Chapter 8 of The Only One

[Cynique]

Chapter 8 The Only One

Bobbing her head, grooving with the sounds of Four Play, warmed by the glow of alcohol, Carol paused long enough to take another swallow from her drink.

“You really put me on the spot,” she drawled, blinking at the person seated across from her, finally making up her mind, not caring what Wanda would say later. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have good judgment, didn’t know how to play the game. After all, her life was just one big game, a game she had trouble winning which was why she was spending her Friday night, playing bid-whist and listening to a CD instead looking forward to a Saturday night date to hear a live performance, - thanks to a last minute cancellation of Four Play’s engagement at the jazz club where they were scheduled to appear!

Brought back to the moment by Wanda’s under-the-table-kick, Carole took one last look at her cards and passed.

Andre Butler pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side. “I bid 5 no-trump,” he announced . “Down town.”

Roderick Peters glared at his partner, disbelief clouding his face. “Asshole!” he shrieked, his eyes popping. “Why you take me out with a no-trump downtown when I’m sittin over here holdin 2 jokers and all these fuckin face-cards!”

“This hand was too good to give up,” Andre explained, shooting his arm in the air, wiggling his fingers.

Carole and Wanda exchanged glances, knowing what was coming as the 2 men began rotating their necks and frantically gesturing at each other.

“You do it every time!” Roderick accused. “You think you the only nigga who knows how to play a hand.”

“Listen, baby,” Andre hissed and gave a circular snap of his fingers, “when I bid it, I make it! More than I can say for you, Miz Thang!”

“Don’t even go there,” Roderick huffed, raising an eyebrow. “Not when you just got your sorry ass set!”

“That’s cuz you didn’t lead the right card, bitch!”

“That’s cuz you didn’t save the right suit, ‘ho!”

“Shit!” Wanda exploded. “Will you 2 butt-busters shut the hell up and play!”

“Don’t be getting an attitude, fish,” Andre snapped. “I’m fixin to make this bid.”

Carole sat back, took another swallow of wine, and stared at her ace of hearts.

As for her date with Albert, she had called it off. Since FourPlay had cancelled, there was no incentive for her spend her money to spend a Saturday evening, making small talk with an oddball. But she had agreed to Albert’s suggestion that they make plans to go see Grammy winner Esparanza Spalding, the jazz bassist who, according to him, was due in town soon. Carole wasn’t about to pass up a chance to see this new star on the horizon .

Across the card table, down to the last play, a triumphant Andre played the 7 of spades to turn his 11^th trick.

Carole finished off her drink, and grunted. Date cancelled, cards games lost, just wasn’t my night, she mused, wishing she could catch a break…

…soon because loneliness was creeping up on him, even if he was learning to be good company for himself, even if cable TV did provide a good mix of entertaining and educational shows to stretch out on the couch and watch, which was what he was doing. But, things could’ve been worse, and he had least had a full day tomorrow when he planned to pay his mother a visit, driving her to all the places she needed to go. And, while in the old hood, he’d check in with a couple of his homies and shoot the shit. Then he’d go shopping and stock up on frozen dinners and bagged snacks and canned beverages. And, oh yes, there was one other thing on his agenda. Earlier while picking up a some toiletries at the local drug store, he hadn’t even realized what aisle he’d wandered into. But, once there, he’d stopped and browsed and later purchased.

Yes, this week-end Troy Briggs was going to do something he hadn’t done in a long time. He was going to read a book! Take that, Carole Everly!

Making yet another silent vow to kick the habit, Philip Atkins took a deep draw on his cigarette before flicking it out the window of the unmarked squad car pulling away from a crime scene. The morning was cold and gray and the streets were almost deserted. But somewhere, some place, as had just been horribly proven, a killer was on the loose, strangling and battering and disposing of his female victims with such similarity that it was hard not to conclude that a serial killer was at work.

Philip looked over at his partner who was doing the driving. In contrast to Philip, a bespectacled Brooks Jones was lean, and light-skinned, with bird sharp features and an intense manner.

“What’s your take on these murders?” Phillip said. “My gut feeling is they’re definitely the work of one man, and that serial killing has become an equal opportunity employer.”

“I agree,” Brooks said, hitting the brakes as they approached a red light. “I think the perp is definitely a brother.”

“Can't be sure this motherfucker knew his victims,” Philip continued, "since none of their family or friends can recall ever meeting or hearing about anyone who could be considered a person of interest. And, all things considered, we can be pretty much assume that he's not using his real name.”

“For sure," Brooks said. "And although the victims were from different walks of life, we can further assume what they did have in common was apparently something they each did,”

“Which was?”

“Resist his advances.”

“OK, so let’s create a scenario to coincide with our profile,” Phillip suggested. “Let’s just say a bored, single, twenty-something babe - for whatever reason - accepts a casual date with a geek and then maybe after a few drinks, she let’s her guard down.”

“The vulnerable victim then becomes party to a classic case of rejection,” Brooks theorized, slowing at an intersection to make a left turn. “They end up alone somewhere and he comes on to her.”

“But having a change of heart, she fights him off.”

“He then goes ballistic, unable to deal with being rebuffed.”

“So he overpowers and rapes her, “ Phillip added. “Then because he can’t afford to let her go, the sonofabitch finishes her off by choking her with her own underwear.”

Brooks hunched over the steering wheel. “This guy is undoubtedly a disturbed person, and after this happens the first time, he decides that when rape is foreplay, murder is the ultimate climax.”

Phillip glanced over at his partner and nodded. “That makes sense. For him, sex and murder go together.”

“And this pattern of behavior has become compulsive.”

Phillip stared out the window, watching as it started to snow. “The bastard has got to trip himself up sooner or later. How often can he get away with jammin a body in a garbage dumpster without somebody seeing him?”

“Neighborhoods are pretty deserted in the middle of the night.”

“I just hope we can get some kind of a lead soon,” Phillip muttered, shaking a Newport out of its pack. “Killing innocent young women is such a tragic waste of life.”

When the cadence of Dave Brubeck’s “Take 5” filled the air just then, Brooks quickly reached for his cell phone and silenced the ring tone.

“The innocence of these young women is what got them killed,” he said cryptically.

- to be continued -