Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

a writhing conga line. Alton was shouting something, but she couldn’t hear him. She pushed back, fighting for space, and now she couldn’t see him, could only feel his hands on her sleeve, and then couldn’t feel that anymore.
    Above her, on a fire escape, a spotlight lit Cleopatra, or was it Elizabeth Taylor? On the street, she was being crushed. She didn’t dare trip or she’d be trampled. Faces contorted. No fun, no fun. Hands began to tug at her, pulling her toward the shops. “Alton!” Gasping for breath, she pushed again, getting help, and finally half collapsed in the entranceway of a shop. Li-Lac, the chocolate shop. She was on Christopher Street. Someone was holding on to her, tightly. Hartmann had followed her. She turned her head. It was the wino with the sombrero. She pulled away from him, but he wouldn’t let go of her. Oh, shit . He was reaching into his vest. “No!” She was shouting, but she couldn’t hear herself. She struggled to get away, back to Bleecker, no, maybe push forward to Hudson Street, but his hand gripped her upper arm painfully. She shouted, “Help me, someone.” He was going to kill her. He had a gun.
    Her life—it couldn’t happen like this—she would be found dead, crushed, and no one would know what happened. The hold on her weakened suddenly; someone was helping her, tugging her away from him. And it was done so quickly, but in the process, she’d left him holding her empty raincoat. She was free, hand clasped with her friend’s, another Marilyn Monroe look-alike. The crush was awful. Just masses of people pushing in every direction. And the costume parade continued to cheers, applause, and laughter. She scrambled to keep up with her savior. Where were they going?
    Suddenly, they were alone. The noise continued, but the street was dark. “Wait!” Wetzon cried, skidding to a stop. She’d lost her purse somewhere. “We don’t have to run anymore. I have to go back. My friend—” She was shivering in her skimpy dress.
    Would Alton go to the apartment? What did all this mean? If she was looking for symbols, she’d found one. It wasn’t supposed to happen. At least not tonight.
    What was Marilyn doing? Taking her mask off. “Listen,” Wetzon said, “thank you, but I was with someone....” She stared at the face. The mask dropped in the gutter and lay faceup next to a beer can and a condom.
    The face under the platinum hair was heavily made up, with false eyelashes. But familiar. Blue eyes. The body was squeezed into a red sequined dress with a long slit up the side. Legs in sheer hose, platform shoes with ankle straps. Marilyn reached into her swinging white leather purse with nail heads and took out a tiny silver gun.
    “My God!” Wetzon backed away from her. “What are you doing? Who are you?” Her heart hammered in her ears. Behind them, the crowd roared.
    “Look closely, Wetzon.”
    It was Jerry Gordon.

64.
    “Y OU KNOW ABOUT me. Brian told me.”
    “Don’t do it, Jerry.” Her hand flew up. Idiot, as if that could stop a bullet. “I won’t tell.”
    “It’s too late.”
    She moved, finally, adrenaline pumping, spun and dipped, a moving target, body fluid, lithe as a gazelle. The flash came; she felt the breeze the bullet made as it passed her. Must cross Hudson Street. Where to hide? It was too open.
    Headlights bore down on them. A black sedan, muffler advertising its dying breath, roared up Hudson. Arms and head were leaning out of the car windows. Jerry was taking aim again, the little gun hidden in his hand, as if death came from his hand alone. The headlights pinned them. Then Wetzon broke again, racing across Hudson.
    On the west side of the street, there was a playground behind a high iron fence. Forward and back, she found no opening. Panic rose like a deep freeze. She shook the fence.
    Behind her, brakes screeched and someone yelled, “Fucking perverts,” and someone else yelled, “Die, faggot.” Skinheads leaned out of windows and shook baseball bats. Then with an explosive blast the car was gone, leaving the night to the high spirits jamming Christopher Street.
    Looking back on Hudson where Jerry had stood taking aim, she saw nothing. The street was empty. Jerry was gone, and the revelers had begun to take up Hudson Street as their own. They, or the skinheads, had scared Jerry away. The thumping in her breast subsided slowly. There was safety among masses of people. A group, their outsize masks silhouetted under the