The Cleanup Read online

  When the maniac came out of the shadows behind her.

  Billy had perhaps a second of reaction time. He blew it. Not his fault. There was no jangling of the intuitive alarm, no screeching of violins. The rush from the darkness took less than three seconds. By then, it was too late.

  The maniac was no taller than the girl . . . or Billy, for that matter. It wore an unseasonable gray trench coat and a battered gray fedora that perfectly shielded its face from Billy's view. It catapulted out of the shadows like a boulder besieging a castle, knocking her forward three feet when it slammed into her back. Its left arm slipped around her throat, effectively throttling any scream that she might have cared to make. Its right arm—gloved, like the other—held a short, distinctly pointed blade that glistened in the overhead light.

  Billy watched her smile contort, become a soundless oval from which her tongue protruded. He watched the hand with the knife come down, then up, with a whickering sound too loud to be real and a spray of red too bright to be anything but. The blade had punched in just above her left breast, her body bent backwards at the waist, pelvis jutting outward as if in abandon.

  Then the blade pulled away and came down again. Over her right breast, this time. More blood. A slightly more vigorous jerking.

  Billy remembered screaming.

  The third thrust of the knife plowed into her belly and lingered there, slicing painfully across the upper ridge of her pelvic bone. The gloved hand executed a ninety-degree turn there, wrenched sharply to the right. When the blade came away, there was something dangling from it, wedged at some minutely thin point between the grooves of the serrated edge. Then the knife, and its pitiful trailer of flesh, descended again.

  While Billy continued to scream. He had leapt to his feet without even knowing it, standing half-bent over the metal banister. The guitar clanged and jangled at his feet, unheard and entirely unimportant.

  And the knife came up. And the knife came down. And the body sagged, as the knife came up, and the maniac dragged her slowly back into the shadows. Her body, already essentially dead, flailed out in a last-minute race toward salvation. She broke free of its grasp, pitched forward with a shambling step. The knife slashed down again, catching her on the shoulder, digging deep and sliding away again. She stumbled forward, threw her right arm out in front of her, and fell. The maniac swayed behind her.

  Billy screamed again. This time, the maniac heard him. It looked up, and the face beneath the fedora's brim looked startled and almost embarrassed. Billy couldn't see the eyes, but he distinctly picked up the trembling of the fat lower lip, the crooked and brittle-looking teeth in the wide-open mouth, the aspirin-sized dimple in the pudgy chin, the puny growth of the beard.

  Then the maniac bolted, racing off toward Chrystie Street, the knife falling out of its hand and pinging against the pavement. The black blonde had already disappeared. There was a two-headed flurry of commotion in the Rambler's backseat; then it, too, dropped out of sight.

  Voices began to shout from other windows, but Billy couldn't tell what they were saying. He was too busy screaming himself.

  The word he was screaming was "Nooo. . ."

  The girl remained where she had fallen . . . as she would remain until the chalk line was complete, some twenty minutes later. The girl was dead. And Billy had watched it all happen.

  Without lifting a finger to stop it.

  The phone rang. It snapped Billy back to the present like the pay end of a whip. He turned to see that everyone in the room was watching him: Hamilton, Rizzo, Bubba. A trickle of sweat burned its way into his right eye socket. He rubbed at it, quietly cursing.

  The phone rang again. "You gonna get that?" Rizzo inquired.

  Billy shook his head. "That's what the machine's for."

  Rizzo shrugged, looking at Hamilton. The phone rang again. Hamilton shot Rizzo a placating glance and was just about to say something when Billy and Larry's message kicked in at full volume.

  There were two bars of electric guitar and hand-clap intro; then the voices came in, to the tune of "Rock 'n' Roll Is Here To Stay":

  "Don't care what the neighbors say.

  Roth and Rowe are here to stay.

  We can't make it to the phone.

  Leave your message at the tone.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP"

  Hamilton got a laugh out of it. Rizzo made a face. Billy and Bubba had heard it a million times, so they were unimpressed.

  Evidently, so was the voice on the other end.

  "I wish I could believe," it began, "that this means you're on your way over." A woman's voice, low and a bit on the frosty-cold side. "Actually, I'm glad that I can't believe it, because I'd only be fooling myself. It makes me wonder if I might not be fooling myself about a lot of things, Billy. Do you know what I mean?"

  A soft click, amplified by the machine. A pair of horrendously loud beeps. And then silence.

  Politely echoed by everyone in the room.

  Except Rizzo, who grinned crookedly and said, "President of your fan club?"

  "Man, I'm not in a very good mood," Billy snapped. "If you don't have any goddam heart, you could at least keep your fucking mouth shut." Then he turned to Hamilton and added, "Do you really have any more questions, or is he just here to tease the animals?"

  "Just one thing," Rizzo said. The smartass was gone from his voice. It looked like the words had stung. "You say that you were out there for an hour and a half."

  "Yes."

  "And you didn't see the killer walk down the street at any time."

  "That's right."

  "Or sneak in through the construction site."

  "If he did, I didn't see him. Right."

  "So there's a chance that he was down there the whole time, just watching you, right?"

  Billy nodded, said nothing.

  "Who knows, maybe he liked your music." Rizzo gave an anything-is-possible shrug. "But one thing's for sure. He knew you were there, but he went ahead and killed her anyway. That's kinda strange, don't you think?"

  Billy just stared at him. The air began to crackle.

  "I guess he didn't see you as much of a threat."

  Hamilton let out an incredulous hiss. Billy felt something threaten to snap behind his mind. He glanced at Bubba, who was watching him strangely. Rizzo started to talk again.

  "But he might change his mind. And if he does, he knows where to find you. I'd think about that, if I were you. I'd watch my ass."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Billy's voice was clipped and even. The fury and terror were warring for control; he was struggling against them both.

  "It means be careful," Hamilton cut in, hands raised in truce. "The way you describe him, the guy sounds like a psycho. We don't know what he's gonna do. So we'd advise you to lay low for a couple of days. Try not to be caught alone at night. Look over your shoulder a lot. Stuff like that." The black detective smiled a little. Billy didn't join him.

  "And what are you guys gonna be doing?" A challenge.

  "We can't offer you twenty-four-hour protection."

  "For that, you need a Speed Stick," Rizzo tossed in dryly, "but we will have the neighborhood under surveillance, and we will have our phone lines open to you. If anything happens, you give us a ring, and we'll have men here in minutes." Hamilton's expression indicated that he meant it.

  "Okay." Billy couldn't smile—he didn't have one in him—but he softened a little and nodded. "Okay. Is there anything else?"

  "Yeah," Rizzo said, one hand motioning toward the floor. "Who does your interior decorating?"

  "Why are you such a bastard?" Hamilton wanted to know. They were walking down the steps now, leaving Billy and his rubble for the hubbub on the street.

  "There's something about wading through ten tons of shit," Rizzo said. "It makes me irritable."

  "I think it's your arthritis. Have you been taking your downs lately?"

  "Don't start in, Junior. I'll feed you to the press."

  "O
h, Christ," Hamilton sighed. They'd be down there by now. Lots of flashing bulbs and rolling tape, microphones thrust in faces. "Okay. I'll be good. I promise."

  "Always a fucking carnival when someone dies," Rizzo muttered, seemingly to himself. Then he turned to his partner and said, "And if we're lucky, no other lowlife assholes will murder each other tonight."

  Hamilton bit hack a response. He didn't like the way it was phrased, but he appreciated the sentiment.

  It was something to hope for, anyway.

  TWO

  THE PARTY

  Mona was pissed, but it wasn't insurmountable. Even if her darling sweetheart never showed up—especially so, the way she was feeling—there were a thousand kinds of fun to be had tonight.

  Griffin Records was throwing the party at a posh new sushi place on Avenue A, right on the fringe of the danger zone in the Lower East Side. They had spared no expenses: open bar, open banquet. The only thing that was closed was the door.

  But that hadn't stopped nearly nine hundred people from packing their way inside. The place was pandemonious. She couldn't believe some of the people who were there: Chaka Khan, Billy Crystal, Tom Petty, Billy Idol, Tim Matheson, Kelly Nichols . . . the list went on and on. Even Andy Warhol had stopped in for a couple of minutes, gauntly appraising the crowd.

  The rest of the people were record execs, band members, other musicians, roadies and techies, members of the press, friends of the above, and numerous gorgeous women who were imported for the occasion.

  And then there were the dancers. Of whom she was the star.

  Mona de Vanguardia moved away from the pay phones and slipped gracefully into the crowd. Her profile had never been higher—all four videos from David Hart and the Brakes were playing tonight—and she caused a significant turning of heads as she slid toward the bar.

  Which should not have surprised her, though it never really ceased to.

  Dave was the star tonight, no question about it. But she ran a close second for airtime on the videos. After Something For Nothing, the Powers That Were had decided to create a visual mythology around her. She was the woman that Dave always sang to. She was the woman who haunted his dreams.

  It made for a uniquely powerful set of promo tapes from the band's first album, also called Something for Nothing. It also made for the biggest break in her long, occasionally sordid career.

  Mona was twenty-seven years old. She stood at almost five feet five and weighed 113 pounds. She was a dancer by training and inclination, though she'd adopted acting and singing as potentially lucrative sidelines. It was starting to pay off. She was a truly remarkable dancer, and she could get away with the others.

  But the thing that really sold her was her beauty. She'd finally had to reconcile herself with it, silly as it was. No matter how well she did anything else, they'd still be looking at her tits. So she'd adopted that as a sideline, too, and it had drawn top drawer.

  Mona caught a glimpse of herself in the nonstop mirror that lined the walls. Places like this always had lots of mirrors. People were constantly checking themselves out. She joined them for a moment, appraising the wildly-teased black hair, the big brown eyes, the china-doll features. She'd worn a slinky black evening gown that made her Hispanically-dark complexion stand out. She liked her makeup, and was pleased that it was holding up.

  It'll pass, she concluded, flashing a smile at herself. Christopher Guest caught it in the mirror and reflected it back at her. It was Christopher Guest! Her heart went giddy.

  Then a hand squeezed down softly on her shoulder from behind. She looked up into the sharp gray eyes, the thin and classically-sculpted features of her roommate. "Any luck?" Lisa asked, and Mona turned to face her.

  "Nope. Just the stupid machine. I swear to God, sometimes I'd like to pulverize that thing."

  Lisa Traynor's beauty wasn't quite as exotic as Mona's, it wasn't her living, so she worked at it less—but she still had the capacity to effortlessly stun. Tonight, she'd gone to uncustomary lengths: letting down her Rapunzelesque expanses of wavy wheat-blonde hair, consenting to provocative makeup, dressing to kill. She was similar to Mona in size and shape; but there was a chiseled intensity to her features, more forbidding than alluring.

  That is, until she smiled, and the room lit up.

  She was smiling now, soft and sympathetic. The hand on Mona's shoulder lingered. "Maybe you should just let it go," she said.

  "Maybe I should just let him go," Mona countered, but she stared at the floor as she did it. Lisa's bullshit detector was excellent, and Mona didn't want to watch the little lights go off behind that penetrating stare.

  "He's really depressed, Mona."

  "So what else is new?" Mona sneered as she said it, feeling the anger boil back up within her. "He's been really depressed for the last six months."

  "And you're tired of it."

  "You're goddam right I am!" She caught herself yelling, pulled her volume back down. There were too many important people here, watching her. It would not do to lose one's cool. "I mean, I've been watching him sink so long now that I wonder if he's ever gonna come back up. And every time something good happens to me, it just knocks him farther down into the dirt. It's like he can't handle the idea that his girlfriend is doing better than he is.

  "You know better than that." Lisa's hand dropped from her shoulder. "If we were talking about any other guy, I'd probably say yes. But Billy's not like that, and you know it. He's proud of you."

  "Yeah. Obviously." Mona rolled her eyes and made an unpleasant face. "That's why he's here, leading my cheering section."

  "Do I need to spell it out for you?" Lisa said, a bit on the disgusted side herself. "Okay. I will. Billy's not here because he's ashamed of himself. He knows how good he is, and it drives him crazy that he never got a deal. Dave intimidates him, without even trying. And Dave has the hots for you, which scares Billy even more. His self-esteem is running on fumes right now—"

  "Well, great. That's just what I need." She could feel her cheeks burning, and that pissed her off even more. "I mean, this is my big moment in the spotlight! I worked like hell to get here! I'm supposed to be having the time of my life! But, no. Instead, I get guilt-tripped by you and my boyfriend, the self-made loser who's too goddam stubborn to make the concessions that would make him a star!"

  Lisa looked weary. Her voice was soft, barely audible over the party's din. "Go have a great time, Mona—"

  "No, no, no!" Mona was rolling now. "Not when poor Billy needs consoling! How can I have a good time when I know that my loved one is suffering so? My own victories pale in comparison to my dearest's terrible endless fucking anguish!"

  "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?" Lisa's smile, in this case, was infuriating.

  "I just want him to be there for me." Her voice was deadly and level and low, and it sliced like a hot knife through butter. "I don't think it's fair that he should ruin this for me. If he can't put down his problems long enough to congratulate me on my successes, then piss on him. I don't need this shit. I'm tired of it."

  Lisa shrugged and tightly smiled, conceding. It wasn't a victory. Mona could practically see the words I can't talk to you, you're being a vindictive and irrational bitch, I leave you to your raving etched across her roommate's face.

  But it was the sympathy commingled with the resignation that made Mona ultimately turn away. Her own anger shamed her, and that was the last thing in the world she wanted to deal with right now. She was in her ostensible glory. She was surrounded by people who had done more than dream: they had accomplished.

  And they were ready to welcome her into their fold.

  If she would but dispose of her dead weight.

  Dead weight like Billy Rowe.

  "God, I need a drink," she informed the room at large. There were three active bars, strategically spaced throughout the place. She moved toward the nearest one, just to the right of the circle of people where she'd last seen Dave. At the center, of course.

  Where h
e belongs, she told herself, fiercely grinning. Because he earned it.

  Unlike certain other people I know.

  On the inner periphery of that same circular crowd, Larry Roth was hanging out. Like Mona, he was digging on the wealth of celebrity that was wandering through. Cyndi Lauper and Jamie Lee Curtis were an underhanded stone's throw away, but the one he really wanted to rap with was Buck Henry. One comedian to another. Just for a minute. That wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

  Larry was a tall, fairly ridiculous-looking man. He bore a resemblance to his namesake from the fabled Three Stooges: same frizzy hair and shiny bald patch, same hook in the ol' proboscis. He'd done a fair amount of stand-up comedy in the last two years, but he'd yet to land a feature film or a half-hour in Catch a Rising Star. Sometimes he despaired. Tonight was no exception. He felt hopelessly outclassed by almost everyone he met.

  But Dave Hart didn't do that to him, which was simultaneously nice and disheartening. He wanted to believe it was because Dave was just another asshole who'd stumbled on the right buttons and given them a push.

  But it wasn't true, and Larry knew it. Dave Hart was hitting the big time because Dave Hart had the goods. The Brakes were hot, but it was Dave's material and Dave's presence that made it happen. And beyond that, Dave Hart seemed spectacularly unimpressed by his own sudden notoriety. He seemed warm and genuine, not at all the snooty holier-than-thou rock star that Larry'd expected. If you overlooked the expensive clothes and the continual cocaine-sniffle, Dave could have passed for any other extraordinarily handsome guy on the street.

  Cyndi and Jamie disappeared behind a pair of rotund audio technicians. Buck Henry was still there, but he was talking to a beautiful woman named Veronica Vera. He was daunted by Buck's notoriety and Veronica's flagrant expanses of flesh. Maybe he could meet someone who knew someone and get introduced or something.

  Or maybe I'm just whistling through my pale white cheeks, he told himself, turning his attention to the star's endless answering of questions.