelling of expensive musk, they form a cocky parade of surgeons, lawyers, publishers, and more prominent journalists making the daily pilgrimage to whichever tower of commerce serves as the source of their worldly success.

"But you fear failure," Wendall whispers. "Your good looks don't fool me. Fear keeps the city going. You're afraid you'll lose your retirement savings because you bought IBM instead of Municipal Bonds. That your ten-year-old will hate you one day because you hit him with a belt, or because you never punished him sufficiently for him to understand the consequences of nasty acts. That your boss will downgrade you because you took a bad risk, or missed a good one, or because you hesitated when you should have done something aggressive, or failed to remove yourself from his line of vision on a day when he was in a surly mood.

"The city enhances failure. It is a magnifying glass for falling short. The city's invisible millions have always gone through life muttering, 'I should have been better. I could have been grander. I almost became famous. Why wasn't I something more?'

"But not you," he adds, picturing the blond man, the object of his hatred at the moment. "Asshole, bastard, ingrate. Everything came easy for you."

Blending in today, Wendall has dressed in a brand-new black-and-charcoal tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a crisp button-down white shirt and World Wildlife Fund tie with a cute panda logo above the gold tiepin. The slacks are pleated and cuffed to brush tasseled loafers. The hair, thick brown with strands of premature white, is combed to the side and falls midlength beside large ears in a boy-scoutish style.

But the chest beneath the jacket seems to push dangerously against the fabric. The eyes -- the pale green of buds forcing their way into life around the park's perimeter -- reflect force metamorphosing into something that cannot be stopped. Faint thought lines meander across Wendall's blocky forehead to enhance a natural look of innocent befuddlement. Yet from close-up, if he turns to the right, the plaintive aspect is blunted by facial damage that has healed to leave small scars: a nailhead sized crater -- in the cranial bones -- beneath the skin. Literally a small hole in the head. A pinkish half-inch-long seam corresponding to stitches that once ran between the lower lip and thrust of roundish chin, reattaching skin that had been smashed, cut, ripped away.

"I've read a lot about serial murderers over the last few months. Seen the documentaries. Pored over the books. One thing is clear when it comes to these people. They got caught because they spread their work out over time. Hell, give even a dumb cop, a moron law enforcement agent, months to find you, years to track you, and he will do it eventually. It's only natural.

"I won't make that mistake."

Smiling faintly with resolve, Wendall shows a stretched, shiny quality in the skin of his cheeks, a paperish sheen that even the most skillful plastic surgeon leaves. Even with the damage, thanks to the surgery, he does not stand out.

He pauses at Grand Army Plaza, at the huge traffic circle and gigantic Civil War arch. The self-help books all stressed the importance of paying attention to everyday pleasures when planning a large project. Small Acts Have Big Payoffs, Simon & Schuster's current smash-hit seller, had read: "If you're designing a big job, don't get so caught up in logistics that you stop appreciating daily pleasures. Small pleasures calm you down. You'll be surprised how much they help you keep perspective."

So he wills himself to look around and take a last glimpse of this lovely plaza before he leaves it forever. If the plan works today he will not be back.

Which will avoid another mistake...leaving patterns.

The May air feels wonderful. The sky is so blue. He suspects that these simple pleasures will seem different within hours. He tells himself, How fine and huge the great oaks look. How peaceful and lovely this neighborhood.

It works! It's amazing how a disciplined change in perspective can cheer you up. The gleaming yellow cabs cruising Prospect Park West suddenly epitomize the best of a smoothly bustling city. There's the scrumptious aroma of a young woman's perfume as she passes him, heels clicking on cobblestone, ass shifting back and forth nicely, shoulder blades flicking with feminine perfection beneath the loose fabric of her lime-green silk dress.

"Gotta go now," he says loudly into the mike, as if telling a spouse good-bye, when in fact this message is for the blond man. "I'll be back later. I'll give you a full report. You'll get every detail. Bye."

Heartbeat picking up, he joins the crowd funneling across the black tar expanse of Grand Army Plaza and down the portals into the subway station, through the turnstile, to the packed platforms below. The entry to hell may be such a line.

He wonders with some tension, as the number 3 train barrels into the station, Did I remember to put all the right things in the attaché case?

But no way will he unsnap the case with people around.

He surges with the hungry crowd through the opening doors, reminding himself to tell the tape later, If the cops ever checked out bags on subways the way they do at airports, they'd drag me out off to Riker's Island and I'd never get out.

But police never check bags of commuters. The city could never function under such a level of scrutiny. The simplest trip would become a nightmare of security. The whole transportation system would be disrupted into collapse.

Now the automatic doors close and the train lurches forward, lights flickering, hurtling Wendall beneath Brooklyn toward the East River...the chance to back out diminishing with each minute...and the signs of the familiar stations rush by...Nevins Street...Hoyt Street...Borough Hall, and he is tunneling beneath the great, black East River, to Chambers Street in Manhattan, where he switches to a local line, the number 9 train.

His resolve is rising with his heartbeat. The train drops him at Sheridan Square, and when he climbs up to Seventh Avenue, blinking in the intense urban sunlight -- rays magnified on the street by a thousand windows, light fractured into shards by a thousand pointy roofs and cars and white concrete edifices -- he's moving like a military scout in enemy territory, slipping through Greenwich Village. Wendall checking his watch, monitoring the crucial schedule. Wendall thinking, Every person on the street is a potential witness. Change into the first costume, now.

He does it in the bathroom of the Parthenon Diner, open twenty-four hours a day. As Muzak plays, and waiters wash their soiled hands, joking with each other in Greek, Wendall, in a locked stall, fits on the dark wig and the tortoiseshell glasses and makes sure that the nine-millimeter is on top inside the attaché case, safety off. He also removes from the case a small paper bag filled with bread crumbs and places it in his pocket. He limps when he emerges into the main room.

The place is packed with NYU students, neighborhood types, unemployed actors. Over the incessantly playing radio, people are talking about deals -- New York's favorite subject -- as they sit on stools, in vinyl booths, or wait on line for tables. They are telling each other: I wrote a new film script; I got a line on a new stock offering; I know of a two-bedroom apartment that will be available for rent soon, and in return for some key money, cash in my hand, I'll give you the phone number of the old lady vacating the place.

Nobody even glances at Wendall Nye as he walks among them, past them, back outside.

His heart is thundering louder even than the traffic on West Fourth Street. Three short blocks later he's on Sixth Avenue, Gabrielle Viera's street, where he slows as he reaches a small urban park -- an asphalt basketball court inside a chain-link fence -- between Bleecker and West Fourth.

Sit on the bench and wait for Gabrielle to arrive at work. Look busy.

7:10.

The basketball court's at his back. A row of businesses -- drugstore, movie theater, pizza place, donut shop -- is across the street. The paper bag filled with bread crumbs comes out of the pocket. Wendall Nye feeds pigeons, head down, face averted except for when he checks one second-floor window across the avenue. One thing that struck him about the serial-murderer books was that witnesses notice strangers on streets when the strangers are doing nothing. Maybe it's some instinct left from caveman days, a vestigial ability to sense predators. Wendall remembers the story of one Chicago murderer, Jerome Vincent Beck. Beck knifed six women in Windy City parking lots and was finally caught because of what he did before the crimes, not during them. Before the crimes, Beck lounged around the parking lots. It was the doing nothing, the obvious watching, that got him noticed, identified, and in the end, hanged.

So Wendall Nye spreads bread crumbs on the warming sidewalk. Pigeons gather at his feet, cooing and pecking and staring into his face with their pink little eyes, begging for more. Dumb as murder victims.

Wendall is growing nervous.

Gabrielle should be at work by now.

Five minutes pass. The schedule is getting tight. Has she gotten sick, he frets? Has she changed her routine? Has the subway broken down? He keeps glancing across the street, at a darkened second-floor window, at a banner reading, ask about our patagonian eco-tours!

Inside his head he screams, Where is she?

Wendall's starting to sweat.

What's supposed to happen, what he's planned for is, she's supposed to get to work early, like he made sure she would. She's supposed to click on her high heels into that doorway between the movie theater and the donut shop, and then, after three or four minutes, the lights upstairs are supposed to go on in the Viera Travel Agency. But the only light there now is the orangy polluted tinge from reflected sun.

Wendall uses up the last of the bread crumbs, and careful not to litter, places the crumpled bag back in his case. His nervousness is rising. His senses seem more acute. All around him, from conversations of passersby and from the headlines of the newspapers they carry, he gets snatches of today's version of the city's perpetual preoccupation with success. Which opening movie will succeed beyond box office expectations? Which Yankee second baseman will be traded to the Cleveland Indians in exchange for a more successful left-handed hitter? Which advertisement for a "successful" partner in the personals section of New York magazine will attract the wealthiest respondent?

She's not coming! Even after I phoned her yesterday and made an appointment!

But at that moment he sees a light go on inside the Viera Travel Agency, and then to his vast relief the window glides upward and he is looking, from his bench, at what appears to be a very attractive woman watering potted daisies, flashes of bright yellow that line wooden boxes on her fire escape.

The woman's long blue-black hair hides half her face. Her neck is white and slender. Her crimson sweater stands out in a very alluring way.

She must have walked in when I was looking in another direction.

Sweat pouring under his arms, Wendall rises and steps across Sixth Avenue, watching carefully so as to avoid the taxis and trucks zipping northward. He steps into the doorway of the travel agency.

Last chance to change his mind.

He presses his index fin...