Three Times a Lady

Chapter 2

Chicago – 22 August 1977 – 2:31 p.m.

Nicholas was fourteen years old the first time he brought someone to the butcher’s shop without his mother’s permission. Thankfully, he’d managed to survive this long without angering her to the point that made her want to erase each and every last trace of him too. Quite the opposite, actually. Turned out his mother had other plans for him. Plans she’d been feeding him piecemeal over the years until he was old enough to fully understand.

Plans that excited him.

Still, that didn’t mean that what Nicholas was doing here at the moment marked a safe proposition. Far from it, as a matter of fact. Three weeks earlier, he’d stolen a key to the butcher’s shop from her lingerie drawer when she hadn’t been home before making his own copy without her knowledge or consent. He knew she’d kill him if she ever found out, of course, but it was a chance he was willing to take. A chance he felt he needed to take. He was getting older now, for Christ’s sake. Becoming a man. Even had a thin line of downy, first-growth hair on his upper lip to show for it.

So if Nicholas was becoming a man (wispy facial hair and all that in actuality you needed to look at upside down in the light to even see) he figured that he might as well start acting like one. And there was no time like the present, right? Besides, there was still one more step he needed to take, one more rite of passage he needed to navigate.

The rite of passage that would finally make him a real man.

Still, burgeoning man or not, Nicholas’s heartbeat had slammed painfully against his bony ribcage the entire time he’d stood waiting in line for the key machine at the Walgreen’s drugstore, half-expecting to see his mother come storming into the place at any given moment to drag his sorry ass out of there by his ear. Thankfully, though, his mother had never come, and Nicholas had given her sufficient time since then to confront him if she had any suspicions about what he was up to.

When it finally became clear to him that his mother didn’t have the slightest idea of what he had planned – or at least wasn’t going to say anything to him about it – Nicholas supposed he was safe enough. At least as safe as anyone could be around a woman like her. Besides, it was time, wasn’t it? Goddamn right, it was time. Nicholas felt ready for this. Had felt ready for this for a very long while now. Ever since the day he’d watched his little brother brutally murdered in cold blood right in front of his shocked and disbelieving eyes.

Nicholas chased away the unpleasant memory with a quick shake of his head as he glided his ten-speed into the parking lot a strip-mall three and a half miles away from his house, shuddering violently despite the oppressive heat of the day. If his mother only had any idea that Timmy’s murder had been captured on videotape, as well, one that hadn’t been destroyed …

He shuddered again, even harder this time. The proposition was just too frightening to even think about.

Sweat poured in rivers down his back and plastered his too-thick polo shirt against his skin like a freshly applied Band Aid as Nicholas rode his bicycle through the strip-mall. Wiping away a thick sheen of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his right hand, he flung away the excess moisture to the ground with a quick flick of his right wrist, cursing the oppressive summer weather. To put it mildly, the summer of 1977 was an extremely hot one in Chicago, hot enough to kill all the old people around the city who either couldn’t afford air conditioning in their high-rise apartment buildings or just didn’t know how to go about asking for it in the right way. The heat that permeated The Windy City that summer between the hours of two and four p.m. was the kind of heat that made people very angry with one another for no particular reason at all. The kind of heat that made them want to hurt each other. Badly. Years later, Nicholas would learn that it was the same blazing summer the ‘Son of Sam’ had chosen to terrorise New York City eight hundred miles to the east, selecting so many long-haired brunette victims that young women sporting dark tresses all around the Big Apple had eventually begun dying their hair blonde and demanding severe pageboys from their stylists in a terrified – and futile – attempt to avoid David Berkowitz’s unwanted advances. Despite all the elaborate precautions that had been taken, however, the Son of Sam would shoot and kill six people with his .44-calibre hand-cannon and wound seven more before his reign of terror finally came to an abrupt end when he’d received a parking ticket on the night of one of his many horrific crimes.

Nicholas shook his head in disgust at the pure amateurish nature of the pudgy-faced killer’s mistake as he passed by a bakery emanating smells delicious enough to make his stomach grumble, reminding him that he hadn’t yet eaten that day. Honest to Christ, though, a f*cking parking ticket? How moronic could one person be? And the fact that David Berkowitz would later blame his violent attacks on orders from a neighbour’s barking dog would one day make Nicholas laugh. Some people blamed barking dogs for the adults they grew up to become. Not Nicholas, though. Not even close. He’d blame his mother. And why in the hell shouldn’t he? It was a much more natural way of processing the events of your life when you looked at things with an honest eye. And wasn’t that what it was all about when everything had been said and done? Looking at things honestly?

Goddamn right, it was.

In any event, here Nicholas was, finally ready to become a man. And what was the one thing all men needed?

Why, a woman, of course.

Nicholas finally came to a stop thirty seconds later and hopped off his ten-speed next to a rusted-out bike rack in front of Miller’s Hardware Store before glancing to his right. Thirty yards away, Claire Bishop was smoking marijuana cigarettes with a small collection of her friends behind a McDonald’s dumpster on the south side of the strip-mall, just like she always did around this time of day. F*cking drug addict.

Pulling up his shirt in the front in order to let in some air, Nicholas smiled to himself despite the disgust he felt inside for the girl’s smoking habit. He’d been watching Claire Bishop for months now, and after a great deal of planning on his part, he’d finally decided she’d be the one. The first one, at least. After that, who knew? He’d just need to wait and see where life took him from there.

Behind the dumpster, Claire took a healthy hit of a joint and blew out a huge cloud of smoke before giggling happily and passing it along to one of her friends. Even through the haze, it was easy to see just how pretty she was. Her long brown hair hung freely over her soft shoulders (the hands-down style at the time since nobody had yet heard of David Berkowitz or the preferred physical makeup of his victims) and even from this distance Nicholas could tell that she had a body that just wouldn’t quit. Absolutely perfect for his intentions for the day.

Twelve years at most, the girl wore tiny blue polyester shorts that showed off long tan legs and just a hint of well-rounded buttocks peeking out from each side. A midriff-baring shirt featured spaghetti-thin straps hanging over her shoulders, which served as the backdrop for her glorious hair. Best of all – most exciting of all, to Nicholas, at least – her pert, slightly upturned breasts had already blossomed like daffodils turning their faces to the morning sun. No bra, of course. Who in the hell needed a bra when you had tits like that?

Nicholas nodded approvingly at the way the girl’s hard nipples poked like tiny diamonds through the flimsy fabric of her flower-patterned shirt. Nice piece of ass, that much was for sure. A real fine piece of machinery he wouldn’t mind checking under the hood. Still, hot as she might be, Nicholas knew that not even Claire Bishop presented any match for him when it came to looks.

Nicholas wasn’t conceited – no way in hell his mother would ever stand for such self-centeredness, not on his part, at least – but even he knew that his sparkling green eyes looked like shining emeralds encased in a face that had been carved out of solid granite. His strong jaw line was set firmly beneath high cheekbones that did a fine job of accentuating his pleasant features, and his short brown hair never seemed out of place, not even when he rolled out of bed first thing in the morning. Not an ounce of fat to be found anywhere on his body. Not so much as the trace of a blemish on his handsome face when so many other boys his age were suffering from the dreaded ‘pizza-face’ syndrome brought about by their own raging hormones. What’s more, Nicholas knew that he would only grow even handsomer as the years passed. Hell, his genetics dictated that much. Just take a look at his mother. Apples – even the rotten ones – never fell too far from the tree.

Nicholas breathed in deeply through his nostrils and caught a faint whiff of the marijuana the girls were smoking before closing his eyes, feeling a renewed sense of excitement flood through his crotch at the thought of his mother. Perverted as though it might sound to others, Nicholas had already memorised almost every last inch of Annabeth Preston’s exquisite body from a distance, and he would’ve happily jumped at the chance to memorise the inches of her that still remained a mystery to him. The inches of her in which he’d always been the most interested. The inches of herself that she selfishly covered up in her lacy undergarments each night shortly before bedtime.

Nicholas opened up again his eyes and shook his head while he leaned down to chain up his bicycle to the rack, realising that it was probably just the testosterone shots to blame, mixed in with more than just a dash of his thoroughly screwed-up psychology. That being said, the simple fact of the matter was that everything about his mother seemed to drive him crazy these days, even more so than when he’d been eight years old. The seductive shape of her gorgeous mouth. The soft swell of her ample breasts. The way she’d sometimes kick off her blankets on hot summer nights to expose a beautiful figure usually encased in little more than a sheer white negligee that clung to her shapely body like plastic wrap and made Nicholas’s entire soul quiver with desire. To make matters worse, his mother had recently ramped up the dosage on Nicholas’s daily testosterone shots – ‘to make things more natural’, she’d said. To make up for the areas in which he was sorely lacking, thanks to her. Only time would tell where that would eventually lead him, but to be honest that time felt like now. Like, right now.

It felt like today.

Just as Nicholas had known she would all along, Claire Bishop made the first move. And why would he be surprised by that? Luckily for him, he’d never been the kind of boy who’d ever needed to put in too much work when it came to girls, which made his life that much easier. Not that anything in his life could possibly be considered easy, of course. Not with a mother like Annabeth Preston.

‘Hey you!’ Claire Bishop called out to him as Nicholas pretended to check the air pressure on the back tire of his ten-speed. Apparently impressed by her boldness, her stoner friends giggled as one.

Nicholas acted as though he didn’t hear her at first, of course. Had to play things cool with the women, after all. Show them you weren’t all that interested. If you played things that way, it only made them want you that much more. At least, that’s what he’d read recently in Playboy – not that he was the sort of boy who looked at the steamy publication simply to read its sterling articles. Any guy who said they did was just lying.

‘Hey you!’ Claire Bishop repeated, louder this time. Nicholas continued to ignore her and pressed down on the back tire of his ten-speed again, testing its firmness with his thumb. Even at her young age, though, it was obvious that Claire Bishop wasn’t the kind of girl used to having to say things twice, especially to boys. Or to men, for that matter. And where in the hell was the great big surprise in that? After all, when you had the figure of a twenty-five-year-old swimsuit model at the tender age of twelve you learned quickly how to use it to your greatest advantage. Sex was the one commodity Claire Bishop had to sell in this world, and from the look of things she had absolutely no qualms whatsoever about trading in on it whenever she could. ‘You with the yellow shirt!’ she continued, as though she could possibly be talking to somebody else.

Nicholas looked down at his shirt and lifted up his eyebrows thoughtfully on his forehead. Oops, busted. His shirt was yellow, all right – complete with a little man on horseback who was swinging a mallet and positioned tastefully just above his left breast pocket. How very observant of her. Nicholas guessed what he’d heard about dogs wasn’t true, after all. Turns out some of them weren’t colourblind. And now it was time to give the mutt its treat for performing such a remarkable feat of intelligence. ‘Yeah?’ he asked, finally turning in the girl’s direction.

Claire Bishop narrowed her big blue eyes at him. ‘Come over here,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you real quick.’

Nicholas crinkled up his face. Play it cool, he thought. Stick to the game plan here. Don’t show her how badly you want her. How badly you want to be her. ‘Talk to me about what?’ he asked.

Claire Bishop pouted her pretty lips and made a petulant face. DSLs, Nicholas had heard the guys at the gas station call those kinds of lips. Plump, juicy – ripe for the taking. ‘Just come over here, would ya?’ the girl said, practically whining now. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Nicholas blew out a slow breath and tried his best to keep the sharp knife-edge of irritation out of his voice. Even though the girl’s tone grated on his last nerve, he knew that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. ‘What makes you think I want to talk to you?’ he asked.

Claire Bishop turned to her girlfriends and whispered something, and they all giggled again. ‘Because I also want to give you something,’ she said, sticking out her chest in an unsubtle suburban mating call and winking at him.

Nicholas smiled at the flirtatious gesture despite the overwhelming annoyance he felt. He just couldn’t help himself. Because whenever a girl winked at you and stuck out her chest like that it meant just one thing…

Somebody was getting lucky.

And – in this particular case and on this particular day – it also meant someone would be getting extremely unlucky.

To his everlasting credit, Nicholas somehow resisted the urge to rush over and take the dick-teasing whore right then and there on the baking pavement in direct view of her drug-addict friends. Still, this was good. Exactly what he wanted, so he started in their direction anyway. Slowly, of course; casually. Still playing the game. He’d let Claire Bishop think she was in charge for the time being but he’d be damned if he’d go running over there at her beck and call like some sort of lost puppy dog. That just wouldn’t be cool. Wouldn’t be something a real man did.

By the time he joined the girls behind the dumpster, the gaggle had huddled up again, doing that maddening group thing all girls did. Nothing more than pack animals, Nicholas knew, each and every last one of them. Still, all pack animals needed a leader, didn’t they? Goddamn right, they did.

Consider the job filled.

The overwhelming scent of marijuana filled Nicholas’s nostrils as Claire Bishop looked up at him and said, ‘You’re pretty cute, you know that? Way cuter than most of the guys around here, at least. What school do you go to?’

‘St Christopher’s,’ Nicholas lied, feeling entirely confident that a public-school slut like this wouldn’t know anybody there. Or at least not enough people to call him out of on his lie.

‘Cool,’ Claire said, buying it hook, line and sinker. ‘You smoke weed? We’ve got some real killer shit here. Got it over on the east side.’

Nicholas lifted his eyebrows. The truth of the matter was that he hadn’t smoked marijuana before – never any interest in it, really. Not only did he not care for the smell, he already had enough drugs coursing through his system on a daily basis to tranquilize a goddamn elephant, and he certainly didn’t need any more to throw off his already-delicate chemical balance. That being said, there was no way in hell he was going to tell Claire that. Not when he was this close to finally becoming a real man. ‘Nah,’ Nicholas said. ‘Not any more, at least. Marijuana’s for kids. I only f*ck with hard drugs now.’

Claire Bishop widened her big blue eyes at that, clearly impressed by what he’d just said. Not to mention by the way he’d said it. Mr Cool all the way; that was Nicholas, all right. A regular Marlon Brando.

Claire stuck out her chest again in an obvious attempt to regain control of the situation on the pure strength of her budding feminine wiles. Clueless little thing, wasn’t she? Lifting up her own eyebrows into twin question marks on her smooth forehead, she said, ‘Oh yeah? Is that a fact?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘Yeah. It is.’

‘Like what, tough guy? What kind of hard drugs do you f*ck with?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Heroin. Speed. A little bit of coke every now and then.’

Another direct hit. From the admiring looks on the girls’ faces, Nicholas could tell he was playing this like a pro. Not too shabby for his first time through the course, if he did say so himself. But right now he had more important things to worry about. More exciting things to worry about. And he needed Claire Bishop to help him along. If only the silly little bitch would hurry the f*ck up already so that they could get this aggravating dog-and-pony show on the road.

‘You got any drugs on you now?’ the girl asked. ‘Me and my friends like to party too, you know. Don’t bogart all the good shit for yourself.’

Nicholas looked away from her, over her, past the top of her head and out at the traffic that was whizzing by on Reynolds Street forty yards away. Like he had somewhere more important to be. Somewhere cooler to be. ‘Nah,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t have any good shit on me right now, but I’ve got some close by. I guess I could show you if you want. But you have to promise not to tell anybody. You can never tell.’

Claire Bishop spoke for the entire group without hesitation. Clearly, the role of unquestioned leader was one she was used to occupying. She’d been the alpha dog before Nicholas had arrived on the scene, and from the look of things she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish that lofty position just yet. ‘Hell yeah,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Where are they? I’m bored and it smells like shit back here anyway. Who in the f*ck would ever eat anything from McDonald’s? F*cking gross.’

Nicholas closed his eyes while he pretended to consider her proposition – just long enough to have all the girls practically panting for his answer. Nothing more than a pack of scared little puppies looking for some direction. For a firm hand to guide them. Looking to be told what to do. And, much like dogs, Nicholas had learned, women were laughably easy to train. Except for one, of course. But that was neither here nor there at the moment.

Nicholas opened his eyes again and looked directly at Claire this time, pointedly ignoring the others. ‘We can’t all go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some drugs close by, but I don’t want to attract any attention. If my parole officer sees me he’ll know something’s up and then I’ll be in some real deep shit for sure. He’s already pissed off at me as it is. I don’t want to give him any reason to break my balls any harder than he’s already been doing.’

Pointing directly at Claire’s wonderfully developed chest to single her out, he added, ‘You can come with me if you want, but your friends will have to stay here until we get back. It’ll probably take an hour or so.’

The probation lie scored more points. And why not? All the cool guys were in some kind of trouble with the law, weren’t they? Of course they were. Who in the hell wanted to date Lawrence Welk when you could be seen making the rounds with James Dean? Still, Claire Bishop creased up her pretty face at the suggestion. ‘Yeah, right,’ she said, giggling nervously and clearly a little less certain of her position at the top of the pecking order now. ‘Like I’d ever go anywhere alone with you. I don’t even know you, for Christ’s sake. For all I know, you want to rape and kill me, you f*cking sicko.’

Nicholas pressed his lips together into a tight line. Not a bad assessment there, actually. Not a bad assessment, at all.

You’re absolutely right, Claire, he thought. I probably do want to rape and kill you. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I want to do to you. Luckily for you, though, that’s something of which I’m quite incapable.

Out loud, he said, ‘Whatever. Suit yourself. Have fun with your stupid pot. Try not to get too high on that shit, all right? For your information, though, it’s probably oregano if you bought it over on the east side. But again, whatever. Give me a call when you grow up and want to try out some of the good stuff.’

Turning on his heel, he then sauntered away as casually as he possibly could. It might have been a risky gamble, but he knew that he needed to push in all of his chips now, even if it meant losing all his money in the process. There was no other option now. He’d passed the point of no return.

A flurry of hushed whispers sounded behind him. A moment later, Claire Bishop called out to him again. ‘Hey, wait up!’ she yelled, running to catch up with him. ‘I’ll come with you but we have to hurry. We have to be back in, like, half an hour. Missy’s driving and she said that’s all she’ll wait for.’

Nicholas turned around and smiled at the girl. Bowing at the waist, he swept his right arm gallantly toward the bicycle rack forty feet away, motioning to his beloved Schwinn. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘C’mon. I’ll give you a ride over there.’

Thankfully, the girl didn’t protest any further, which meant that Nicholas was that much closer to finally becoming a real man. About goddamn time. He’d already waited a very long time for this day to arrive, and he certainly didn’t want to wait a single moment longer now than he absolutely needed to. Already standing on the ledge of full-blown manhood, he was ready to leap. Wanted to leap. ‘Cool,’ the girl said. ‘Let’s go.’

Nicholas’s heart skipped rope in his chest as he unlocked his bicycle and offered her the seat. He’d ride standing up – the same way he’d ride her in about twenty minutes or so. ‘Your chariot awaits, my dear,’ he said.

Ten minutes later – having darted through the heavy traffic barreling down Lincoln Road with Claire Bishop’s long hair streaming behind them in the stiff breeze – they finally made it to the butcher’s shop across town. Nicholas concentrated on controlling his shaking hands as they stood underneath the striped awning out front. Reaching into the front pocket of his shorts, he produced the illicit key he’d copied at the drugstore a few days earlier and slipped it into the lock before opening up the door for her and stepping to one side. ‘After you, my dear,’ he said, trying mightily to disguise the heightened anticipation in his voice. ‘My stash is in the back.’

Claire Bishop looked up at him, surprised. ‘You own this place?’ she asked.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Something like that, I guess. My family does.’

Claire lifted her perfectly plucked eyebrows and entered the building. Wordlessly, she kicked the door closed behind him as Nicholas entered after her.

Turning around to face him, the girl immediately stepped forward and raised herself up on her tiptoes to cover his mouth with her own, smearing her bright red lipstick roughly across his lips and darting her small, pink tongue into his mouth. Obviously, Claire Bishop knew what the deal was here, and so did Nicholas. Cash, ass or grass – nobody rides for free.

Nicholas cringed against the foul taste of marijuana smoke on the girl’s breath as she pressed her body tightly against his; her baby-fat breasts leaving an impression he knew he’d still be able to feel an hour later. An impression he knew he’d still be able to feel a lifetime later.

After several interminable moments of the disgusting lip-lock, Nicholas finally broke the kiss and stared down hard into the girl’s half-lidded blue eyes; searching them with his own. ‘You want this, baby?’ he breathed.

The girl groaned and ground her hips even harder into his pelvis. ‘Oh, yes, daddy. I want it so bad. Give it to me.’

Nicholas smiled and tightened his grip around the little slut’s slender waist, inhaling deeply through his nostrils and enjoying the way her cheap perfume tickled the tiny hairs lining his nose. Twisting his lips into a smirk, he said, ‘Are you absolutely sure you want this? I don’t want you crying rape on me later on. I could do some real serious time for that kind of shit.’

Claire narrowed her big blue eyes and shook her head. ‘Never, daddy. I’d never do anything like that. Just give it to me. Please.’

So Nicholas did.

Claire Bishop never even felt the syringe loaded with Rufinol slide into her carotid artery. Ten seconds later, the date-rape drug caused her to go as limp as a rag doll in his arms. Then again, you couldn’t rape the willing, now could you?

Easing the girl’s body down to the ground, Nicholas rested her head beneath an old gray Army blanket from his father’s days in the military before making his way over to the front window to make sure that the blinds were closed, smiling broadly as he went. Once again, it seemed, the time had come for some real fun inside the butcher’s shop, and he didn’t want an audience for this. Private moments like this one called for private settings, and he couldn’t think of a location any more private than this. The location that had raised him since birth. The location that had shaped him into the full-grown man he was about to become…

A man with a face that only a mother could truly love – not that Claire Bishop – stupid clueless whore she’d clearly proven herself to be by coming here alone with him today – wouldn’t be giving it her very best shot in the next ten minutes or so.