linxy - part IV
I don’t bother myself with a lot of long term
planning when I go out hunting. It’s instinct. I see a girl that I think
will be ideal, or Heitel gives me some specific features he wants and within
a week I’ve got her. I just know the places that are dark, uninhabited,
I know when the stores close, when the trains stop running. Olivia lived in
Lincoln Park. I was out with Henry once and saw that she worked at BW3, a bartender
I think, waitress, something. She worked on the weekdays and left around midnight,
walking all the way to the Fullerton train stop without an escort.
The key to good hunting is to think of them as
a quarter on the street. Somebody’s going to pick it up. Might as well
be me, and if you just do it quickly, casually no one knows it’s missing.
No one knew it was there in the first place. I don’t get emotionally involved.
When I saw Olivia at the bar, I ordered a drink from her, got a scope on her
looks and nodded to myself. She was it. I didn’t bother sweet talking her,
learning her name, stalking her. Those sorts of things lead to evidence, witnesses,
and arrests later on. She’s just a thing to me. To all of us.
Steak, my old rugby buddy, drove my car for me
that night. It was Henry’s "old" Mercedes. Right. If two years
is old. Write this down: Some people have more money than they’ll ever
need, and those people never turn out good. My young, spoiled, twisted employers
represent that horrifying segment of society. They represent the evil rich that
you don’t think exists. No such thing as white slavery? Wake up. Just because
you haven’t been collared and sold doesn’t mean that girl who went
missing in high school wasn’t.
Steak sat in the drivers seat, arms crossed, listening to the Blackhawks lose
their last game of the season and I stood outside the car to have a smoke, about
a block down the street, waiting for her. What was my plan? No nonsense. Make
the grab. Quick is always better than clever.
I think the key to the story is this: I’m
pretty good looking. Well, nice looking, friendly, a good set of eyes, I hear.
Women are somehow conditioned that the abductors, the rapists are these drooling,
moronic, ungroomed idiots. I dress nice, drive a great car, live in a beautiful
brownstone and frankly, I have a winning smile. Brown hair, blue eyes, clean
teeth. My dating history is riddled with smart, good looking girls who end up
leaving me on relatively good terms. I have an active and intriguing social
life. I’ve had my picture in Barfly. And on the job, I have no trouble
finding suitable women. I have no trouble reeling them in, and staying professional.
"Hi," I said to her as she walked by.
She slowed down but didn’t stop completely.
"Hi." She gave me a friendly smile so
I walked up beside her. The car was a few spaces away, but the train had just
let off a load of people. I worried that I wouldn’t get her that night.
And she had such a cute red t-shirt on.
"You work at BW3, eh?" She stopped and
gave me a high eyebrow.
"Yes."
"I was there the other night. With a friend
of mine. Great job. You pour a wicked gin and tonic." I made sure to stay
on her left.
"Well, thanks. You know, it’s hard,"
she said laughing, "Two ingredients and all."
We were right by the car. Steak casually got out
and opened the passenger side door and like magic, the sidewalks were empty.
A train was arriving to drown out any noise. But there was no time to struggle,
the Fullerton bus was a block away. I looked around quickly and when we got
to the car I pushed her hard into the backseat.
"Don’t forget the lime," I said, and Steak squealed down the street.