Chapter One

 

"And for Christ's sake, do NOT file a report!"

It was Ann's way of giving specific instructions, without giving specific instructions. And she didn't need to elaborate.

Tomasina Vencenzi stood opposite Ann's desk and watched her spin a blue file folder across the cheap plastic veneer. She trapped it under her fingertips and turned it so she could read the tab. Tomasina didn't bother opening it. There was no need. "The Babysitter" wasn't news.

The guy was a small time dealer, but what made him precious, and the subject of their conversation, was the fact he wasn't in it for the money. Not anymore. He was one of the chosen few: He had the quick smile, the easy jokes, the smooth manner. He was the "party guy;" always a few goodies jingling at the bottom of his pocket, just for his favorites. He had an eye for the ladies, but his "girlfriends" seemed to be getting younger all the time. His "corner" was outside the chain-link fence over by the Catholic School for Girls.

"Take care of this for me," Ann had said, her voice sounding like a truck axle, reversing up a grade. Ann had a voice that would cut glass.

 

On the way home, Tomasina stopped by a thrift shop and picked out a cheap cotton dress. It was boring-beige with a simple leaf pattern in brown. It was well worn and two sizes too small. She took it home and dumped it into a bucket of soapy water and washed the back stoop. Then she hung it out to dry. The next day, after she had struggled into it, Tommy ripped part of the hem down and tore a couple of holes in the fabric; one over her navel and another just below her left nipple.

She drove out past the Girls' School and there the dude was! God's gift to little girls, slouched back against his favorite tree. "The Babysitter."

He was well past forty, and the girls the guy was chatting-up through the chain-links, couldn't have been more than eighteen. Tommy drove on by, turned the corner and got parked. She was wearing a pair of ratty old tennis shoes and when she got out, she started to run. She did about five blocks, out and around, and back. It was unusually warm and humid for April. By the time she got to the car, her hair was damp and clinging, her dirty dress had circular stains under the pits and she could feel it sticking along her spine. She looked; the bastard was still there, but down to one little kitten. Tommy waited him out.

The girl eventually laughed brightly and accepted something through the fence, his fingers lingered on hers. The child glanced around and, assured no one was watching, she pulled back the lapel of her school uniform. Her breast looked like a honey bun; with a raisin. She gave him a moment, then closed her shirt and skipped off toward the basketball court. The guy returned to his tree, took a second to check the inventory in his pocket, and then squeezed the front of his jeans. Tomasina could see the glint reflecting off his teeth a half block away. All primed and ready for me, she thought, and moved along the street on the opposite side, then crossed over, when she got close.

"Can you help a girl out?" Tommy asked when she was within ear shot. "Just need a little something, to see me through."

He spun, the rebuke already forming on his lips, but then his eyes fell from her face to her breasts; the damp dress clinging to the curves, busting open at the buttons. Sweat had gathered in her crotch and she knew, without underwear, he could see the crease that parted her pubic hair. His eyes traveled up, hesitating at the torn holes; the one over her bellybutton, and again, at the one that just missed revealing the nipple. The bait was good!

"Tell you what, take off the dress and show me what you got to offer."

"What? Right here?" She didn't have to fake surprise and consternation. "Right here in the street? In front of the schoolgirls?"

"Nothin' they ain't seen before. And if I like what you got, I can spring for a dime bag, it's here in my jeans."

She looked past him to where the light had changed and a line of traffic was moving forward. "A dime? All I'm worth is a dime?"

"You' re only worth what I'm willin' to pay."

"Yes," she said. "But only a dime." Tommy sounded bitter, humiliated. "Look," she tried, "you can have me anyway you want. And I'll do all the work. You just lay back and enjoy."

The ass mulled it over. "Ok... ok," he reneged, looking to where a couple of girls swung a skipping rope. "You caught me on a slow day. I'm still only offering a dime, but I guess I can afford to up the ante, if you're as good as you seem to think."

"You won't regret it. Honest. Where can we do it?"

"Alley across the street." He pointed to the space between two buildings. "Go on back; make yourself comfy. I'll be right along."

The alley was tight, not even a couple of feet between the bricks, and she had to turn the bulk of her shoulders to fit. But toward the end, there was a double fire-door in one of the buildings. The alcove in the side wall made a tidy love nest. She moved past, checking out an escape route. There was a wire fence across the back, razor wire corkscrewed along the top. She found the hole he had cut for himself. She would never fit. If things went to shit, she was trapped. Occupational hazard.

 

"You're still dressed." His voice came from behind.

"I ain't wearing much. It won't take but a second. Lie down, I tol' you, I'll do all the work. You won't be sorry."

"Sure baby," he said, and edged over to the alcove in the side of the building where he had stuffed in an old mattress. She wondered how many young girls had lost it here. He settled back. "C'mon baby, earn your dime bag," he said, an insider's grin.

The distaste filled her mouth, the urge to puke, but she swung a foot over and pulled at the hemline of the dress. He saw the thighs; the meat and muscle. "What the...? You're built like a couple of fuckin' beer kegs," he said.

"Ain't you the romantic one?" And she lifted the dress higher.

"Christ! Look at the size of that thing!"

She squatted down over his face. "Take a taste. Celebrate your discovery." And she smothered his mouth with the coarse, leather-like lips. His tongue probed upward, and in. There was a muffled, agreeable grunt, as he tasted her pussy-cider: a pungent blend of juice, urine and sweat. She ground down, rotating her hips; he relaxed. She reached around and laced her fingers around the back of his neck and held him snug. Then she slid forward and her clitoris sprung up over his nose like a gopher on groundhog day. She held on for the ride.

It took him a moment.

He licked and nibbled and shifted to catch his breath. She held him. He twisted his shoulders and craned his neck, a hand coming up to grip her arm. She ground down and applied pressure with locked fingers. His eyes flashed. "Enjoy, baby," she coaxed as he began to struggle. The guy bucked, trying to throw her off but she bore down on him. He threw out a sweeping side-arm, trying to dislodge her and then he threw a fist at her face. She tucked her chin in and hunched a shoulder. He couldn't reach her. The panic came up into his eyes. He couldn't breathe.

She leaned closer to his face. "Vencenzi," she said; looked him in the eye. Smiled. "Tomasina Vencenzi. But call me Tommy, it's easier!" His eyes widened. The dude knew her father; his career was legendary. He knew Tommy by reputation.

He tried to bite, but she held him too tight. He threw punches, but she took them on her shoulders. And he tried to kick, but she mounted him far forward, outta range of his knees.

His color changed and Tommy held on until his eyes fluttered and went empty. And she held on some more. When he was still, she risked loosening her fingers from around his neck and checked for a pulse at his throat. Tommy felt his heart flutter. Then stop. With a final shudder, he died between her thighs. Tommy relaxed.

 

From the trunk of her car, Tommy dug out a tire iron and used it to pries off a manhole cover at the end of the alley. It was cast steel, weighing a couple of hundred-weight, but she got her fingers under the lip and slid it to one side. I could use one of these at the gym, she smiled, learn to flip it like a quarter: heads, I win, tails, you die. Tommy dragged him over by his heels and tipped him in. He dropped face forward, ten feet down, into the liquid scuzz at the bottom of the pipe. And then she turned the lights out; slid the cover back and dropped it into place.

Her DNA was all over him: vaginal fluid, hair, skin. But by the time they found him, if ever, the sewer rats would have gnawed at it, including most of his hide. It wasn't anything to lose sleep over.

She drove home, tossed the dress and showered off the stink. Downtown, Tommy parked on the yellow line and went upstairs; pushed through Ann's door. "That problem?" Ann lifted her face and Tommy shook her head.

"The file?"

"Dunno. Got lost somehow."

Ann nodded and did an immediate linguistic U-turn; shifted the conversation quickly, easily; like she had just caught herself before barging into the men's room. "You got tomorrow off. Will we see you at the gym, in the morning?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Good," Ann said. "Jilly and Taz are on afternoons so, along with Sharon, that will make the five of us. It will be good; all of us together again, for a change."

"Yes." Tommy agreed. "Very good. I'm feeling especially resilient; going to press one hundred and eighty."

Ann sat back and pursed her lips. "Ten times?"

"Sure," Tommy said. "Don't think I can do it?"

"You do and I'll lick your pussy," Ann smirked.

"Bring your lipstick, honey," Tommy shot back, "to freshen up, afterward."

 

Later that night, Tommy wrote her report. With a glass of raw, cheap blended scotch by her elbow; no ice. She didn't want the tinkling to alert her slumbering husband to the fact she was a functioning alcoholic.

Wednesday, 6/4: She wrote.

I snuffed a guy today. Smothered the bastard. Smothered him to death.

Ok. So now I'm covering my ass, here; documenting everything. Just in case.

Ann Layton gave me the paper on the guy yesterday. His name was on the folder: Raymond Laurence Mathews: "The Babysitter"...well, I certainly sat on him and at one-forty-six, I ain't no baby. He was a tough little perv, but I was tougher. I just hope I've covered my tracks, well enough. Again. This time...