head and started to unbutton his overcoat.
She put a record on the phonograph, something popular from Rudy Vallée. Not one of the killer's favorites, but it would do.
"Hot night for so much clothing," the girl said, sidling up to him. She put a hand on his crotch and rubbed, putting her face close to his. She smelled faintly of lavender and stale sweat.
She started to put her arms around his waist but he moved away from her and took off his coat, being sure to keep the axe at his spine hidden.
Eva-Lynn shrugged and went over to the bed. She dropped onto the pillows and began undoing the straps on her bodice. She spread her legs, stretching lewdly, and said, "I'm feeling lonely over here, handsome. Come keep me company."
He took a step toward her, and the music seemed to get louder in his head, "Every Moon's a Honeymoon," and his heart started pounding in time to the syncopated beat of it. He felt the arousal beginning, felt the first strains of the damnable clearness, like the entire world was made of glass and he could see deep inside it to the roiling guts of the earth. He could look at the girl and see right into her. There was a core of vile disease in her heart that pulsed black and purple, a sort of cancer in place of a heart. It spread out and out, through her veins, out her fingertips and into the clear glass world.
It was infuriating to witness, it always was, but he maintained the clearness of head by letting the jazz take him body and soul and lift him up into the trance.
Another step toward the whore, and his big right hand, the melody hand, went behind his back and came out with the axe. His left hand, the rhythm hand, gripped the handle and he felt his face threaten to crack under the pressure of a beatific grin and the
purpose
, the beautiful, clear
purpose
came to him.
Eva-Lynn started to sit up, her pretty face going blank with alarm. She looked like she wanted to scream, but couldn't quite fathom that this was happening to her. Her mouth moved and her hands came up in an oddly touching display of beseechment.
He disappeared into the music and, gripping the axe handle in both hands, he swung down, hard, burying the blade in her collarbone.
The force of it slammed her back into the bed. She didn't scream, didn't even groan. The blow had not only broken her collarbone but knocked the wind right out of her.
He yanked the axe out of her shoulder and brought it down again in her face.
And he kept doing it until the record was over.
Breathing hard, he wiped off the axe blade on the bed sheets. Then he started the record over again, his trembling fingers barely able to hold onto the needle.
He slid the axe back through his belt, put on his coat, and left Miss Tilly's place through the window, clambering down to the street below. Two whores coming out of the tavern saw him, stopped cold in their tracks, alarmed.
He started down the street as the whores hurried into Miss Tilly's place.
He wasn't worried. He'd be on the trolley back to Upperline Street before the coppers even stepped foot in the brothel's foyer. Even then, he knew from experience they wouldn't do a damn thing. Who cared about some diseased, morally depraved whore?
In New Orleans' Storyville, they were a dime a dozen.
-Two-
"That's it," Gideon Miles said. "I've met my match. I'm a dead man."
Violet said, "No. Say it's not true, Gideon."
"I can't, Vi. I'm done. I'm sorry. This is the end."
He sat at the far back booth of his nightclub, stacks of invoices, bills, and other paperwork spread out on the table in front of him. He looked at it all glumly.
Standing over him, Violet said, "It's just the usual, Mr. Big Shot Club Owner. You need to do it if you want to run this place proper."
He looked up at her. "It's going to kill me, I tell you. How about
you
do it?"
She laughed, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Sorry, baby. You're the brains of this operation. Me, I'm just the pretty face here to get 'em in the
She put a record on the phonograph, something popular from Rudy Vallée. Not one of the killer's favorites, but it would do.
"Hot night for so much clothing," the girl said, sidling up to him. She put a hand on his crotch and rubbed, putting her face close to his. She smelled faintly of lavender and stale sweat.
She started to put her arms around his waist but he moved away from her and took off his coat, being sure to keep the axe at his spine hidden.
Eva-Lynn shrugged and went over to the bed. She dropped onto the pillows and began undoing the straps on her bodice. She spread her legs, stretching lewdly, and said, "I'm feeling lonely over here, handsome. Come keep me company."
He took a step toward her, and the music seemed to get louder in his head, "Every Moon's a Honeymoon," and his heart started pounding in time to the syncopated beat of it. He felt the arousal beginning, felt the first strains of the damnable clearness, like the entire world was made of glass and he could see deep inside it to the roiling guts of the earth. He could look at the girl and see right into her. There was a core of vile disease in her heart that pulsed black and purple, a sort of cancer in place of a heart. It spread out and out, through her veins, out her fingertips and into the clear glass world.
It was infuriating to witness, it always was, but he maintained the clearness of head by letting the jazz take him body and soul and lift him up into the trance.
Another step toward the whore, and his big right hand, the melody hand, went behind his back and came out with the axe. His left hand, the rhythm hand, gripped the handle and he felt his face threaten to crack under the pressure of a beatific grin and the
purpose
, the beautiful, clear
purpose
came to him.
Eva-Lynn started to sit up, her pretty face going blank with alarm. She looked like she wanted to scream, but couldn't quite fathom that this was happening to her. Her mouth moved and her hands came up in an oddly touching display of beseechment.
He disappeared into the music and, gripping the axe handle in both hands, he swung down, hard, burying the blade in her collarbone.
The force of it slammed her back into the bed. She didn't scream, didn't even groan. The blow had not only broken her collarbone but knocked the wind right out of her.
He yanked the axe out of her shoulder and brought it down again in her face.
And he kept doing it until the record was over.
Breathing hard, he wiped off the axe blade on the bed sheets. Then he started the record over again, his trembling fingers barely able to hold onto the needle.
He slid the axe back through his belt, put on his coat, and left Miss Tilly's place through the window, clambering down to the street below. Two whores coming out of the tavern saw him, stopped cold in their tracks, alarmed.
He started down the street as the whores hurried into Miss Tilly's place.
He wasn't worried. He'd be on the trolley back to Upperline Street before the coppers even stepped foot in the brothel's foyer. Even then, he knew from experience they wouldn't do a damn thing. Who cared about some diseased, morally depraved whore?
In New Orleans' Storyville, they were a dime a dozen.
-Two-
"That's it," Gideon Miles said. "I've met my match. I'm a dead man."
Violet said, "No. Say it's not true, Gideon."
"I can't, Vi. I'm done. I'm sorry. This is the end."
He sat at the far back booth of his nightclub, stacks of invoices, bills, and other paperwork spread out on the table in front of him. He looked at it all glumly.
Standing over him, Violet said, "It's just the usual, Mr. Big Shot Club Owner. You need to do it if you want to run this place proper."
He looked up at her. "It's going to kill me, I tell you. How about
you
do it?"
She laughed, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Sorry, baby. You're the brains of this operation. Me, I'm just the pretty face here to get 'em in the
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