Conduct in Question

Chapter 37

After Harry left, Tony shut himself in his inner office and gripped the edge of his desk. Intense pain always preceded his pleasure. Zigzag golden light flashed above his right eye; white fire burned at the base of his skull. Sometimes voices came from nowhere, followed by images of women, almost always women. Their shrieking inflamed his sense of cruelty and power and drove his pleasure deep into a world far beyond common lust. As the lights subsided, their moans grew fainter. When the visions departed, he was exhausted, and thought slipped away like water through fingers.

He was surprised to see that his legal pad was covered with intricately drawn flowers. The pen had been used with such force that the paper was cut. Bleak puzzlement overcame him. Only a deranged being would draw such things. Flowers were for funerals.

Tony’s mother had died when he was ten. At the funeral parlor, he had hid in a corner, but his uncle had dragged him across the room to the casket.

“Show respect for your mother, boy. Say good-bye to her. Give her one last kiss.” Shoved toward the casket, Tony tried to cling to a chair. Figures dressed in black drifted about him. He peeked over the edge of the casket and saw a wax doll.

“It’s not my mother!” he cried out. But of course, it was.

The black figures closed about him and chorused, “Kiss! Kiss! Give her a kiss!” His stomach lurched with the sweet, sickening smell of banks of flowers. When he broke free, the black figures floated off in disgust. He took his pen-knife from his pocket and with careful artistry, etched a single rose petal on the gleaming oak casket. With his tiny, perfect claw, he touched her stone-cold hand and traced another petal.

Mother always wanted him to hide his deformity, but he was secretly proud of his claw. It set him apart from the ordinary and gave him a sense of power.

To clear the memory, Tony shook his head. He stretched, and wandered toward the vast expanse of glass window. Benny’s men had reported that Frank Sasso was dead. Tony could not abide deceit. Frank had stolen from Benny’s cash deliveries to Chin. The detailed description of Frank’s wounds gave Tony a jolt of pleasure. He imagined Frank’s dingy office tinged in red. Blood always fascinated him.

Donnie’s pale and wavering form floated upward in his mind like a nagging, worrisome spirit. He could be real trouble. He had seen him with Frank at the old lady’s house.

His private telephone rang.

“Yes?”

“The kid’s hiding in the house, Mr. McKeown.”

“Good. Leave him for me,” he said softly.

He would deal with the boy immediately. Lounging back on the sofa, he tried to recall all the details. Frank was colossally stupid, but he had been the perfect pawn. The world would not miss him. He had used Frank and the kid to get close enough to dispose of the old lady. It had been a necessary killing. She had gotten in the way.

It was hard to remember all the women, but the killing of the housekeeper and the two Cheney, Arpin women stood out as supremely gratifying. His excitement had mounted sharply as blood spurted. Those bitches  asked for it. Deirdre and Linda  knew too much about the land deals and asked too many questions. In a way, they were also necessary. But with the skill of an artist, he had lured them onward to their most suitable fates. Blood spurted.

Only Donnie could place him at the scene. Although his killing was necessary, perhaps he could derive some pleasure from it. Another thought intruded. Some quality in the boy had caught his interest, perhaps a special intelligence that separated him from the commonplace.

Tony pressed his fingertips into his temples. That bitch, Mrs. Katharine Rowe, deserved it most. She tried to wheedle from him information about the offer. A perfect victim, she believed it was a love tryst at the hotel. With her seductive smile, she strutted with her long legs. She tried to save herself by seducing him with mere sex. In agony, she had lain crumpled on the bed. His mark was on her cheek. Harry tried to convince him she was not dead, but he was no fool. She was dead. Not even the undertaker’s make-up would ever conceal those finely etched petals.