Twenty-Three

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com
From: bostonboy@ncr.bb.com
Subject: Indianapolis

Dear Troy,
Mind-numbingly simple. Surely you have a bigger challenge ahead?
BB

He had to admit, the steak lived up to expectation. And the atmosphere in the St. Elmo Steak House, home of the world’s best shrimp cocktail, wasn’t too bad either. Cozy. Warm. Brick. He liked brick. Liked the looks of the hostess who was stumbling around in impossibly high heels, too, casting glances over her shoulder at him every time she wobbled past. Blond hair, brown eyes. Tight black skirt over one of those buttonfront pin-tucked blouses that was actually a bodysuit. He had an ex-girlfriend who loved those things. They snapped right at her cunt, perforated for easy access. They could fuck up against a wall and she’d never have to get undressed.

He took a sip of his excellent Bordeaux and sighed. The hostess wasn’t a part of the game. He’d have to save her for another time. The job was finished here in Indy. He’d killed a woman named Mary Jane. Sweet Mary Jane Solomon. Mary Jane, the pretty and plain. All tied up with a delightful little bow. She’d scratched the hell out of him, raked her nails along the edge of his arm, but he’d brushed her nails with her toothbrush before he left, and changed into a long-sleeved shirt before dinner. He’d gotten blood on the UPS delivery uniform and had to burn it. Exorcise the DNA demon with fire and toothpaste. Some Indy cop was going to find a naked UPS man and think someone had a uniform fetish.

He laughed to himself. Pretty plain Mary Jane’s eyes had lit up when he came to the door. She wasn’t used to getting packages; she lived alone, had few friends…by choice, of course. Terribly shy Mary Jane. A stutterer, poor thing. Then he had rung the doorbell. Rung Mary Jane’s bell, too. Changed her life forever. Death did that to a girl.

One bite left. The meat was luscious, melting in his mouth, leaving little greasy butter trails running down his chin. He always drowned his steaks in butter, just like dear old mom used to do. It made the meat tender.

He checked his watch, it was only 10:00 p.m. He wasn’t scheduled to be in Nashville until noon the following day. He’d gotten ahead of the game, so to speak. He had time for dessert, then a chat with the hostess. Maybe score a number, or an email, or, the best of all possible worlds, she would whip out her smartphone and friend him on Facebook. Reverse look-up the number and he would have her home address. Email and he could track her down on the internet with ease. But with Facebook, he’d have her pants down in moments. These silly girls put all their personal information out there for the taking, their birth dates, pictures of themselves drunk and naked, announcing to the world exactly where they were at all times. They made themselves bait. They asked for it. He loved technology. It made the job so much easier.

He waved to his waiter for the check. It was time to move on to the last portion of the game. Time for his big reward. He was looking forward to a nice calm night. He could swing back through Indy on his way home, see if he couldn’t get himself a date.