-One-
The killer liked music. He had a phonograph in his room and a stack of long-playing records, and when he had time he enjoyed lying on his cot and listening to them.
King Oliver and Bix Beiderbecke and Jellyroll Morton, they were like prophets, the way they made him feel. Jazz was the reason he'd come back to New Orleans in the first place. It wasn't the same in other cities, not even Chicago or New York.
He especially liked to listen to music before going out on the town with the axe. Jazz put him in the right frame of mind, the right
space
, to cleave someone's skull.
He listened to his records for two hours straight, thankful that Mr. Ventucci didn't start pounding on the wall again and telling him to turn it down. Mr. Ventucci, the local grocer, liked jazz well enough but got annoyed when it went on too long. That was something the killer couldn't understand. If he had his way, the music would be non-stop. The trance would never end.
Finally, he put away the records and got dressed. He knew who he would bless tonight, and she would have started her shift by now.
The grocer he lived behind was on Upperline Street, in the heart of the Italian district. He stepped out into the humid night, clutching his overcoat around his throat. The axe was tucked into his belt under the coat, and the handle rubbed uncomfortably against his thigh and his spine as he walked.
He sweated ferociously, although he didn't feel particularly warm. He caught a trolley to Basin Street resenting the press of humanity all around him, fantasizing about pulling out the axe and slaughtering everyone. A pretty, young girl kept jostling into him, smiling up at him with an apology in her eyes each time, but after the first few times he couldn't bring himself to smile back at her and turned his head away.
He hummed under his breath, just to think of something else. "Weary Blues," the last record he played before heading out. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he wasn't surrounded by filthy mortals.
At Basin Street, he got out and stood on the corner for a few minutes, just breathing. The tune in his head had gotten louder and louder the whole way, until it was all he could hear. He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to get his heart to beat normally. He tried to find the trance again. It wouldn't do to go to the girl with an unclear mind. It would make using the axe harder.
The District—the area they called Storyville—was crowded and hectic, as usual. All up and down Basin Street and the connecting lanes, red lights gleamed in the dusky dimness. Both whites and Negroes abounded, along with Creoles and Mulattos, men making the rounds from bar to brothel to gambling den and back again. There was a mad cacophony of sound—jazz played in every upstairs window and raucous laughter and yelling rained down on the streets.
He started for Miss Tilly's place, well beyond Basin and the train station, into the seedy heart of the District. All the high-end brothels were on Basin, elegant mansions that didn't betray the depravity that went on inside. The killer had no interest in those places. He wanted Miss Tilly's, that's where he would be closer than ever to The One.
Miss Tilly's was a modest two-story house on the corner of the block, next door (and with an entrance to) a tavern called Shorty Pete's. One of the girls, wearing nothing but an assortment of carefully placed ostrich feathers, let him in, and Miss Tilly herself greeted him in the foyer.
Without looking up and doing his best to remain disregarded, he gave Miss Tilly a wad of bills. Within minutes the killer was upstairs with his sacrifice of choice.
The girl called herself Eva-Lynn. She was a Mulatto girl, about sixteen, with a flat chest and no hips to speak of. But she had a lovely face, clear and innocent as an angel. She looked, like all the others, like The One. Her dark eyes flashed at him. "Take off your coat, handsome. Should I get you a drink?"
He shook his
The killer liked music. He had a phonograph in his room and a stack of long-playing records, and when he had time he enjoyed lying on his cot and listening to them.
King Oliver and Bix Beiderbecke and Jellyroll Morton, they were like prophets, the way they made him feel. Jazz was the reason he'd come back to New Orleans in the first place. It wasn't the same in other cities, not even Chicago or New York.
He especially liked to listen to music before going out on the town with the axe. Jazz put him in the right frame of mind, the right
space
, to cleave someone's skull.
He listened to his records for two hours straight, thankful that Mr. Ventucci didn't start pounding on the wall again and telling him to turn it down. Mr. Ventucci, the local grocer, liked jazz well enough but got annoyed when it went on too long. That was something the killer couldn't understand. If he had his way, the music would be non-stop. The trance would never end.
Finally, he put away the records and got dressed. He knew who he would bless tonight, and she would have started her shift by now.
The grocer he lived behind was on Upperline Street, in the heart of the Italian district. He stepped out into the humid night, clutching his overcoat around his throat. The axe was tucked into his belt under the coat, and the handle rubbed uncomfortably against his thigh and his spine as he walked.
He sweated ferociously, although he didn't feel particularly warm. He caught a trolley to Basin Street resenting the press of humanity all around him, fantasizing about pulling out the axe and slaughtering everyone. A pretty, young girl kept jostling into him, smiling up at him with an apology in her eyes each time, but after the first few times he couldn't bring himself to smile back at her and turned his head away.
He hummed under his breath, just to think of something else. "Weary Blues," the last record he played before heading out. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he wasn't surrounded by filthy mortals.
At Basin Street, he got out and stood on the corner for a few minutes, just breathing. The tune in his head had gotten louder and louder the whole way, until it was all he could hear. He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to get his heart to beat normally. He tried to find the trance again. It wouldn't do to go to the girl with an unclear mind. It would make using the axe harder.
The District—the area they called Storyville—was crowded and hectic, as usual. All up and down Basin Street and the connecting lanes, red lights gleamed in the dusky dimness. Both whites and Negroes abounded, along with Creoles and Mulattos, men making the rounds from bar to brothel to gambling den and back again. There was a mad cacophony of sound—jazz played in every upstairs window and raucous laughter and yelling rained down on the streets.
He started for Miss Tilly's place, well beyond Basin and the train station, into the seedy heart of the District. All the high-end brothels were on Basin, elegant mansions that didn't betray the depravity that went on inside. The killer had no interest in those places. He wanted Miss Tilly's, that's where he would be closer than ever to The One.
Miss Tilly's was a modest two-story house on the corner of the block, next door (and with an entrance to) a tavern called Shorty Pete's. One of the girls, wearing nothing but an assortment of carefully placed ostrich feathers, let him in, and Miss Tilly herself greeted him in the foyer.
Without looking up and doing his best to remain disregarded, he gave Miss Tilly a wad of bills. Within minutes the killer was upstairs with his sacrifice of choice.
The girl called herself Eva-Lynn. She was a Mulatto girl, about sixteen, with a flat chest and no hips to speak of. But she had a lovely face, clear and innocent as an angel. She looked, like all the others, like The One. Her dark eyes flashed at him. "Take off your coat, handsome. Should I get you a drink?"
He shook his
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