So Nude, So Dead by Ed McBain Page A

flashed in the sky. His shoes were sodden, and his clothes were plastered to his body. The water streamed down his face in rivulets, spilled onto his neck, rolled down his back.
    In the distance, he saw two yellow eyes glaring into the night, heard the rumble of a motor. He squinted his eyes against the rain, saw the white top and the green body of a police car. The car turned the corner, headlights reaching out into the darkness.
    He ducked his head, walked quickly into an alleyway, flattened himself against a door.
    He heard a faint movement on his right, and then a tired voice asked, “Bad night. Want some fun, mister?”
    He turned, startled. The girl wore a tight silk dress. Her eyes were cloaked in shadow, and her mouth was tilted upward in an inviting smile, a false smile that betrayed her profession. He faced her, ready to answer, and then he saw the fright jump into her eyes.
    “Holy—Jesus!” she said. She looked at his face hard. He saw her wet her lips, and then step out into the rain. He watched the rapid swing of her buttocks in the clinging dress. Her high heels clicked against the asphalt as she hurried down the alley away from him. She looked back once, anxiously, then quickened her step. He listened to her footsteps die away, then shrugged his shoulders.
    Did he look that bad? Sure, he needed a shave, but…
    Quickly, he passed his hand over the stubble on his chin. It was rough, certainly, but not so bad that it would send a hooker scurrying away. Aimlessly, he looked at his open hand.
    The palm was streaked with black.
    What? How the hell…
    It came to him all at once, and he lifted his hand to his hair, ran his fingers through it. When he pulled his hand away, the fingers were pitch-black.
    The shoe polish! God damn it, the shoe polish was running in the rain.
    He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Quickly, he wiped his face, watching the white handkerchief turn black. With sudden clarity, he realized that his hair was probably half blond and half black now. That was great! All he needed was more attention than he was already getting.
    He ran the handkerchief over his head until the cloth was completely black. He noticed the upturned cover of a garbage can, full of water. He stepped down, cupped his hands, shoveled water from the lid to his hair. His hands ran black, and he kept scooping water until the blackness turned milky gray, and then vanished completely. He took his tie from his pocket, wet the edge, and daubed at his eyebrows.
    Standing up again, the knees of his trousers muddy and wet, he walked out of the alley and onto the main street again. He paused in front of the first store window he came to. Even in the semidarkness, he could see that his hair was blond again.
    Ray shrugged. Was that good or bad? he wondered.
    The knife twisted into his gut again, and he stopped wondering about everything. Overhead, the thunder had become muted, the lightning flashes spasmodic and halfhearted.
    The street was covered with shining puddles of water now, and the light shimmered in them. The only sound was the sullen drip of a drainpipe.
    Ray was tired, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep that night.
    He dug his hands deep into his pockets, and started walking again….
    At five-thirty, he stole a newspaper from a stack lying bundled in front of a candy store.
    His picture was no longer on the front page. In its place were the words: KRAMER ’ S DRUMMER SLAIN . Rapidly, he turned to page four. The police were just speculating, of course, but they believed this new development to be linked with the earlier death of Eileen Chalmers. There was a rehash of the first murder, and a new description of Ray, correcting the previous description of his hair coloring. Good old Dale Kramer, Ray thought. There wasn’t much else, except the address of Peter Chalmers, Eileen’s father, who refused to comment on either slaying.
    Ray stared at the address for a long time.
    Then he threw the