M. Newman's Blog, page 6
May 15, 2011
The Big Payoff
The Big Payoff
“Holy shit, this babe is hot,” I said to myself as she glided gracefully into my tiny storefront office on long, shapely legs like you have never seen. She flashed a smile and leaned over my desk to offer her bejeweled hand, affording me a birds-eye view of beautifully formed, bra-less breasts which teasingly threatened to escape from her low-cut silk blouse. “Helen Troy,” she said as she gave my hand a little squeeze that sent a current down my spine. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Troy. Have a seat.” The beautiful Ms. Troy took me up on my offer and lithely lowered herself into the leatherette chair in front of the desk. My heart leaped into my throat as she crossed her legs, a graceful movement that caused her designer skirt to hike up to the very top of her thighs. “Please, call me Helen, Mr. Johnson.” “Okay, Helen, and you can call me Al. How can I help you?” “Well,” she said, “I think I have a job for you.”
***
“This is great,” I told myself as I gazed at a face so beautiful that it could probably launch a thousand ships. “My first day as a P.I. and I already have a case. And just get a load of the honey that’s about to hire me.” Yes, it was my first day as a private detective and things were certainly looking up. I’d begun to have doubts as to whether I had made the right career choice. Probably it was just opening night jitters but, you know; I was already up to my eyeballs in debt for the startup expenses like rent on the office plus two months security, furniture and advertising, just to name a few. I was just a kid, not that far removed from high school and obviously had no experience in the field; I was unlicensed by the State and didn’t even have a permit for the .38 automatic that I carried. However, I thought I was pretty smart and there was never a doubt that I was tough. I’m 6’ 2” of rock-hard muscle and had long ago proven that I could handle the baddest mother-fuckers there were. But if I was as smart as I thought I was, I would have wondered why an expensively dressed, classy-looking broad like Helen Troy would consider hiring a greenhorn who’d just opened an office in the shabbiest part of the East Village.
***
“What type of job did you have in mind, Ms. Troy ... I mean Helen?” “I think my husband is cheating on me, Al. I need you to get proof.”
“I think I can do that, as long as you provide me with the necessary information,”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she said with what I was beginning to recognize as her trademark lovely smile. My face flushed and I began to sweat from nervousness when she smiled at me. Not to brag but I’ve had lots of women in my young life and nobody had ever called me shy. Never before had a woman made me feel nervous like this; but then again, never before had I met a woman as beautiful and enticing as this.
***
We spent about an hour going over the things that I needed to know. The husband, it turned out, was one of the richest men in America, the CEO of Wall Street’s largest financial institution. Walter Troy was 58 years old, relatively young for a man in his position in a field dominated by elderly gentlemen but terribly old to be with a vibrant 26 year old woman like Helen. She gave me a few photos to study and I was stung by a pang of jealousy when I saw a shot with his arm around her. She blushed when she realized that she’d accidentally included a photo of herself in a tiny bikini. She also provided a list of important facts including his home and office addresses, a daily schedule and a description of his limousine and its license plate number. “Walter and I will be leaving in the morning for the Hamptons. We’ll be together all weekend so I know there will be no monkey business going on then.”
“I think you’ve given me everything that I need.... wait; perhaps you can give me a key to your apartment so I can snoop around while the two of you are away.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” she replied, and handed me the key. “Umm... why don’t you take the key to the building’s service entrance so you can avoid the doorman. We don’t want him mentioning you to Walter.”
“Good thinking,” I said and after fishing around in her purse, she gave me a second key. “Okay, now I have everything I need. I’ll search the apartment over the weekend and I’ll begin to tail him on Monday morning.”
“Oh, thank you so much. You don’t know how much I appreciate you taking this job.” She took a wad of bills from her purse and handed it to me across the desk. “Here’s a thousand dollars as a retainer and another five hundred for expenses. If you need anything else just let me know. There’s no need for a contract or a receipt,” she added, sweetly. “If we don’t put anything on paper, you won’t have to claim this job on your taxes.”
“Thanks,” I replied with a little smile. “I guess what the government doesn’t know, won’t hurt them.” I rose from my seat and walked around the desk to shake hands. The same thrill as before ran down my spine as our hands touched. Then she surprised me with a little peck on my cheek before turning to leave the office. I just stood there with a stupid grin on my face and never took my eyes off her fabulous J-Lo ass as she headed to the door, seductively switching her sexy hips.
***
They lived at 740 Park Avenue which was located at the corner of Park and East 71st Street. The 19 story limestone structure was widely recognized as the world’s richest apartment building. As we had discussed, I entered the building through the service entrance. To further avoid being seen, I took the stairs to the 18th floor apartment. After spending several minutes in the stairwell to catch my breath, I cautiously peeked out into the unusually wide, plushly carpeted hallway. Once I was sure that the coast was clear, I walked straight to apartment 1802, nonchalantly opened the door with my key and entered, immediately closing the door behind me. I was astonished by what I saw. The duplex apartment was enormous (I later learned that it measured in excess of 9,000 square feet.) The ceilings were exceedingly high and the windows were huge and offered breathtaking views. Most rooms included handsome stone fireplaces and all were exquisitely furnished. The upper level featured an olympic sized private pool and a full bar. I spent about two hours searching the place, painstakingly poring through drawers, cabinets and closets. I looked behind furniture and beneath cushions and I took extraordinary care to return everything to its original place. I discovered no evidence of an affair but of course, a smart man would leave no clues in his home. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it but after I completed my search I rummaged through Helen’s lingerie drawers admiring skimpy panties, sexy negligees and see-through bras. Wild sexual fantasies filled my mind and I had to leave the bedroom quickly and cool down in the luxurious sofa in the next room. With nothing else to do, I spent the next several hours relaxing in the elegant home, assuring myself that it was a good idea to leave late at night when there was less chance of being seen.
***
Tailing the guy for a week was the most boring thing that I’d ever done in my life. Each morning I waited in my car in front of his apartment building and each morning at precisely eight o’clock he emerged and entered the back seat of his limo. I followed the limo to Wall Street and watched him enter his office building. The only times the guy left his building were for business lunches at fancy restaurants. After lunch he invariably returned to the office and stayed until at least seven o’clock. From the office he went to the gym. I paid off the guy at the desk to allow me into the private gym, purchased some workout clothes at their shop and discretely observed his every move. I didn’t even use the equipment for fear of missing anything. For an old guy, he was in great shape; and dedicated. He used just about every machine in the gym, lifting prodigious amounts of weight, always in three sets of ten, and then did about thirty minutes on the treadmill. He finished his evening with a brief swim, some time in the steam room and a shower. From the gym, he went straight home. I never saw the guy so much as look at a woman and after a week, I concluded that he was the most faithful husband in America.
***
“Well, Helen, I’m happy to report that your husband can”t possibly be cheating on you.”
“How can you be so sure,” she asked, from that same leatherette chair by my desk.
“You were away with him last weekend and you say he spent all of this weekend at home with a cold. No evidence turned up when I searched your apartment and I tailed him all week. I found nothing. There is no other woman. My work is done. I did the most thorough job that anyone can do and I have no doubt that he is true to you. Personally, I think he’d be insane to cheat on you.”
“Well, okay,” she said with a pout. “If you’re sure.” “What’s the problem, Helen? I thought you would be happy at this report.”
“I would have thought so, too but then something changed.” She rose from her seat and slowly walked around the desk. She grabbed me by my tie and lifted me from my chair, pulling me toward her. “I’ve fallen for you Al,” she said as she pulled me closer and kissed me full on the mouth.
***
We went at it in the back room of my office that day, so hungry for each other that I was inside her before we were inside the room. After that, we spent nearly every weekday afternoon at some hot pillow joint in Sheepshead Bay. Helen was terrified of being seen with me by an acquaintance or by paparazzi, thus the trips to Brooklyn where nobody knew her. Even still, she was cautious, waiting in the car while I rented the room and hiding her face as we walked across the parking lot.
***
“My God, Al, I swear I never knew a man who could make me feel this way. You set every part of my body, inside and out, aflame. What kind of man are you?” Helen was an appreciative lover, that’s for sure. She repeatedly praised my prowess with words such as those. She didn’t really have to say anything, though. When we made love, her moans, screams and unintelligible babbling as if she were speaking in tongues, said it all. Sex with Helen was akin to a barroom brawl. In her frenzy, she would scratch, kick, bite and pull my hair without ever realizing it. I left the motel with new scars and bruises every day. Don’t get me wrong. It was not at all one-sided. She was far more than just a beautiful package She was the greatest lover I’d ever had the pleasure of bedding: athletic, imaginative and totally uninhibited. She did things to me that I couldn’t even begin to describe. She could have shown the authors of the Kama Sutra a thing or two... and she was downright insatiable. Each afternoon we would fuck until exhaustion and still I would have to drag her out of bed, denying her a final taste, so that she would get home before her husband.
***
“Are you sure that you love me, Al,” she asked, while drying herself with the plush motel bath towel and admiring her own spectacular shape in the full-length mirror. We had just put the finishing touch on another wanton weekday afternoon by sharing a steamy shower. “Yes, of course I’m sure, babe. Why would you even ask?” “No, I mean do you love me so much that you would do anything, no matter what?” I swore that my love was so strong and true that there wasn’t a thing that I wouldn’t do; she only needed to ask. “Umm, hmm,” she murmured, abruptly dropping the subject. Glimpsing the reflection of her face in the mirror, I was somewhat unsettled by her passing, enigmatic smile.
***
Have you ever been so in love that nothing mattered? That there was no such thing as right or wrong and the concept of consequences was as alien as a man from Mars? That was the state I was in and I was in so deep that I almost feel that I could be excused for what happened. It was a few weeks after she had first wondered if I loved her enough to do some unnamed “anything.” We were just about to leave the motel when she suddenly embraced me and squeezed for all she was worth. A few tears rolled languorously down her cheeks. “Oh, Al,” she said, still hugging me and wiping her tears on my shoulder. “I can’t go on like this anymore. I’m so sick of sneaking around like a tramp; I’m tired of going home and pretending to be in love with my husband. I only want to be with you.”
“Okay,” I replied, not unhappily. “We can do that. Just tell him you want a divorce.”
“Are you crazy? What will I do for money?”
“What about alimony?”
“That won’t happen. I signed a pre-nup.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll support you.” “Don’t make me laugh, Al. Even if you had any clients, do you think that it would be even remotely possible to provide the kind of money to which I’ve grown accustomed?”
“So what are you saying?” Even as I asked the question a terrible chill ran down my spine. I knew what she was about to say even before she opened her mouth. And after the initial shock, all I felt was a vile eagerness to get it done.
“It’s the only way. I’ve seen his will and I’m his sole beneficiary. We’re talking billions; all for us. This will be your big payoff, honey,” she said with a smile. “Imagine that, one client and you retire a rich man.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I sure don’t mind the billions but as far as I’m concerned, having you to myself is the big payoff.”
“Oh, Al, that’s so sweet,” she said and she gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. For the second time, I saw that Gioconda smile flit across her face.
“I’ll go to the house in the Hamptons next week,” she told me as she laid out the plan. “On Monday night, you can wait for him him at the apartment and kill him. It will look like he walked in on a burglary. If we’re lucky, his body won’t be discovered until I become worried when he doesn’t join me at the beach house. From there, I’ll call the police. A more likely scenario would be that his office begins to worry and get the cops on the job the following day. Either way, you’ll be long gone and there is nothing to tie us together. The only downside is that we will have to stay apart for awhile. It shouldn’t be too long, though. After a few weeks, when they are unable to solve the case, I’ll get frustrated and hire a private detective. Guess who that will be? Of course, we’ll fall in love instantly.” I was so blind in love that murder appeared to be the most natural act.
***
The murder went off exactly as planned. I used the service entrance and walked the eighteen flights of stairs just as before. Again, the hallway was empty and I entered the apartment with my key. I riffled through some drawers to make it look as if there had been a burglary in progress then I sat in the sofa to await my victim. I took out my gun and fitted it with the the brand new Smith and Wesson silencer that I had bought for the occasion. The apartment was virtually soundproof but I wasn’t taking any chances. Then I placed the gun on my lap and I waited. I was surprisingly calm, considering what I was about to do. Like most people, I had been brought up to believe that cold-blooded murder was the ultimate sin but I had no qualms about killing this man. Murder was what Helen wanted and my love for her was so deep that it seemed the only suitable thing to do. I sat there for hours, patiently biding my time, my eyes growing accustomed to the dark. At about 11:00 I heard him place his key in the door lock. Seconds later the door swung open and he turned on the light, blinding me for just an instant. Then he closed the door behind him and turned into the room. When he saw me on the sofa the surprise registered on his face, his mouth forming a perfect circle. Before he could utter a sound, I wordlessly squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered his brain right between the eyes and I believe that he was dead before he hit the floor. I got up from the couch and walked slowly to the body, checking for a pulse just to make sure. I walked to the door, carefully checked the hallway and walked down the eighteen flights to the street.
***
When I arrived at my office at 9:00 the next morning, the cops were waiting for me. They handcuffed me, advised me of my rights and transported me to the precinct. During questioning, I denied everything although they insisted that they had a witness. “Why would I murder the man,” I asked. “It’s obvious that he caught you burglarizing his apartment.” “Burglarizing... why would I do that? I have money. I run a business.”
“That’s some business,” the cop said with a disrespectful chuckle. “We checked your records. You’ve never had a single client.” About an hour into my interview, a new detective entered the room, glanced indifferently at me and whispered something into the ear of my interrogator. I was at a loss for words when he announced that a search of my place turned up the keys to Troy’s apartment. “You damn fool,” I scolded myself under my breath. “How could you forget to ditch the keys when you dumped the gun?” They placed me in a lineup and I was positively identified. I couldn’t imagine who this witness was but I guessed that they had me dead to rights. I saw no choice but to write a statement admitting to the murder. I was careful to keep Helen’s name out of it. I signed the statement and walked with the cops to a holding cell. As luck would have it, on the way to the cell their witness saw me and ran toward me, shrieking, “that’s him. That’s the bastard that murdered my husband. When I got home I saw him running from the apartment with a gun in his hand. I saw him... I saw him,” she cried.
***
Naturally, the media bombarded the public with stories about the murder from the morning after until the conclusion of my trial. It isn’t every day that one of America’s richest is shot dead. I was portrayed as a no-good, degenerate loser whose entire life appeared to be a dogged march to the inevitable performance of this dastardly deed. Helen became an instant celebrity, frequently appearing on television talk shows to discuss how she saw her husband’s killer fleeing the scene of the crime. There were rumors of a six figure book deal and an appearance on Dancing With The Stars. Increasingly, Page Six and People Magazine carried photos of her in the company of handsome young playboys or carousing, half-naked on exotic beaches. The trial was open and shut. Helen was convincing as a grieving widow and chief witness. I had, basically, no defense. Despite everything, I would not implicate her. The jury took about fifteen minutes to convict and I was given a life sentence. As I was led out of the courtroom I glanced in her direction. I was stunned, as always, by her magnificent beauty and realized that, remarkably, I was still in love with her and I honestly hoped that she would enjoy her multi-billion dollar payoff.
“Holy shit, this babe is hot,” I said to myself as she glided gracefully into my tiny storefront office on long, shapely legs like you have never seen. She flashed a smile and leaned over my desk to offer her bejeweled hand, affording me a birds-eye view of beautifully formed, bra-less breasts which teasingly threatened to escape from her low-cut silk blouse. “Helen Troy,” she said as she gave my hand a little squeeze that sent a current down my spine. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Troy. Have a seat.” The beautiful Ms. Troy took me up on my offer and lithely lowered herself into the leatherette chair in front of the desk. My heart leaped into my throat as she crossed her legs, a graceful movement that caused her designer skirt to hike up to the very top of her thighs. “Please, call me Helen, Mr. Johnson.” “Okay, Helen, and you can call me Al. How can I help you?” “Well,” she said, “I think I have a job for you.”
***
“This is great,” I told myself as I gazed at a face so beautiful that it could probably launch a thousand ships. “My first day as a P.I. and I already have a case. And just get a load of the honey that’s about to hire me.” Yes, it was my first day as a private detective and things were certainly looking up. I’d begun to have doubts as to whether I had made the right career choice. Probably it was just opening night jitters but, you know; I was already up to my eyeballs in debt for the startup expenses like rent on the office plus two months security, furniture and advertising, just to name a few. I was just a kid, not that far removed from high school and obviously had no experience in the field; I was unlicensed by the State and didn’t even have a permit for the .38 automatic that I carried. However, I thought I was pretty smart and there was never a doubt that I was tough. I’m 6’ 2” of rock-hard muscle and had long ago proven that I could handle the baddest mother-fuckers there were. But if I was as smart as I thought I was, I would have wondered why an expensively dressed, classy-looking broad like Helen Troy would consider hiring a greenhorn who’d just opened an office in the shabbiest part of the East Village.
***
“What type of job did you have in mind, Ms. Troy ... I mean Helen?” “I think my husband is cheating on me, Al. I need you to get proof.”
“I think I can do that, as long as you provide me with the necessary information,”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she said with what I was beginning to recognize as her trademark lovely smile. My face flushed and I began to sweat from nervousness when she smiled at me. Not to brag but I’ve had lots of women in my young life and nobody had ever called me shy. Never before had a woman made me feel nervous like this; but then again, never before had I met a woman as beautiful and enticing as this.
***
We spent about an hour going over the things that I needed to know. The husband, it turned out, was one of the richest men in America, the CEO of Wall Street’s largest financial institution. Walter Troy was 58 years old, relatively young for a man in his position in a field dominated by elderly gentlemen but terribly old to be with a vibrant 26 year old woman like Helen. She gave me a few photos to study and I was stung by a pang of jealousy when I saw a shot with his arm around her. She blushed when she realized that she’d accidentally included a photo of herself in a tiny bikini. She also provided a list of important facts including his home and office addresses, a daily schedule and a description of his limousine and its license plate number. “Walter and I will be leaving in the morning for the Hamptons. We’ll be together all weekend so I know there will be no monkey business going on then.”
“I think you’ve given me everything that I need.... wait; perhaps you can give me a key to your apartment so I can snoop around while the two of you are away.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” she replied, and handed me the key. “Umm... why don’t you take the key to the building’s service entrance so you can avoid the doorman. We don’t want him mentioning you to Walter.”
“Good thinking,” I said and after fishing around in her purse, she gave me a second key. “Okay, now I have everything I need. I’ll search the apartment over the weekend and I’ll begin to tail him on Monday morning.”
“Oh, thank you so much. You don’t know how much I appreciate you taking this job.” She took a wad of bills from her purse and handed it to me across the desk. “Here’s a thousand dollars as a retainer and another five hundred for expenses. If you need anything else just let me know. There’s no need for a contract or a receipt,” she added, sweetly. “If we don’t put anything on paper, you won’t have to claim this job on your taxes.”
“Thanks,” I replied with a little smile. “I guess what the government doesn’t know, won’t hurt them.” I rose from my seat and walked around the desk to shake hands. The same thrill as before ran down my spine as our hands touched. Then she surprised me with a little peck on my cheek before turning to leave the office. I just stood there with a stupid grin on my face and never took my eyes off her fabulous J-Lo ass as she headed to the door, seductively switching her sexy hips.
***
They lived at 740 Park Avenue which was located at the corner of Park and East 71st Street. The 19 story limestone structure was widely recognized as the world’s richest apartment building. As we had discussed, I entered the building through the service entrance. To further avoid being seen, I took the stairs to the 18th floor apartment. After spending several minutes in the stairwell to catch my breath, I cautiously peeked out into the unusually wide, plushly carpeted hallway. Once I was sure that the coast was clear, I walked straight to apartment 1802, nonchalantly opened the door with my key and entered, immediately closing the door behind me. I was astonished by what I saw. The duplex apartment was enormous (I later learned that it measured in excess of 9,000 square feet.) The ceilings were exceedingly high and the windows were huge and offered breathtaking views. Most rooms included handsome stone fireplaces and all were exquisitely furnished. The upper level featured an olympic sized private pool and a full bar. I spent about two hours searching the place, painstakingly poring through drawers, cabinets and closets. I looked behind furniture and beneath cushions and I took extraordinary care to return everything to its original place. I discovered no evidence of an affair but of course, a smart man would leave no clues in his home. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it but after I completed my search I rummaged through Helen’s lingerie drawers admiring skimpy panties, sexy negligees and see-through bras. Wild sexual fantasies filled my mind and I had to leave the bedroom quickly and cool down in the luxurious sofa in the next room. With nothing else to do, I spent the next several hours relaxing in the elegant home, assuring myself that it was a good idea to leave late at night when there was less chance of being seen.
***
Tailing the guy for a week was the most boring thing that I’d ever done in my life. Each morning I waited in my car in front of his apartment building and each morning at precisely eight o’clock he emerged and entered the back seat of his limo. I followed the limo to Wall Street and watched him enter his office building. The only times the guy left his building were for business lunches at fancy restaurants. After lunch he invariably returned to the office and stayed until at least seven o’clock. From the office he went to the gym. I paid off the guy at the desk to allow me into the private gym, purchased some workout clothes at their shop and discretely observed his every move. I didn’t even use the equipment for fear of missing anything. For an old guy, he was in great shape; and dedicated. He used just about every machine in the gym, lifting prodigious amounts of weight, always in three sets of ten, and then did about thirty minutes on the treadmill. He finished his evening with a brief swim, some time in the steam room and a shower. From the gym, he went straight home. I never saw the guy so much as look at a woman and after a week, I concluded that he was the most faithful husband in America.
***
“Well, Helen, I’m happy to report that your husband can”t possibly be cheating on you.”
“How can you be so sure,” she asked, from that same leatherette chair by my desk.
“You were away with him last weekend and you say he spent all of this weekend at home with a cold. No evidence turned up when I searched your apartment and I tailed him all week. I found nothing. There is no other woman. My work is done. I did the most thorough job that anyone can do and I have no doubt that he is true to you. Personally, I think he’d be insane to cheat on you.”
“Well, okay,” she said with a pout. “If you’re sure.” “What’s the problem, Helen? I thought you would be happy at this report.”
“I would have thought so, too but then something changed.” She rose from her seat and slowly walked around the desk. She grabbed me by my tie and lifted me from my chair, pulling me toward her. “I’ve fallen for you Al,” she said as she pulled me closer and kissed me full on the mouth.
***
We went at it in the back room of my office that day, so hungry for each other that I was inside her before we were inside the room. After that, we spent nearly every weekday afternoon at some hot pillow joint in Sheepshead Bay. Helen was terrified of being seen with me by an acquaintance or by paparazzi, thus the trips to Brooklyn where nobody knew her. Even still, she was cautious, waiting in the car while I rented the room and hiding her face as we walked across the parking lot.
***
“My God, Al, I swear I never knew a man who could make me feel this way. You set every part of my body, inside and out, aflame. What kind of man are you?” Helen was an appreciative lover, that’s for sure. She repeatedly praised my prowess with words such as those. She didn’t really have to say anything, though. When we made love, her moans, screams and unintelligible babbling as if she were speaking in tongues, said it all. Sex with Helen was akin to a barroom brawl. In her frenzy, she would scratch, kick, bite and pull my hair without ever realizing it. I left the motel with new scars and bruises every day. Don’t get me wrong. It was not at all one-sided. She was far more than just a beautiful package She was the greatest lover I’d ever had the pleasure of bedding: athletic, imaginative and totally uninhibited. She did things to me that I couldn’t even begin to describe. She could have shown the authors of the Kama Sutra a thing or two... and she was downright insatiable. Each afternoon we would fuck until exhaustion and still I would have to drag her out of bed, denying her a final taste, so that she would get home before her husband.
***
“Are you sure that you love me, Al,” she asked, while drying herself with the plush motel bath towel and admiring her own spectacular shape in the full-length mirror. We had just put the finishing touch on another wanton weekday afternoon by sharing a steamy shower. “Yes, of course I’m sure, babe. Why would you even ask?” “No, I mean do you love me so much that you would do anything, no matter what?” I swore that my love was so strong and true that there wasn’t a thing that I wouldn’t do; she only needed to ask. “Umm, hmm,” she murmured, abruptly dropping the subject. Glimpsing the reflection of her face in the mirror, I was somewhat unsettled by her passing, enigmatic smile.
***
Have you ever been so in love that nothing mattered? That there was no such thing as right or wrong and the concept of consequences was as alien as a man from Mars? That was the state I was in and I was in so deep that I almost feel that I could be excused for what happened. It was a few weeks after she had first wondered if I loved her enough to do some unnamed “anything.” We were just about to leave the motel when she suddenly embraced me and squeezed for all she was worth. A few tears rolled languorously down her cheeks. “Oh, Al,” she said, still hugging me and wiping her tears on my shoulder. “I can’t go on like this anymore. I’m so sick of sneaking around like a tramp; I’m tired of going home and pretending to be in love with my husband. I only want to be with you.”
“Okay,” I replied, not unhappily. “We can do that. Just tell him you want a divorce.”
“Are you crazy? What will I do for money?”
“What about alimony?”
“That won’t happen. I signed a pre-nup.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll support you.” “Don’t make me laugh, Al. Even if you had any clients, do you think that it would be even remotely possible to provide the kind of money to which I’ve grown accustomed?”
“So what are you saying?” Even as I asked the question a terrible chill ran down my spine. I knew what she was about to say even before she opened her mouth. And after the initial shock, all I felt was a vile eagerness to get it done.
“It’s the only way. I’ve seen his will and I’m his sole beneficiary. We’re talking billions; all for us. This will be your big payoff, honey,” she said with a smile. “Imagine that, one client and you retire a rich man.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I sure don’t mind the billions but as far as I’m concerned, having you to myself is the big payoff.”
“Oh, Al, that’s so sweet,” she said and she gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. For the second time, I saw that Gioconda smile flit across her face.
“I’ll go to the house in the Hamptons next week,” she told me as she laid out the plan. “On Monday night, you can wait for him him at the apartment and kill him. It will look like he walked in on a burglary. If we’re lucky, his body won’t be discovered until I become worried when he doesn’t join me at the beach house. From there, I’ll call the police. A more likely scenario would be that his office begins to worry and get the cops on the job the following day. Either way, you’ll be long gone and there is nothing to tie us together. The only downside is that we will have to stay apart for awhile. It shouldn’t be too long, though. After a few weeks, when they are unable to solve the case, I’ll get frustrated and hire a private detective. Guess who that will be? Of course, we’ll fall in love instantly.” I was so blind in love that murder appeared to be the most natural act.
***
The murder went off exactly as planned. I used the service entrance and walked the eighteen flights of stairs just as before. Again, the hallway was empty and I entered the apartment with my key. I riffled through some drawers to make it look as if there had been a burglary in progress then I sat in the sofa to await my victim. I took out my gun and fitted it with the the brand new Smith and Wesson silencer that I had bought for the occasion. The apartment was virtually soundproof but I wasn’t taking any chances. Then I placed the gun on my lap and I waited. I was surprisingly calm, considering what I was about to do. Like most people, I had been brought up to believe that cold-blooded murder was the ultimate sin but I had no qualms about killing this man. Murder was what Helen wanted and my love for her was so deep that it seemed the only suitable thing to do. I sat there for hours, patiently biding my time, my eyes growing accustomed to the dark. At about 11:00 I heard him place his key in the door lock. Seconds later the door swung open and he turned on the light, blinding me for just an instant. Then he closed the door behind him and turned into the room. When he saw me on the sofa the surprise registered on his face, his mouth forming a perfect circle. Before he could utter a sound, I wordlessly squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered his brain right between the eyes and I believe that he was dead before he hit the floor. I got up from the couch and walked slowly to the body, checking for a pulse just to make sure. I walked to the door, carefully checked the hallway and walked down the eighteen flights to the street.
***
When I arrived at my office at 9:00 the next morning, the cops were waiting for me. They handcuffed me, advised me of my rights and transported me to the precinct. During questioning, I denied everything although they insisted that they had a witness. “Why would I murder the man,” I asked. “It’s obvious that he caught you burglarizing his apartment.” “Burglarizing... why would I do that? I have money. I run a business.”
“That’s some business,” the cop said with a disrespectful chuckle. “We checked your records. You’ve never had a single client.” About an hour into my interview, a new detective entered the room, glanced indifferently at me and whispered something into the ear of my interrogator. I was at a loss for words when he announced that a search of my place turned up the keys to Troy’s apartment. “You damn fool,” I scolded myself under my breath. “How could you forget to ditch the keys when you dumped the gun?” They placed me in a lineup and I was positively identified. I couldn’t imagine who this witness was but I guessed that they had me dead to rights. I saw no choice but to write a statement admitting to the murder. I was careful to keep Helen’s name out of it. I signed the statement and walked with the cops to a holding cell. As luck would have it, on the way to the cell their witness saw me and ran toward me, shrieking, “that’s him. That’s the bastard that murdered my husband. When I got home I saw him running from the apartment with a gun in his hand. I saw him... I saw him,” she cried.
***
Naturally, the media bombarded the public with stories about the murder from the morning after until the conclusion of my trial. It isn’t every day that one of America’s richest is shot dead. I was portrayed as a no-good, degenerate loser whose entire life appeared to be a dogged march to the inevitable performance of this dastardly deed. Helen became an instant celebrity, frequently appearing on television talk shows to discuss how she saw her husband’s killer fleeing the scene of the crime. There were rumors of a six figure book deal and an appearance on Dancing With The Stars. Increasingly, Page Six and People Magazine carried photos of her in the company of handsome young playboys or carousing, half-naked on exotic beaches. The trial was open and shut. Helen was convincing as a grieving widow and chief witness. I had, basically, no defense. Despite everything, I would not implicate her. The jury took about fifteen minutes to convict and I was given a life sentence. As I was led out of the courtroom I glanced in her direction. I was stunned, as always, by her magnificent beauty and realized that, remarkably, I was still in love with her and I honestly hoped that she would enjoy her multi-billion dollar payoff.
May 8, 2011
Happy Mothers Day
Today, as I'm sure we all know, is Mothers Day. In honor of this popular holiday, I will write about some of the most famous moms of the ages:
Eve- The first Judeo-Christian mom. Mother of Cain and Abel; mate of Adam. The original Jewish mother.
Hera- Queen of the Greek Gods; wife and sister of Zeus; mother of Ares and Hephaestus.
A jealous wife, she plagued Zeus, his mistresses and his son, Hercules. Hera was powerful and widely worshiped as the protectress of women, marriage and childbirth.
Mother Nature- The mother of us all; our entire planet, all creatures great and small. For some reason we tend to treat her very badly.
Mother Jones- Born Mary Harris in 1837 in Cork County, Ireland this tiny (barely five feet tall) woman came to America and became a fearless fighter for workers' rights. Called the most dangerous woman in America, she rose to prominence in the first two decades of the 20th century as a fiery orator for the mine workers.
Ma Barker- Born October 8, 1873, Kate "Ma" Barker was the loving mother of the criminals who ran the notorious Barker Gang. Not actually a criminal herself, her greatest crime was to try and keep her lowlife sons out of trouble. On January 16, 1935, she and her son Freddy were killed in a house in Ocklawaha, Florida in a four hour gunfight with the FBI. It is believed that FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover cultivated her reputation as a criminal in order to justify the killing of an old lady by FBI agents.
Moms Mably - Widely regarded as one of the most important African-American entertainers of all-time and as the first bonafide standup comic superstar. She was one of the first to use the stage to advocate civil rights for both her race and gender.
Below is a link to one of her hilarious skits:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLg1Qz...
While there have doubtless been many other famous moms, we all know that the greatest mom is our own. If you can, give your mom a big hug and kiss today and tell her that you love her. Actually it wouldn't be such a bad idea to do that every day.
Eve- The first Judeo-Christian mom. Mother of Cain and Abel; mate of Adam. The original Jewish mother.
Hera- Queen of the Greek Gods; wife and sister of Zeus; mother of Ares and Hephaestus.
A jealous wife, she plagued Zeus, his mistresses and his son, Hercules. Hera was powerful and widely worshiped as the protectress of women, marriage and childbirth.
Mother Nature- The mother of us all; our entire planet, all creatures great and small. For some reason we tend to treat her very badly.
Mother Jones- Born Mary Harris in 1837 in Cork County, Ireland this tiny (barely five feet tall) woman came to America and became a fearless fighter for workers' rights. Called the most dangerous woman in America, she rose to prominence in the first two decades of the 20th century as a fiery orator for the mine workers.
Ma Barker- Born October 8, 1873, Kate "Ma" Barker was the loving mother of the criminals who ran the notorious Barker Gang. Not actually a criminal herself, her greatest crime was to try and keep her lowlife sons out of trouble. On January 16, 1935, she and her son Freddy were killed in a house in Ocklawaha, Florida in a four hour gunfight with the FBI. It is believed that FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover cultivated her reputation as a criminal in order to justify the killing of an old lady by FBI agents.
Moms Mably - Widely regarded as one of the most important African-American entertainers of all-time and as the first bonafide standup comic superstar. She was one of the first to use the stage to advocate civil rights for both her race and gender.
Below is a link to one of her hilarious skits:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLg1Qz...
While there have doubtless been many other famous moms, we all know that the greatest mom is our own. If you can, give your mom a big hug and kiss today and tell her that you love her. Actually it wouldn't be such a bad idea to do that every day.
May 1, 2011
Yom Hashoah
Today is Yom Hashoah, also known as Holocaust Remembrance Day, a day which honors the memory of those who lost their lives in the Holocaust. This commemorative holiday always falls on the 27th day of the month of Nissan on the Hebrew calendar. The Hebrew term Yom Hashoah literally means day (yom) of catastrophe or utter destruction (hashoah.) Today, many commemorate Yom Hashoah by lighting yellow candles in order to keep the memories of the victims alive. On this day, too, many synagogues and Jewish organizations throughout the world feature ceremonies, events and speakers paying tribute to those who were lost.
One such speaker is filmmaker Gaylen Ross who showed and discussed her award-winning film, "Killing Kasztner," yesterday evening at the Woodstock (NY) Jewish Congregation. The film tells the story of Reszo Kasztner, who was known as the "Jewish Schindler." In 1944, the darkest days of the Nazi genocide, Kasztner bought salvation for 1.700 Hungarian Jews who, for several months had been sitting in a train at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Finally, thanks to the efforts of Kasztner, the train was permitted to leave and transport the fortunate Jews to safety in Switzerland.
Kasztner accomplished this miracle by negotiating face to face with the infamous Adolf Eichmann, the administrator of Hitler's "Final Solution" and paying $1,000 a head while concealing, enemies later said, the full measure of the peril that was to claim an estimated 75% of Hungary's Jews, and vouching at the Nuremberg trials for an SS colonel, Kurt Becher. He was accused as a Nazi collaborator and tried as a traitor in Israel, his adopted country. The "guilty" verdict divided the nation, nearly leading to a Civil War, and forever stamped him as "the man who sold his soul to the devil."
The verdict was eventually overturned by Israel's Supreme Court but the ruling came too late for Kasztner who was killed by Jewish right-wing extremists in Tel Aviv in 1957.
Although he was cleared, his name remained anathema, gracing no memorial walls, even at Yad Vashem, Israel's shrine to the victims of the Holocaust, although in 2007 it accepted some of his papers.
Finally, after growing research by historians and a long campaign by his aggrieved family and the many Jews that he saved, culminating in Ms. Ross' respectful documentary, his good name has been restored.
It is my hope that when the victims of the Holocaust are remembered, Kasztner's heroics are recalled, as well. It is also worth remembering that in addition to the 6 million murdered Jews, upwards of 4 million Gentiles: gypsies, homosexuals, dissidents, and protectors of Jews were slaughtered. We should be praying for the souls of these victims, too.
*I am including here the link to a very touching photo album, the only surviving photo album of the Auschwitz concentration camp. I have posted this link before but I think it is well worth re- posting on this day.
http://www1.yadvashem.org/exhibitions...
One such speaker is filmmaker Gaylen Ross who showed and discussed her award-winning film, "Killing Kasztner," yesterday evening at the Woodstock (NY) Jewish Congregation. The film tells the story of Reszo Kasztner, who was known as the "Jewish Schindler." In 1944, the darkest days of the Nazi genocide, Kasztner bought salvation for 1.700 Hungarian Jews who, for several months had been sitting in a train at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Finally, thanks to the efforts of Kasztner, the train was permitted to leave and transport the fortunate Jews to safety in Switzerland.
Kasztner accomplished this miracle by negotiating face to face with the infamous Adolf Eichmann, the administrator of Hitler's "Final Solution" and paying $1,000 a head while concealing, enemies later said, the full measure of the peril that was to claim an estimated 75% of Hungary's Jews, and vouching at the Nuremberg trials for an SS colonel, Kurt Becher. He was accused as a Nazi collaborator and tried as a traitor in Israel, his adopted country. The "guilty" verdict divided the nation, nearly leading to a Civil War, and forever stamped him as "the man who sold his soul to the devil."
The verdict was eventually overturned by Israel's Supreme Court but the ruling came too late for Kasztner who was killed by Jewish right-wing extremists in Tel Aviv in 1957.
Although he was cleared, his name remained anathema, gracing no memorial walls, even at Yad Vashem, Israel's shrine to the victims of the Holocaust, although in 2007 it accepted some of his papers.
Finally, after growing research by historians and a long campaign by his aggrieved family and the many Jews that he saved, culminating in Ms. Ross' respectful documentary, his good name has been restored.
It is my hope that when the victims of the Holocaust are remembered, Kasztner's heroics are recalled, as well. It is also worth remembering that in addition to the 6 million murdered Jews, upwards of 4 million Gentiles: gypsies, homosexuals, dissidents, and protectors of Jews were slaughtered. We should be praying for the souls of these victims, too.
*I am including here the link to a very touching photo album, the only surviving photo album of the Auschwitz concentration camp. I have posted this link before but I think it is well worth re- posting on this day.
http://www1.yadvashem.org/exhibitions...
April 24, 2011
King of the Cannibals
A few weeks ago, one of my favorite students suggested that I write a post about cannibals. She wasn't talking about tribes of savages in old-time Darkest Africa who captured hapless explorers, threw them into a huge cauldron of boiling water, added a few local spices and cooked up a feast of White Man Stew.
The young lady was hoping that I would write a piece on Jeffrey Dahmer the infamous serial killer, necrophiliac and cannibal of the early 1990's, on whom she has a bit of a fixation (to be sure, she has similar fixations on other lunatics such as Charles Manson, John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy. Despite this one odd character flaw she is a very nice girl).
Sorry honey, I'm not going to write about Dahmer; he's too well known and not really the most despicable American cannibal. Albert Fish, a peculiar-looking man with buggy eyes and a bowler hat gets my vote. Also known as "the Gray Man," "the Werewolf of Wysteria," "the Brooklyn Vampire," and "The Boogeyman," Fish was even more of a monster than Dahmer. A child rapist and cannibal, he boasted that he "had children in every state," and at one time put the figure at around 100.
Fish was sadistic and delusional and came from a family with a history of mental illness.Throughout his life he was a compulsive writer of obscene letters to women whose names he acquired from classified ads and matrimonial agencies.
In the 1890's, shortly after he arrived in New York City from Washington, D.C.,he became a male prostitute. He said that at this time of his life he began raping young boys, a crime he kept committing even after his mother arranged a marriage to a woman nine years his junior. They had six children. During this period Fish developed a morbid fascination for castration. During a relationship with a mentally retarded man, Fish tied him up and attempted to castrate him but the young man's screams frightened Fish who fled after leaving him a $10 bill.
In 1917, Fish's wife left him for a handyman who boarded with the Fish family, leaving him to care for the six children. Following this rejection, he began hearing voices and mutilating himself. Eventually, he experienced delusions and hallucinations that God commanded him to torture and castrate little boys.
In 1928, Fish kidnapped 10 year old Grace Budd from her Manhattan home. He took her to an empty house in Westchester where he stripped her naked, choked her to death and cut her into pieces. He roasted the pieces and ate them over the next 9 days.
Charles Edward Pope, a 66 year old apartment building super, was arrested for the kidnapping, accused by his estranged wife. Pope spent 108 days in prison before being found not guilty at his trial on December 22, 1930.
Six years later, in November, 1933, apparently in desperate need of gratification from his dastardly deed, Fish sent an anonymous letter to little Grace's parents. In it, he graphically detailed his heinous crime and the pleasure he received while committing it. The letter was traced back to him and he was arrested and convicted.
He was executed on January 16, 1936 in the electric chair at Sing Sing. Presumably, his remains were too well-done to be eaten.
The young lady was hoping that I would write a piece on Jeffrey Dahmer the infamous serial killer, necrophiliac and cannibal of the early 1990's, on whom she has a bit of a fixation (to be sure, she has similar fixations on other lunatics such as Charles Manson, John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy. Despite this one odd character flaw she is a very nice girl).
Sorry honey, I'm not going to write about Dahmer; he's too well known and not really the most despicable American cannibal. Albert Fish, a peculiar-looking man with buggy eyes and a bowler hat gets my vote. Also known as "the Gray Man," "the Werewolf of Wysteria," "the Brooklyn Vampire," and "The Boogeyman," Fish was even more of a monster than Dahmer. A child rapist and cannibal, he boasted that he "had children in every state," and at one time put the figure at around 100.
Fish was sadistic and delusional and came from a family with a history of mental illness.Throughout his life he was a compulsive writer of obscene letters to women whose names he acquired from classified ads and matrimonial agencies.
In the 1890's, shortly after he arrived in New York City from Washington, D.C.,he became a male prostitute. He said that at this time of his life he began raping young boys, a crime he kept committing even after his mother arranged a marriage to a woman nine years his junior. They had six children. During this period Fish developed a morbid fascination for castration. During a relationship with a mentally retarded man, Fish tied him up and attempted to castrate him but the young man's screams frightened Fish who fled after leaving him a $10 bill.
In 1917, Fish's wife left him for a handyman who boarded with the Fish family, leaving him to care for the six children. Following this rejection, he began hearing voices and mutilating himself. Eventually, he experienced delusions and hallucinations that God commanded him to torture and castrate little boys.
In 1928, Fish kidnapped 10 year old Grace Budd from her Manhattan home. He took her to an empty house in Westchester where he stripped her naked, choked her to death and cut her into pieces. He roasted the pieces and ate them over the next 9 days.
Charles Edward Pope, a 66 year old apartment building super, was arrested for the kidnapping, accused by his estranged wife. Pope spent 108 days in prison before being found not guilty at his trial on December 22, 1930.
Six years later, in November, 1933, apparently in desperate need of gratification from his dastardly deed, Fish sent an anonymous letter to little Grace's parents. In it, he graphically detailed his heinous crime and the pleasure he received while committing it. The letter was traced back to him and he was arrested and convicted.
He was executed on January 16, 1936 in the electric chair at Sing Sing. Presumably, his remains were too well-done to be eaten.
April 17, 2011
Adagio For Strings
Adagio For Strings
by M. Newman
“Honey,” she said, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.” I had just walked in the door and had no clue as to what this great surprise could be. All I knew was that the smile on Susan’s pretty face could cheer up a ward full of manic depressives. “This must be a doozy,” I said to myself, knowing my wife’s history of extravagant surprises.
“What is it, babe,” I asked, eagerly, already beginning to share her excitement.
“Well,” she revealed, “we are now Patrons of the New York Philharmonic.”
“What?” I was truly surprised and I think that the volume of my voice rose by several decibels. “Susan, I don’t think we can afford that.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Douglas. It only cost fifteen thousand dollars. Think of it as an investment. Just imagine all the celebrities and power brokers with whom we will come in contact. Aside from the wonderful music that we’ll hear from the best seats, we’ll be invited to all the exclusive receptions for patrons and artists. Think of the friends we’ll make and how this will help your career.”
Although I feigned annoyance, secretly I was thrilled. So what that fifteen thousand dollars was far more than we could afford. We deserved the best and contrary to what they say, the best things in life are not free.
***
The first post-concert cocktail reception was magnificent. With live chamber music in the background, delicious hors d'oeuvres and free-flowing wine and liquor, we knew that we’d joined the ranks of the privileged. Susan, looking beautiful in a revealing little Donna Karan number, was happily mingling with the other guests; flirting provocatively with the biggest of the big machers. Although I spent a bit more time than she sampling the single malt scotch, I did my part, as well, striking up conversations with the luminaries at the bar.
Toward the end of the evening, my eyes met those of a striking young woman across the room. In response to her come-hither smile, I immediately left the bar and approached her. Although her face fell just short of pretty, she was, nevertheless, quite enchanting. Silky black hair cascaded past a graceful, swanlike neck, ending at the midpoint of her erect spine. Her perky little breasts were barely concealed by the tantalizingly low-cut neckline of her black evening gown, a gown that, despite its ankle-length, could not hide the fact that she had impossibly long legs; and when she momentarily turned her back to me in order to greet an acquaintance, I discovered that she had a world-class ass.
“Douglas Miller,” I said, extending my hand when she turned to face me once again.
“I’m so glad to meet you Douglas,” she answered, taking my hand in hers and squeezing ever so slightly. “I’m Holly... Holly Bock.”
I was flustered for a moment by the intense sexual energy that she exuded but I suppose that I recovered before she noticed. “I thought I recognized you,” I said. “You’re the new first violinist. You were wonderful tonight.”
“Why thank you, Douglas,” she said, batting her long eyelashes and flashing an alluring smile. “I’m so glad that you think so.”
I was hooked. I spent the rest of the evening conversing with her, totally blocking Susan from my mind. Each time she touched my arm as we spoke, a thrill rushed down my spine straight to my privates. An intense heat seemed to rush at me from between her legs, telling me that she longed to have me, too. Suddenly, our conversation ended. My throat became dry and my legs turned weak. We gazed into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity then she took my hand, leading me from the reception hall to her dressing room. Turning my head briefly as we left the room, I saw Susan in happy conversation with an inebriated, silver-haired patrician. I did not react when I saw the man’s hand resting on my wife’s cute little butt; I just turned and eagerly followed the violinist to her room.
***
“Douglas, it’s so exciting,” Susan gushed. “In just one evening I’ve become friends with some of the world’s most powerful men and women. We already have dinner dates with two of Wall Street’s foremost money men and their wives.
“Where did you disappear to,” she asked.
She was very impressed when I told her that I’d become friends with the first violinist and she scolded me when I said that I did not plan to see her again. “What are you thinking, darling? That woman is an important person to know. Why, she could open more doors for us than both my financiers combined. I insist that you cultivate a friendship.”
***
Beginning the following week, I joined Holly for lunch at Lincoln Center on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The food was delicious and the conversation was lively. We learned a lot about each other.
“You must have been a very popular girl back home in Indiana,” I said one day.
“No,” she replied, “not really. I never had a boyfriend in high school. I wasn’t very pretty and I spent most of my time practicing my music and playing in the school orchestra.”
“That’s just so hard to believe. I would have thought that those high school boys spent their time begging you for a date; I guess you just weren’t interested, what with your music.”
“Oh, I was interested alright. The music, I think, was just a substitute. I would lie in bed nights dreaming of the sinful things that I would do with some of the popular boys; but try as I might, I could never get them interested in me. I remember having one date. It was a disaster. I don’t remember his name but I recall that he was a fellow member of the school orchestra; a cellist, I believe. He had a pretty bad case of acne and he was painfully shy. I don’t think he said more than five words the entire evening. I didn’t care. After the movie, I convinced him to drive us to the local lover’s lane and the second he pulled into a parking spot, I unzipped his fly and took his dick out of his pants. One hand clutching the shaft, I slowly lowered my head toward his rock-hard erection, my mouth already open, my tongue ready to do its work when he ejaculated onto my face. He was embarrassed and I was enraged. He gave me some tissue and then burnt rubber out of that parking spot.
“We never said another word to each other but when Rhoda, the second violin and probably my only friend in the world informed me a few weeks later that she had a date with the same boy that Friday, I wordlessly grabbed her by the hair with my left hand and proceeded to pummel her face with my right. I was suspended from school for a week and from the orchestra for a month. I’m sure that were I not a superb musician I’d have been banned from the orchestra forever. Rhoda and I became bitter enemies, doing mean things to each other and spreading evil gossip for the rest of our high school careers.”
Most of our lunch dates ended with an urgent trip to her apartment, as we longed to get our hands on each other and make up for the frustration of her lost high school years. Occasionally, we couldn’t wait to get to her place and found some kinky substitute sites in and around the restaurant.
After a time, we stopped meeting at the restaurant. I began going straight to her apartment. It was a luxurious place overlooking Central Park; pretty much what you would expect for the first violinist of the New York Philharmonic. Often, Imani, her roommate, a voluptuous soprano who hailed from Kenya, was there. Imani was on the verge of landing the leading role in a new production of “Carmen” and excitedly related to me all of the details. Although she rarely stayed long, Imani and I managed to develop a fondness for each other.
Once the roommate was gone, Holly and I had each other to ourselves for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes she would play her violin for me. During the first private concert, I, sitting across from her, giggled with delight when halfway through a Vivaldi sonata, she spread her legs, Sharon Stone-style, affording me a birds-eye view of her clean-shaven womanhood. The concert ended abruptly as we succumbed to our basic instincts.
Usually we made love with music in the background. Naturally, an elite musician like Holly owned an incredible sound system. Words can’t possibly describe how it felt for us to come simultaneously during the orgasmic climax of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” Soon, that became our song, resounding over and over through the apartment, mingling with our moans and squeals.
She introduced me to a lot of celebrities and high-placed individuals. We soon became part of the night scene and were often photographed by the paparazzi and written about in the gossip columns. Susan appeared to be okay with it all; her eye was still on the ultimate prize. Besides, she was busy with her own group of heavy hitters.
***
Eventually, it began to get a little weird. One morning I reached the apartment a little earlier than usual. She became a little flustered when her bedroom door opened and Imani, just awakening, stumbled out. Imani flashed me a friendly grin and proceeded to her own room but Holly stammered through a convoluted explanation of how they were drinking wine and listening to music last night and Imani, having had a bit too much, fell asleep. “I didn’t have the heart to wake her,” Holly explained, “so I tucked her in and went to sleep in her room.” As if I cared.
As days went by, I began to get the impression that Imani was coming on to me. It was nothing overt; an enticing smile or a tender touch to my face, usually when Holly wasn’t paying attention. She began staying longer, leaving only when Holly reminded her that she would be late for rehearsal. Her intentions gradually became more obvious, though, and when she jokingly asked Holly, “don’t you think it would be fun if we both took him to bed one time,” Holly did not take it as a joke. I thought that she would kill her.
The next time I came, Imani was not there. “Where’s your roommate,” I asked, cautiously.
“Oh, she doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Why? What happened?”
“She was beginning to annoy me,” Holly said with an evil smile. “So I put a couple of drops of muriatic acid into her coffee. You should have seen that bitch’s face when she swallowed; I thought I would never stop laughing. She’ll be okay but she won’t be able to sing for awhile. Somehow she figured out what I had done and she left in a huff. I don’t think she’ll ever return.”
****
I was beginning to lose interest in the romance. Holly may have been a sex goddess who could enflame me with desire with a single look or touch but I missed my wife. The truth is, I was tired of the social climbing and I was tired of the craziness that had crept into the affair; and Susan after all, was my true love. I hoped it wasn’t too late. I’m sure that Susan knew that I was fucking Holly although she continued to encourage the relationship for its potential benefits. I’m also pretty sure that she was having an affair of her own with one of her high-powered Wall Streeters; but I was hoping to salvage our marriage.
That afternoon, at her apartment, I told Holly that it was over. “I still love my wife,” I said, “and although our time together was beyond incredible, its time to break it off.”
For several minutes she just stared at me with a look that I would not describe exactly as hatred. Finally she simply said, “get out.”
****
Susan broke her date that evening and we spent the night repairing our relationship; discussing our feelings, making love and vowing everlasting devotion. We planned a romantic trip to Europe for the end of the month, sort of a second honeymoon, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Next morning, an unusually bright and pleasant one, I took a brisk walk down Fifth Avenue to a travel agent near Rockefeller Center and booked that European cruise. On the way home, whistling a happy tune, I stopped at a jewelry store and picked out a lovely diamond pendant as a token of our renewed love.
The moment I walked through our door, I knew that something was wrong. The familiar notes of “Adagio For Strings” filled the apartment. That was not a tune we’d ever listened to together.
“Susan,” I called, nervously. “Susan, where are you?”
No answer.
“Susan, answer me,” I persisted.
Still no answer.
I walked through the living room and into the bedroom and found my darling wife sprawled face down on the bed, her head tilted in an unnatural position, a violin string wrapped around her bloody neck. I didn’t need to check for a pulse to know that she was dead.
As the adagio neared its climax, Holly entered the room, an insane look in her eyes and a gun in her hand.
“If I can’t have you, neither can she,” she declared.
She raised her gun hand, smiled crazily, and just as the music culminated in a wild frenzy, she turned the weapon on herself, laughing wildly as the bullet exploded into her brain.
by M. Newman
“Honey,” she said, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.” I had just walked in the door and had no clue as to what this great surprise could be. All I knew was that the smile on Susan’s pretty face could cheer up a ward full of manic depressives. “This must be a doozy,” I said to myself, knowing my wife’s history of extravagant surprises.
“What is it, babe,” I asked, eagerly, already beginning to share her excitement.
“Well,” she revealed, “we are now Patrons of the New York Philharmonic.”
“What?” I was truly surprised and I think that the volume of my voice rose by several decibels. “Susan, I don’t think we can afford that.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Douglas. It only cost fifteen thousand dollars. Think of it as an investment. Just imagine all the celebrities and power brokers with whom we will come in contact. Aside from the wonderful music that we’ll hear from the best seats, we’ll be invited to all the exclusive receptions for patrons and artists. Think of the friends we’ll make and how this will help your career.”
Although I feigned annoyance, secretly I was thrilled. So what that fifteen thousand dollars was far more than we could afford. We deserved the best and contrary to what they say, the best things in life are not free.
***
The first post-concert cocktail reception was magnificent. With live chamber music in the background, delicious hors d'oeuvres and free-flowing wine and liquor, we knew that we’d joined the ranks of the privileged. Susan, looking beautiful in a revealing little Donna Karan number, was happily mingling with the other guests; flirting provocatively with the biggest of the big machers. Although I spent a bit more time than she sampling the single malt scotch, I did my part, as well, striking up conversations with the luminaries at the bar.
Toward the end of the evening, my eyes met those of a striking young woman across the room. In response to her come-hither smile, I immediately left the bar and approached her. Although her face fell just short of pretty, she was, nevertheless, quite enchanting. Silky black hair cascaded past a graceful, swanlike neck, ending at the midpoint of her erect spine. Her perky little breasts were barely concealed by the tantalizingly low-cut neckline of her black evening gown, a gown that, despite its ankle-length, could not hide the fact that she had impossibly long legs; and when she momentarily turned her back to me in order to greet an acquaintance, I discovered that she had a world-class ass.
“Douglas Miller,” I said, extending my hand when she turned to face me once again.
“I’m so glad to meet you Douglas,” she answered, taking my hand in hers and squeezing ever so slightly. “I’m Holly... Holly Bock.”
I was flustered for a moment by the intense sexual energy that she exuded but I suppose that I recovered before she noticed. “I thought I recognized you,” I said. “You’re the new first violinist. You were wonderful tonight.”
“Why thank you, Douglas,” she said, batting her long eyelashes and flashing an alluring smile. “I’m so glad that you think so.”
I was hooked. I spent the rest of the evening conversing with her, totally blocking Susan from my mind. Each time she touched my arm as we spoke, a thrill rushed down my spine straight to my privates. An intense heat seemed to rush at me from between her legs, telling me that she longed to have me, too. Suddenly, our conversation ended. My throat became dry and my legs turned weak. We gazed into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity then she took my hand, leading me from the reception hall to her dressing room. Turning my head briefly as we left the room, I saw Susan in happy conversation with an inebriated, silver-haired patrician. I did not react when I saw the man’s hand resting on my wife’s cute little butt; I just turned and eagerly followed the violinist to her room.
***
“Douglas, it’s so exciting,” Susan gushed. “In just one evening I’ve become friends with some of the world’s most powerful men and women. We already have dinner dates with two of Wall Street’s foremost money men and their wives.
“Where did you disappear to,” she asked.
She was very impressed when I told her that I’d become friends with the first violinist and she scolded me when I said that I did not plan to see her again. “What are you thinking, darling? That woman is an important person to know. Why, she could open more doors for us than both my financiers combined. I insist that you cultivate a friendship.”
***
Beginning the following week, I joined Holly for lunch at Lincoln Center on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The food was delicious and the conversation was lively. We learned a lot about each other.
“You must have been a very popular girl back home in Indiana,” I said one day.
“No,” she replied, “not really. I never had a boyfriend in high school. I wasn’t very pretty and I spent most of my time practicing my music and playing in the school orchestra.”
“That’s just so hard to believe. I would have thought that those high school boys spent their time begging you for a date; I guess you just weren’t interested, what with your music.”
“Oh, I was interested alright. The music, I think, was just a substitute. I would lie in bed nights dreaming of the sinful things that I would do with some of the popular boys; but try as I might, I could never get them interested in me. I remember having one date. It was a disaster. I don’t remember his name but I recall that he was a fellow member of the school orchestra; a cellist, I believe. He had a pretty bad case of acne and he was painfully shy. I don’t think he said more than five words the entire evening. I didn’t care. After the movie, I convinced him to drive us to the local lover’s lane and the second he pulled into a parking spot, I unzipped his fly and took his dick out of his pants. One hand clutching the shaft, I slowly lowered my head toward his rock-hard erection, my mouth already open, my tongue ready to do its work when he ejaculated onto my face. He was embarrassed and I was enraged. He gave me some tissue and then burnt rubber out of that parking spot.
“We never said another word to each other but when Rhoda, the second violin and probably my only friend in the world informed me a few weeks later that she had a date with the same boy that Friday, I wordlessly grabbed her by the hair with my left hand and proceeded to pummel her face with my right. I was suspended from school for a week and from the orchestra for a month. I’m sure that were I not a superb musician I’d have been banned from the orchestra forever. Rhoda and I became bitter enemies, doing mean things to each other and spreading evil gossip for the rest of our high school careers.”
Most of our lunch dates ended with an urgent trip to her apartment, as we longed to get our hands on each other and make up for the frustration of her lost high school years. Occasionally, we couldn’t wait to get to her place and found some kinky substitute sites in and around the restaurant.
After a time, we stopped meeting at the restaurant. I began going straight to her apartment. It was a luxurious place overlooking Central Park; pretty much what you would expect for the first violinist of the New York Philharmonic. Often, Imani, her roommate, a voluptuous soprano who hailed from Kenya, was there. Imani was on the verge of landing the leading role in a new production of “Carmen” and excitedly related to me all of the details. Although she rarely stayed long, Imani and I managed to develop a fondness for each other.
Once the roommate was gone, Holly and I had each other to ourselves for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes she would play her violin for me. During the first private concert, I, sitting across from her, giggled with delight when halfway through a Vivaldi sonata, she spread her legs, Sharon Stone-style, affording me a birds-eye view of her clean-shaven womanhood. The concert ended abruptly as we succumbed to our basic instincts.
Usually we made love with music in the background. Naturally, an elite musician like Holly owned an incredible sound system. Words can’t possibly describe how it felt for us to come simultaneously during the orgasmic climax of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” Soon, that became our song, resounding over and over through the apartment, mingling with our moans and squeals.
She introduced me to a lot of celebrities and high-placed individuals. We soon became part of the night scene and were often photographed by the paparazzi and written about in the gossip columns. Susan appeared to be okay with it all; her eye was still on the ultimate prize. Besides, she was busy with her own group of heavy hitters.
***
Eventually, it began to get a little weird. One morning I reached the apartment a little earlier than usual. She became a little flustered when her bedroom door opened and Imani, just awakening, stumbled out. Imani flashed me a friendly grin and proceeded to her own room but Holly stammered through a convoluted explanation of how they were drinking wine and listening to music last night and Imani, having had a bit too much, fell asleep. “I didn’t have the heart to wake her,” Holly explained, “so I tucked her in and went to sleep in her room.” As if I cared.
As days went by, I began to get the impression that Imani was coming on to me. It was nothing overt; an enticing smile or a tender touch to my face, usually when Holly wasn’t paying attention. She began staying longer, leaving only when Holly reminded her that she would be late for rehearsal. Her intentions gradually became more obvious, though, and when she jokingly asked Holly, “don’t you think it would be fun if we both took him to bed one time,” Holly did not take it as a joke. I thought that she would kill her.
The next time I came, Imani was not there. “Where’s your roommate,” I asked, cautiously.
“Oh, she doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Why? What happened?”
“She was beginning to annoy me,” Holly said with an evil smile. “So I put a couple of drops of muriatic acid into her coffee. You should have seen that bitch’s face when she swallowed; I thought I would never stop laughing. She’ll be okay but she won’t be able to sing for awhile. Somehow she figured out what I had done and she left in a huff. I don’t think she’ll ever return.”
****
I was beginning to lose interest in the romance. Holly may have been a sex goddess who could enflame me with desire with a single look or touch but I missed my wife. The truth is, I was tired of the social climbing and I was tired of the craziness that had crept into the affair; and Susan after all, was my true love. I hoped it wasn’t too late. I’m sure that Susan knew that I was fucking Holly although she continued to encourage the relationship for its potential benefits. I’m also pretty sure that she was having an affair of her own with one of her high-powered Wall Streeters; but I was hoping to salvage our marriage.
That afternoon, at her apartment, I told Holly that it was over. “I still love my wife,” I said, “and although our time together was beyond incredible, its time to break it off.”
For several minutes she just stared at me with a look that I would not describe exactly as hatred. Finally she simply said, “get out.”
****
Susan broke her date that evening and we spent the night repairing our relationship; discussing our feelings, making love and vowing everlasting devotion. We planned a romantic trip to Europe for the end of the month, sort of a second honeymoon, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Next morning, an unusually bright and pleasant one, I took a brisk walk down Fifth Avenue to a travel agent near Rockefeller Center and booked that European cruise. On the way home, whistling a happy tune, I stopped at a jewelry store and picked out a lovely diamond pendant as a token of our renewed love.
The moment I walked through our door, I knew that something was wrong. The familiar notes of “Adagio For Strings” filled the apartment. That was not a tune we’d ever listened to together.
“Susan,” I called, nervously. “Susan, where are you?”
No answer.
“Susan, answer me,” I persisted.
Still no answer.
I walked through the living room and into the bedroom and found my darling wife sprawled face down on the bed, her head tilted in an unnatural position, a violin string wrapped around her bloody neck. I didn’t need to check for a pulse to know that she was dead.
As the adagio neared its climax, Holly entered the room, an insane look in her eyes and a gun in her hand.
“If I can’t have you, neither can she,” she declared.
She raised her gun hand, smiled crazily, and just as the music culminated in a wild frenzy, she turned the weapon on herself, laughing wildly as the bullet exploded into her brain.
April 3, 2011
R.I.P. Darlyn
The advent of the 2011 high school baseball season seems an appropriate time to pay respects to Darlyn Gonzalez, the star-crossed former slugger for the Norman Thomas High School baseball team.
I first met Darlyn when I was coaching the Thomas Junior Varsity. He arrived at tryouts with a friend, a catcher whom I knew from my P.E. class. Darlyn's friend was an undisciplined, immature boy who had caused some problems in school. I hadn't known Darlyn in school. What I saw at first look was a tall, well-built boy with a big smile on his face and a somewhat cocky attitude. "These two guys will never make the team," I remarked to myself. "Obviously, they're trouble-makers." I was wrong. The catcher was pretty good. He made the team and appeared in a few games before he failed off. Darlyn turned out to be much better than I'd expected. Not only did he make the team but he immediately won the starting job in left field and a permanent spot in the middle of the batting order. Unlike his friend, he remained academically eligible throughout his career (in fact, he proved to be an excellent student.) His big smile and cocky attitude were not the earmarks of an obnoxious wiseguy, as I'd originally thought, but those of an intelligent young man with a winning personality.
The team was pretty successful, losing only one game the entire season. Darlyn was a huge part of that success. He played a flawless left field and led the team in home runs. I never coached him after that season as, naturally, he moved up to Varsity in his sophomore year.
As a Varsity player, he had an excellent career, culminated in Norman Thomas' first-ever City Championship. Darlyn was one of the heroes of the championship game, driving in the team's first run.
After graduating from Thomas, Darlyn entered Clarendon College in Texas where he and fellow NTHS hero, shortstop Alberto Morales, played on the baseball team. On Saturday, September 11, the Bulldogs played an early doubleheader. The doubleheader ended at about 2:00 PM and Darlyn and Alberto stopped at the cafeteria for a bite and then headed back to their dorm room. Both guys were tired and decided they were going to take a nap. At the last minute, Darlyn decided to forego the nap and go with some teammates to Greenbelt Lake.
The players were swimming out to an
island in the middle of the lake when Darlyn began to tire. The lake had become much deeper than he'd expected and he began to struggle. His teammates hurried to his aid and tried, in vain, to save him. He went under and drowned, ending, at the unacceptably young age of 20, a shining life.
Darlyn may be gone but he will never be forgotten. His RBI single in the championship game has served to indelibly carve his name into Tigers baseball lore. This year's team has dedicated it's season to him, as have the Lady Tigers softball team whom I currently coach. More importantly, anybody whose lives were touched by this quality young man will remember him forever.
R.I.P. DG 27.
I first met Darlyn when I was coaching the Thomas Junior Varsity. He arrived at tryouts with a friend, a catcher whom I knew from my P.E. class. Darlyn's friend was an undisciplined, immature boy who had caused some problems in school. I hadn't known Darlyn in school. What I saw at first look was a tall, well-built boy with a big smile on his face and a somewhat cocky attitude. "These two guys will never make the team," I remarked to myself. "Obviously, they're trouble-makers." I was wrong. The catcher was pretty good. He made the team and appeared in a few games before he failed off. Darlyn turned out to be much better than I'd expected. Not only did he make the team but he immediately won the starting job in left field and a permanent spot in the middle of the batting order. Unlike his friend, he remained academically eligible throughout his career (in fact, he proved to be an excellent student.) His big smile and cocky attitude were not the earmarks of an obnoxious wiseguy, as I'd originally thought, but those of an intelligent young man with a winning personality.
The team was pretty successful, losing only one game the entire season. Darlyn was a huge part of that success. He played a flawless left field and led the team in home runs. I never coached him after that season as, naturally, he moved up to Varsity in his sophomore year.
As a Varsity player, he had an excellent career, culminated in Norman Thomas' first-ever City Championship. Darlyn was one of the heroes of the championship game, driving in the team's first run.
After graduating from Thomas, Darlyn entered Clarendon College in Texas where he and fellow NTHS hero, shortstop Alberto Morales, played on the baseball team. On Saturday, September 11, the Bulldogs played an early doubleheader. The doubleheader ended at about 2:00 PM and Darlyn and Alberto stopped at the cafeteria for a bite and then headed back to their dorm room. Both guys were tired and decided they were going to take a nap. At the last minute, Darlyn decided to forego the nap and go with some teammates to Greenbelt Lake.
The players were swimming out to an
island in the middle of the lake when Darlyn began to tire. The lake had become much deeper than he'd expected and he began to struggle. His teammates hurried to his aid and tried, in vain, to save him. He went under and drowned, ending, at the unacceptably young age of 20, a shining life.
Darlyn may be gone but he will never be forgotten. His RBI single in the championship game has served to indelibly carve his name into Tigers baseball lore. This year's team has dedicated it's season to him, as have the Lady Tigers softball team whom I currently coach. More importantly, anybody whose lives were touched by this quality young man will remember him forever.
R.I.P. DG 27.
March 27, 2011
Harry Houdini, Superstar
Last Thursday, March 24, marked the 137th birthday of Harry Houdini, the legendary escape artist.
Houdini, who was born Erik Weisz in Budapest, Hungary, moved with his family to Appleton, Wisconsin when he was 4. In Appleton, his father served as Rabbi of the Zion Reform Jewish Congregation.
Harry began his professional career at the age of 17, doing magic shows before civic groups, in music halls, at circus sideshows and at Coney Island. He soon gained notoriety for his escape acts, in which he was able to escape from handcuffs, shackles, chains and straitjackets.
In 1893, while performing at Coney Island with his brother Dash, Harry met fellow performer Wilhelmina (Bess) Rahner, whom he married. Bess replaced Dash in the act and for the rest of Houdini's performing career she would work as his stage assistant.
Houdini's "big break" came in 1899 when he met manager Martin Beck. Impressed by Harry's handcuffs act, Beck advised him to concentrate on escape acts and booked him on the Orpheum vaudeville circuit. Within months, he was performing at the top vaudeville houses in the country. In 1900, he toured Europe. While working at the Alhambra Theater in London, he visited Scotland Yard and gave a demonstration of escape from handcuffs, baffling the police. The ensuing publicity led to his being booked at the Alhambra for six months and he became known as "The Handcuff King." He toured England, Scotland, the Netherlands, Germany, France and Russia and in each city he challenged the police to restrain him with shackles and lock him in their jails; he always escaped.
Perhaps Houdini's most well-known stunt was the Chinese Water Torture Cell, introduced in 1912. In this act he would escape from a locked, glass and steel cabinet filled to the top with water, while suspended upside down and shackled. The escape required that he hold his breath for more than three minutes. This act was so popular that he performed it for the rest of his career.
He was the consummate showman and self-promoter, expert at generating publicity and drawing huge crowds to his performances. For many years, he was the highest paid performer in vaudeville and is considered to be America's first celebrity. If he were performing today, he would be known as a "superstar."
Houdini died of a ruptured appendix in 1926. There is speculation that his death was caused by a McGill University student, J. Gordon Whitehead, who delivered multiple blows to Houdini's abdomen in order to test Houdini's claim that he was able to withstand any blow above the waist without injury. Apparently, Houdini was suffering from appendicitis at the time but refused medical treatment. Most likely, his appendix would have burst on its own without Whitehead's blows.
More than 2,000 mourners attended his funeral in New York. He was buried in the Machpelah Cemetery in Glendale, Queens, with the crest of the Society of American Magicians inscribed on his gravestone. To this day, the Society holds a broken wand ceremony at his gravesite on the anniversary of his death.
To the best of anyone's knowledge, Houdini has, so far, been unable to escape from this grave.
A footnote: just last week, on March 20, Dorothy Young, the last living member of Houdini's troupe, died in Tinton Falls, NJ at the age of 103.
Houdini, who was born Erik Weisz in Budapest, Hungary, moved with his family to Appleton, Wisconsin when he was 4. In Appleton, his father served as Rabbi of the Zion Reform Jewish Congregation.
Harry began his professional career at the age of 17, doing magic shows before civic groups, in music halls, at circus sideshows and at Coney Island. He soon gained notoriety for his escape acts, in which he was able to escape from handcuffs, shackles, chains and straitjackets.
In 1893, while performing at Coney Island with his brother Dash, Harry met fellow performer Wilhelmina (Bess) Rahner, whom he married. Bess replaced Dash in the act and for the rest of Houdini's performing career she would work as his stage assistant.
Houdini's "big break" came in 1899 when he met manager Martin Beck. Impressed by Harry's handcuffs act, Beck advised him to concentrate on escape acts and booked him on the Orpheum vaudeville circuit. Within months, he was performing at the top vaudeville houses in the country. In 1900, he toured Europe. While working at the Alhambra Theater in London, he visited Scotland Yard and gave a demonstration of escape from handcuffs, baffling the police. The ensuing publicity led to his being booked at the Alhambra for six months and he became known as "The Handcuff King." He toured England, Scotland, the Netherlands, Germany, France and Russia and in each city he challenged the police to restrain him with shackles and lock him in their jails; he always escaped.
Perhaps Houdini's most well-known stunt was the Chinese Water Torture Cell, introduced in 1912. In this act he would escape from a locked, glass and steel cabinet filled to the top with water, while suspended upside down and shackled. The escape required that he hold his breath for more than three minutes. This act was so popular that he performed it for the rest of his career.
He was the consummate showman and self-promoter, expert at generating publicity and drawing huge crowds to his performances. For many years, he was the highest paid performer in vaudeville and is considered to be America's first celebrity. If he were performing today, he would be known as a "superstar."
Houdini died of a ruptured appendix in 1926. There is speculation that his death was caused by a McGill University student, J. Gordon Whitehead, who delivered multiple blows to Houdini's abdomen in order to test Houdini's claim that he was able to withstand any blow above the waist without injury. Apparently, Houdini was suffering from appendicitis at the time but refused medical treatment. Most likely, his appendix would have burst on its own without Whitehead's blows.
More than 2,000 mourners attended his funeral in New York. He was buried in the Machpelah Cemetery in Glendale, Queens, with the crest of the Society of American Magicians inscribed on his gravestone. To this day, the Society holds a broken wand ceremony at his gravesite on the anniversary of his death.
To the best of anyone's knowledge, Houdini has, so far, been unable to escape from this grave.
A footnote: just last week, on March 20, Dorothy Young, the last living member of Houdini's troupe, died in Tinton Falls, NJ at the age of 103.
March 20, 2011
Catastrophe in Japan
The recent devastating earthquake and tsunami in Japan was a catastrophe of terrible proportions, measuring 9.0 on the Richter scale, leaving in its wake (so far) about 7,300 confirmed dead and 11,000 missing and a desperate government struggling to avert a full-blown nuclear disaster. This proud country is no stranger to catastrophe, however, and, happily, has always bounced back.
In 1923, the Great Kanto Earthquake, measuring 7.9, struck the Kanto Plain, lasting nearly 10 minutes and devastating Tokyo and other cities. The quake and the resulting tsunami killed 140,000 people. It was so powerful that a 120 ton statue of the Great Buddha, located nearly 40 miles from the epicenter, was moved 2 feet. Fires broke out and spread rapidly due to high winds from a nearby typhoon, killing many; the Imperial Palace caught fire. Homes were buried and swept away by landslides and thousands were killed in the tsunami. This was one of the greatest natural disasters of the 20th century.
Most of us are aware that in August of 1945, the United States dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Perhaps as many as 25,000 died in the two cities in the first 4 months. In the following months, large numbers died from radiation sickness, burns and other injuries, compounded by illness. Some estimates state that up to 200,000 had died by 1950, due to cancer. Another study states that from 1950 - 2000, 46% of leukemia deaths and 11% of solid cancer deaths among bomb survivors were due to radiation from the bombs.
In the 1950's, in Minamata, a small fishing village on the west coast of Kyusha, Japan's southernmost island, a disturbing event began to unfold. It began with the strange sight of cats "dancing" in the streets and sometimes collapsing and dying. Soon, villagers began shouting uncontrollably, slurring their speech and dropping their chopsticks at the dinner table. These were the early symptoms of a debilitating disease of the nervous system caused by mercury poisoning and eventually given the name "Minamata Disease." This tragedy was the result of one of the most appalling cases of industrial pollution in history. The Chisson Corporation, manufacturers of chemicals used in the production of plastic, was guilty of dumping industrial waste into the bay, poisoning the fish and, ultimately the unsuspecting villagers who subsisted on them. The effects of this devastating disease include loss of motor control, partly paralyzed and contorted bodies, trembling, hearing loss, difficulty swallowing and death. Unborn fetuses were affected, as well. This tragic episode was documented in a dramatic photo-essay by photojournalist W. Eugene Smith and his wife Aileen.
So, devastating as this latest disaster may be, we should all take heart and believe that the strong people of Japan will recover, just as they always have in the past.
In 1923, the Great Kanto Earthquake, measuring 7.9, struck the Kanto Plain, lasting nearly 10 minutes and devastating Tokyo and other cities. The quake and the resulting tsunami killed 140,000 people. It was so powerful that a 120 ton statue of the Great Buddha, located nearly 40 miles from the epicenter, was moved 2 feet. Fires broke out and spread rapidly due to high winds from a nearby typhoon, killing many; the Imperial Palace caught fire. Homes were buried and swept away by landslides and thousands were killed in the tsunami. This was one of the greatest natural disasters of the 20th century.
Most of us are aware that in August of 1945, the United States dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Perhaps as many as 25,000 died in the two cities in the first 4 months. In the following months, large numbers died from radiation sickness, burns and other injuries, compounded by illness. Some estimates state that up to 200,000 had died by 1950, due to cancer. Another study states that from 1950 - 2000, 46% of leukemia deaths and 11% of solid cancer deaths among bomb survivors were due to radiation from the bombs.
In the 1950's, in Minamata, a small fishing village on the west coast of Kyusha, Japan's southernmost island, a disturbing event began to unfold. It began with the strange sight of cats "dancing" in the streets and sometimes collapsing and dying. Soon, villagers began shouting uncontrollably, slurring their speech and dropping their chopsticks at the dinner table. These were the early symptoms of a debilitating disease of the nervous system caused by mercury poisoning and eventually given the name "Minamata Disease." This tragedy was the result of one of the most appalling cases of industrial pollution in history. The Chisson Corporation, manufacturers of chemicals used in the production of plastic, was guilty of dumping industrial waste into the bay, poisoning the fish and, ultimately the unsuspecting villagers who subsisted on them. The effects of this devastating disease include loss of motor control, partly paralyzed and contorted bodies, trembling, hearing loss, difficulty swallowing and death. Unborn fetuses were affected, as well. This tragic episode was documented in a dramatic photo-essay by photojournalist W. Eugene Smith and his wife Aileen.
So, devastating as this latest disaster may be, we should all take heart and believe that the strong people of Japan will recover, just as they always have in the past.
March 13, 2011
Seduction, Slavery and Sex
Seduction, Slavery and Sex*
by M Newman
“Would you like another glass of lemonade, dear?”
“No thank you, Daddy,” Sarah replied sweetly, meanwhile thinking that this was the dorkiest sweet sixteen party she could ever imagine. Mommy and Daddy had meant well, of course, but as usual, they had no clue.
The party room at the Jewish Center was filled with her cousins, aunts and uncles but most of her friends had long since bounced; and the party had begun barely two hours ago.
Sarah was mortified. “How will I face my friends at school,” she asked herself. “I can’t blame them for not sticking around. I’d have left, too, if I weren’t the guest of honor. This is a party straight out of the 1950’s; as outdated as Mickey Mouse ear hats (I’m surprised the guests weren’t each given one.)”
Parties these days, the kind that Sarah and her friends were familiar with had live bands that played loud, cutting edge music, plenty of booze for the kids and no grownups snooping around like elementary school chaperones. Those parties were fun. Hadn’t she stumbled upon Stacy and Bobby half-naked and smoking weed at Danielle’s party last week? Of course, they invited her to help them finish smoking the shit.
***
“Okay,” she thought, as she left her third period American History class. “Nobody said anything bad about that stupid party yesterday. It’s as if all my friends know that my parents are dorks and that yesterday’s disaster wasn’t my fault.” Today, Sarah wasn’t willing to admit to herself how embarrassing it was that her parents were lame; not nearly as cool as her friends’ parents. She had more important things on her mind. That boring-ass History class was to be the end of her school day. She furtively left the school building through a side entrance and headed home. Mommy and Daddy were both at work and the house would be empty. She entered the brownstone on Garfield Place through the ground floor door and walked upstairs to her third-floor bedroom where she stripped naked in front of the full-length mirror to proudly admire her blossoming body. She craned her neck to get a peek at the cute little butterfly that she’d recently had tattooed on the small of her back. “Mommy and Daddy would kill me if they ever found out about this,” she thought with a laugh. After showering and applying makeup to her face, she put on the sexy bra and panties that she’d bought the other day at Victoria’s Secret and her tiniest pair of shorts with a seductive, sequined, tank top. She smoked a joint, put the slip of paper with the hotel’s address in her bag and left for Manhattan.
Sarah prayed that her nerves would not get the better of her. She was to meet Jack in the bar of the New Yorker Inn, a hotel several blocks west of Times Square. She had “met” him online a couple of weeks ago, told him that she was twenty-one (she was pretty sure she’d be able to pull that off) and began a torrid online relationship with the man. He told her that he was in his late twenties, mired in a failed marriage and looking for true love. She could tell that despite their age difference, which of course, after a few years would not really be so great, she and Jack were made for each other.
***
He was easy to recognize. For one thing, he looked a lot like his online photo albeit about ten years older. The gray that was liberally sprinkled throughout his hair was pretty sexy, she thought. Also, the only other person at the bar on this sleepy Monday afternoon was a drunk old woman.
“What are you drinking, Sarah,” he asked her after she had breathlessly introduced herself and self-consciously pecked him on the cheek. “Umm..., I’ll have a rum and coke, I guess,” she replied, a bit anxious that the bartender would recognize that she was underage and refuse to serve her; but the bartender either couldn’t tell or didn’t care and wordlessly placed the drink in front of her.
She relaxed after her first sip and the words flowed easily between them. This was going just as she’d dreamed it would. Jack was gorgeous and intelligent and so totally cool; and he certainly seemed impressed with her. A thrill ran down her spine every time he smiled at her or touched her face or caressed her thigh. She’d hardly been aware of finishing her drink and before she knew it she was working on a second one.
“How about coming up to my room,” he finally suggested. “I think we’ll be more comfortable there.”
“Sure,” she murmured, her heart racing like a sports car. She rose from her stool too quickly and giggled when she staggered drunkenly. Jack calmly grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, protectively putting his arm around her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze and leading her to the elevator.
“This room is beautiful,” she said with a smile as she plopped down onto the double bed, too naive to recognize that the place was a dive. “It’ll do,” Jack replied, removing his jacket and heading toward the mini-bar. “Are you sticking with rum and coke?”
***
That afternoon was the most amazing experience of her life. Of course she was no virgin but Jack was the first real man that she’d ever slept with. He took her to places she’d never dreamed existed. It was with great difficulty that she tore herself away and returned home. She greeted her parents curtly and went straight to her room, claiming that she had a headache.
Sarah cut school all week to join him at the hotel. The sex kept getting better and better and she learned something new every day. The education she was receiving at the New Yorker Inn was certainly more pleasurable than what she was learning at school. On Thursday, he introduced her to cocaine, surprised that she’d never before tried it. She sniffed it cautiously and was thrilled by an immediate rush of euphoria. Eagerly, she took another snort and hoped that there would be a steady supply of this shit in the future. Moments later, he demonstrated another benefit of the beautiful white stuff: she actually climaxed when he licked some off her nipples; she begged him to let her return the favor by sucking the powder off his penis.
On Friday, at his urging, she called home and told her parents that she was in love and would not be returning.
***
“But why do we have to move,” Sarah asked, sulkily.
“I already told you,” he replied, annoyed. “My wife found out that we’re staying here and I don’t want any problems.” Sarah, however, no longer believed that he was married. It just didn’t add up. “Besides,” he continued, taking a new track, “if we stay here it’s just a matter of time until your parents find you.” The latter argument served to convince her.
The hotel in Jersey was at least one step down in class from the one in the city but Sarah hardly noticed. She still had Jack and she still had rum and cocaine; and Jack seemed happy. He couldn’t get enough of her nubile body. The feeling was mutual, of course, and Sarah, when alone with her thoughts, realized that she would do anything for this man.
Coincidentally, that realization was tested the following afternoon when he suggested that she have sex with a man he’d met at the bar. She could sense his annoyance when she balked so she reluctantly agreed, just to make him happy. “You don’t know what this means to me,” Jack told her, sincerely. “It’ll get me off just to imagine you screwing his brains out and it will help to pay our expenses, as well. You have no idea how much this room is costing me.”
Sarah made it through the ordeal, actually enjoying it a little bit when she closed her eyes and imagined that it was Jack on top of her. As the days passed, Jack began to bring more guys up to the room, finding them at the hotel bar or, with increasing frequency, on the internet.
The first time he forced her to sleep with a woman she felt a little weird but she got very excited when he joined them. After it was over and the woman left, Sarah complained that he had paid much more attention to the other woman than to her. “Hey,” he explained. “Business is business; she got what she paid for.”
Soon he had her sleeping with three or four customers a day and one day he made her do two men at the same time, an act that she found to be particularly degrading; eventually he hooked her up with a man who mistook her for a punching bag.
Finally, Sarah had had enough but when she refused to sleep with any more strangers, tearfully protesting that it made her feel like a slut, Jack went nuts. “What else do you think you are, you little whore,” he screamed. “What other purpose do you serve? Your cute little body is what pays our bills; and do you think all that cocaine that you snort is free?”
“Well, I’m not doing this anymore,” she insisted. “I’m going home to my parents.”
“You’re not going anywhere except into the sack with the Johns that I find for you,” he hollered as he grabbed her by the throat, pushed her up against the wall and put a gun to her head. Sarah burst into tears, so frightened that she wet her pants. All the rebellion had left her; she would obey Jack’s commands. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up,” he told her, disgustedly.
“How did it come to this,” she wondered after locking the bathroom door. “What did I do to make him stop loving me?” She wiped hot tears from her eyes as she tried, in vain, to figure out what to do. She believed that he would kill her if she attempted to escape and she felt that she would rather kill herself than live without his love. Her only choice was to follow his orders and hope that that would be enough to win back his affection. Her bath was quick and pleasureless and she wrapped her bathrobe protectively around herself when she finished.
When she returned from her bath, Jack was a different man. He took her hand and led her to the bed, stroking her head and whispering words of love. Gently, he removed her robe and laid her down on the bed, embracing her as if she were the most precious thing in the universe. “He still loves me,” Sarah thought ecstatically as he entered her, softly. She pulled him deeper inside, once again eager to please and forgetting the unpleasantness of the past hour. “Oh, Jack,” she moaned, “I’m so sorry I’ve been bad. Of course I’ll do what you want; I love you so.”
* Title borrowed from a Nicholas D. Kristoff op-ed column of the same name which addresses the tragedy of human sex trafficking; New York Times, July 14, 2010
by M Newman
“Would you like another glass of lemonade, dear?”
“No thank you, Daddy,” Sarah replied sweetly, meanwhile thinking that this was the dorkiest sweet sixteen party she could ever imagine. Mommy and Daddy had meant well, of course, but as usual, they had no clue.
The party room at the Jewish Center was filled with her cousins, aunts and uncles but most of her friends had long since bounced; and the party had begun barely two hours ago.
Sarah was mortified. “How will I face my friends at school,” she asked herself. “I can’t blame them for not sticking around. I’d have left, too, if I weren’t the guest of honor. This is a party straight out of the 1950’s; as outdated as Mickey Mouse ear hats (I’m surprised the guests weren’t each given one.)”
Parties these days, the kind that Sarah and her friends were familiar with had live bands that played loud, cutting edge music, plenty of booze for the kids and no grownups snooping around like elementary school chaperones. Those parties were fun. Hadn’t she stumbled upon Stacy and Bobby half-naked and smoking weed at Danielle’s party last week? Of course, they invited her to help them finish smoking the shit.
***
“Okay,” she thought, as she left her third period American History class. “Nobody said anything bad about that stupid party yesterday. It’s as if all my friends know that my parents are dorks and that yesterday’s disaster wasn’t my fault.” Today, Sarah wasn’t willing to admit to herself how embarrassing it was that her parents were lame; not nearly as cool as her friends’ parents. She had more important things on her mind. That boring-ass History class was to be the end of her school day. She furtively left the school building through a side entrance and headed home. Mommy and Daddy were both at work and the house would be empty. She entered the brownstone on Garfield Place through the ground floor door and walked upstairs to her third-floor bedroom where she stripped naked in front of the full-length mirror to proudly admire her blossoming body. She craned her neck to get a peek at the cute little butterfly that she’d recently had tattooed on the small of her back. “Mommy and Daddy would kill me if they ever found out about this,” she thought with a laugh. After showering and applying makeup to her face, she put on the sexy bra and panties that she’d bought the other day at Victoria’s Secret and her tiniest pair of shorts with a seductive, sequined, tank top. She smoked a joint, put the slip of paper with the hotel’s address in her bag and left for Manhattan.
Sarah prayed that her nerves would not get the better of her. She was to meet Jack in the bar of the New Yorker Inn, a hotel several blocks west of Times Square. She had “met” him online a couple of weeks ago, told him that she was twenty-one (she was pretty sure she’d be able to pull that off) and began a torrid online relationship with the man. He told her that he was in his late twenties, mired in a failed marriage and looking for true love. She could tell that despite their age difference, which of course, after a few years would not really be so great, she and Jack were made for each other.
***
He was easy to recognize. For one thing, he looked a lot like his online photo albeit about ten years older. The gray that was liberally sprinkled throughout his hair was pretty sexy, she thought. Also, the only other person at the bar on this sleepy Monday afternoon was a drunk old woman.
“What are you drinking, Sarah,” he asked her after she had breathlessly introduced herself and self-consciously pecked him on the cheek. “Umm..., I’ll have a rum and coke, I guess,” she replied, a bit anxious that the bartender would recognize that she was underage and refuse to serve her; but the bartender either couldn’t tell or didn’t care and wordlessly placed the drink in front of her.
She relaxed after her first sip and the words flowed easily between them. This was going just as she’d dreamed it would. Jack was gorgeous and intelligent and so totally cool; and he certainly seemed impressed with her. A thrill ran down her spine every time he smiled at her or touched her face or caressed her thigh. She’d hardly been aware of finishing her drink and before she knew it she was working on a second one.
“How about coming up to my room,” he finally suggested. “I think we’ll be more comfortable there.”
“Sure,” she murmured, her heart racing like a sports car. She rose from her stool too quickly and giggled when she staggered drunkenly. Jack calmly grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, protectively putting his arm around her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze and leading her to the elevator.
“This room is beautiful,” she said with a smile as she plopped down onto the double bed, too naive to recognize that the place was a dive. “It’ll do,” Jack replied, removing his jacket and heading toward the mini-bar. “Are you sticking with rum and coke?”
***
That afternoon was the most amazing experience of her life. Of course she was no virgin but Jack was the first real man that she’d ever slept with. He took her to places she’d never dreamed existed. It was with great difficulty that she tore herself away and returned home. She greeted her parents curtly and went straight to her room, claiming that she had a headache.
Sarah cut school all week to join him at the hotel. The sex kept getting better and better and she learned something new every day. The education she was receiving at the New Yorker Inn was certainly more pleasurable than what she was learning at school. On Thursday, he introduced her to cocaine, surprised that she’d never before tried it. She sniffed it cautiously and was thrilled by an immediate rush of euphoria. Eagerly, she took another snort and hoped that there would be a steady supply of this shit in the future. Moments later, he demonstrated another benefit of the beautiful white stuff: she actually climaxed when he licked some off her nipples; she begged him to let her return the favor by sucking the powder off his penis.
On Friday, at his urging, she called home and told her parents that she was in love and would not be returning.
***
“But why do we have to move,” Sarah asked, sulkily.
“I already told you,” he replied, annoyed. “My wife found out that we’re staying here and I don’t want any problems.” Sarah, however, no longer believed that he was married. It just didn’t add up. “Besides,” he continued, taking a new track, “if we stay here it’s just a matter of time until your parents find you.” The latter argument served to convince her.
The hotel in Jersey was at least one step down in class from the one in the city but Sarah hardly noticed. She still had Jack and she still had rum and cocaine; and Jack seemed happy. He couldn’t get enough of her nubile body. The feeling was mutual, of course, and Sarah, when alone with her thoughts, realized that she would do anything for this man.
Coincidentally, that realization was tested the following afternoon when he suggested that she have sex with a man he’d met at the bar. She could sense his annoyance when she balked so she reluctantly agreed, just to make him happy. “You don’t know what this means to me,” Jack told her, sincerely. “It’ll get me off just to imagine you screwing his brains out and it will help to pay our expenses, as well. You have no idea how much this room is costing me.”
Sarah made it through the ordeal, actually enjoying it a little bit when she closed her eyes and imagined that it was Jack on top of her. As the days passed, Jack began to bring more guys up to the room, finding them at the hotel bar or, with increasing frequency, on the internet.
The first time he forced her to sleep with a woman she felt a little weird but she got very excited when he joined them. After it was over and the woman left, Sarah complained that he had paid much more attention to the other woman than to her. “Hey,” he explained. “Business is business; she got what she paid for.”
Soon he had her sleeping with three or four customers a day and one day he made her do two men at the same time, an act that she found to be particularly degrading; eventually he hooked her up with a man who mistook her for a punching bag.
Finally, Sarah had had enough but when she refused to sleep with any more strangers, tearfully protesting that it made her feel like a slut, Jack went nuts. “What else do you think you are, you little whore,” he screamed. “What other purpose do you serve? Your cute little body is what pays our bills; and do you think all that cocaine that you snort is free?”
“Well, I’m not doing this anymore,” she insisted. “I’m going home to my parents.”
“You’re not going anywhere except into the sack with the Johns that I find for you,” he hollered as he grabbed her by the throat, pushed her up against the wall and put a gun to her head. Sarah burst into tears, so frightened that she wet her pants. All the rebellion had left her; she would obey Jack’s commands. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up,” he told her, disgustedly.
“How did it come to this,” she wondered after locking the bathroom door. “What did I do to make him stop loving me?” She wiped hot tears from her eyes as she tried, in vain, to figure out what to do. She believed that he would kill her if she attempted to escape and she felt that she would rather kill herself than live without his love. Her only choice was to follow his orders and hope that that would be enough to win back his affection. Her bath was quick and pleasureless and she wrapped her bathrobe protectively around herself when she finished.
When she returned from her bath, Jack was a different man. He took her hand and led her to the bed, stroking her head and whispering words of love. Gently, he removed her robe and laid her down on the bed, embracing her as if she were the most precious thing in the universe. “He still loves me,” Sarah thought ecstatically as he entered her, softly. She pulled him deeper inside, once again eager to please and forgetting the unpleasantness of the past hour. “Oh, Jack,” she moaned, “I’m so sorry I’ve been bad. Of course I’ll do what you want; I love you so.”
* Title borrowed from a Nicholas D. Kristoff op-ed column of the same name which addresses the tragedy of human sex trafficking; New York Times, July 14, 2010
March 6, 2011
Son of Sam remembered
In case you missed it, Edward Zigo, a detective in the famed "Son of Sam" case, passed away a couple of weeks ago.
Zigo was the New York City detective who cracked the notorious case in 1977 by acting on a hunch about a parking ticket and arresting David Berkowitz, a deranged loner who terrorized the city for 13 months, beginning July 29, 1976.
On that fateful night, eighteen year old Donna Lauria and nineteen year old Jody Valenti were sitting in their car outside Lauria's Bronx apartment. Suddenly, Ms. Lauria noticed a man peering into the window. She asked her friend, "who is this guy?" She never lived to learn the answer. David Berkowitz pulled his .44 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog out of a paper bag and fired five shots into the car, instantly killing Ms. Lauria and seriously wounding Ms. Valenti. Valenti, however, survived the attack and was able to give the first vague description of the man the newspapers dubbed" the .44 caliber killer.
Over the next thirteen months, the self-proclaimed "Son of Sam" embarked on a shooting spree that left seven young people dead and seven others critically wounded.
Berkowitz wrote a bizarre four-page letter to police while he terrorized the city with a handgun. In the letter he said, "Let me haunt you with these words: I'll be back! I'll be back! To be interpreted as bang. bang, bang bang bang - ugh." The letter was peppered with allusions to vampires and monsters and heightened the frightened city's unease.
In another letter, left at one of the crime scenes, he called himself "the Son of Sam" and claimed that voices were ordering him to kill. Sam, it turned out, was Sam Carr, a former neighbor in Yonkers, a "high demon" who sent his evil Labrador Retriever to order poor David to kill teenage girls with long dark hair, and young couples.
With a dearth of clues and a city on edge, Detective Zigo, acting on a tip, decided to question Berkowitz, whose car had been ticketed for parking by a fire hydrant in Brooklyn the night of the last shooting.
According to Zigo he walked into the interrogation room and said, "Hi David, I'm Detective Zigo."
Berkowitz replied, "Hi, Detective, I'm the Son of Sam."
Zigo got his man. Berkowitz was convicted in 1978 and was sentenced to 365 years in prison.
Berkowitz's Victims:
July 29, 1976: Donna Lauria, 18
Jan 30, 1977: Christina Freund, 26
Mar 8, 1977: Virginia Voskerichian, 19
Apr 17 1977: Alexander Esau, 20
Apr 17, 1977: Valentina Suriani, 18
July 31, 1977: Stacy Moskowitz, 20
Zigo was the New York City detective who cracked the notorious case in 1977 by acting on a hunch about a parking ticket and arresting David Berkowitz, a deranged loner who terrorized the city for 13 months, beginning July 29, 1976.
On that fateful night, eighteen year old Donna Lauria and nineteen year old Jody Valenti were sitting in their car outside Lauria's Bronx apartment. Suddenly, Ms. Lauria noticed a man peering into the window. She asked her friend, "who is this guy?" She never lived to learn the answer. David Berkowitz pulled his .44 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog out of a paper bag and fired five shots into the car, instantly killing Ms. Lauria and seriously wounding Ms. Valenti. Valenti, however, survived the attack and was able to give the first vague description of the man the newspapers dubbed" the .44 caliber killer.
Over the next thirteen months, the self-proclaimed "Son of Sam" embarked on a shooting spree that left seven young people dead and seven others critically wounded.
Berkowitz wrote a bizarre four-page letter to police while he terrorized the city with a handgun. In the letter he said, "Let me haunt you with these words: I'll be back! I'll be back! To be interpreted as bang. bang, bang bang bang - ugh." The letter was peppered with allusions to vampires and monsters and heightened the frightened city's unease.
In another letter, left at one of the crime scenes, he called himself "the Son of Sam" and claimed that voices were ordering him to kill. Sam, it turned out, was Sam Carr, a former neighbor in Yonkers, a "high demon" who sent his evil Labrador Retriever to order poor David to kill teenage girls with long dark hair, and young couples.
With a dearth of clues and a city on edge, Detective Zigo, acting on a tip, decided to question Berkowitz, whose car had been ticketed for parking by a fire hydrant in Brooklyn the night of the last shooting.
According to Zigo he walked into the interrogation room and said, "Hi David, I'm Detective Zigo."
Berkowitz replied, "Hi, Detective, I'm the Son of Sam."
Zigo got his man. Berkowitz was convicted in 1978 and was sentenced to 365 years in prison.
Berkowitz's Victims:
July 29, 1976: Donna Lauria, 18
Jan 30, 1977: Christina Freund, 26
Mar 8, 1977: Virginia Voskerichian, 19
Apr 17 1977: Alexander Esau, 20
Apr 17, 1977: Valentina Suriani, 18
July 31, 1977: Stacy Moskowitz, 20
