Death Resides Here
Sample Chapter by Buddy Scalera
Unedited Draft

WARNING: This is the unedited draft of the sample chapter. This was written to show the publisher my writing style. The details of this narrative were not fact checked, as they would have been in the actual book.

It was the early morning. Early, at least, for Catina Newmaster, who had been up all night partying. And while most women her age were preparing for work in an office somewhere, Catina was just trying to scrounge up some food.

She was squinting at the harsh summer light streaming in through the tattered shades. Outside her apartment, she knew there was a McDonald’s where she could get some coffee. She’d have to beg for the money from one of her friends, or just sip from their cups. Either way, she was up early. She might as well get up, the hunger was burning her belly.

Slipping on her jeans, she noticed that, again, she had lost weight. Her 5’6” frame looked gaunt with only 100 pounds to weigh it down. At age 25, she was a good 25 pounds underweight. But drugs did that to you. It made your hunger for food seem secondary to your hunger for smack.

Passing by a mirror in her dirty apartment, Catina noticed that the ends of her dirty blonde hair were starting to split. No money for shampoo, much less for conditioner. She made a note in her head: next trick I turn in a hotel room, I’m swiping the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

But even if she stole the shampoo and cleaned up her hair, Newmaster knew she couldn’t scrub away the sadness that reflected in the mirror. He deep brown eyes used to laugh with happiness. Now, her eyes seemed dull and tired. The first time she actually noticed this was when she’d been picked up by vice for soliciting. They ran her through the system and snapped a mug shot. When she saw herself there in that picture, she realized for the first time, my eyes seem so old. So tired.

Everything her eyes fell upon that day also seemed old and tired. Downtown Poughkeepsie featured all the trappings of a broken city. Unemployed men and women shuffled around all day near the obvious oasises like churches and fast food restaurants. Meanwhile, nearby on State Street, the polished shops, movie theater and reknowned Civic Center seem to be in stark contrast to the neighborhood where Catina was sleeping and working.

Poughkeepsie is more than 40 miles North of New York City and more than 120 South of the capitol Albany. Like a middle child in an eclectic family, Poughkeepsie seems too big and mean to be a small town; and yet too small and unrefined to be a full-fledged city.

It is a town of contrasts and contradictions.

That’s how Catina felt today. Despite the grime, she knew luck was with her. She had enough change in her pockets for coffee. (Unfortuntately, there wouldn’t be enough money for food.) Sipping the steaming brew, she saw a familiar meal ticket pull into the McDonald’s parking lot. That old, red Subaru meant she might have lunch money after all. Or maybe enough for another hit. If she was lucky.

Catina’s tired eyes scanned around looking for cops. Clear. She noticed that the big man sitting in the car was doing the same thing. That’s a good sign. Undercover cops don’t look around because they don’t have to.

“Hey, looking for a little morning party?” Catina asked coyly.

She tilted her head to the right so that the Kendall Francois could see her shiny nose ring. The johns loved that. They figured you were a better lay if you had some tattoos and piercings. She knew the Francois from previous meetings. He wasn’t much into the whole experience. He wanted quickies in the morning. Despite several encounters he’d never even seen her “Mom” tattoo on her leg and her “Brian” tattoo on her wrist.
That was fine with Catina. She just wanted some quick money. When he told her to “get in,” she knew she’d have at least $100 in her pocket in an hour. That, and she’d be safe. As much as the cops were out to bust vice, they were trying to figure out why the local streetwalkers were disappearing.

Since Catina was well known downtown, they questioned her about the disappearances. She had known a few of the girls, but not very well. No, she didn’t see nothin’. No she didn’t hear nothin’. Yeah, she’d call if she heard somethin’. Yeah, right. Working girls don’t need trouble, and they don’t need to be recognized. It’s better to let the cops do their job, you know.

Even so, Catina was cautious. She didn’t want to end up on the Missing Persons list. Some of the girls were careless, getting into cars with nobody around with guys they didn’t know. That’s a good way to get beaten and robbed. Or killed.

Prostitutes had been disappearing steadily in the area since 1996. It seemed to locals that the police were dragging their feet trying to find the guy. They had formed a task force of some kind. Like that was supposed to help. All it would take is for one middle-aged woman in a new Ford Explorer to be reported missing and they’d catch the guy before the six-o’clock news; just in time for his perp walk.

So, Catina was playing it safe these days. She was sticking with regulars, like Francois. She knew where he lived on Fulton Street near Vassar College. She knew his reputation for rough sex. She even knew about his appropriate nickname of “Stinky,” although she wouldn’t dare say it to his face. Business is business, and even in prostitution, a girl’s got to practice good public relations.

Slipping into the passenger seat of the Subaru, Catina once again noted to herself a very obvious truth. Francois was a big, creepy man. Catina learned on previous occasions, he cared little for small talk. Still she nervously tried to make conversation on the ride to his house at 99 Fulton Street, where he favored having sex.

Fulton Street was one of those nice neighborhoods defending itself from urban rot. Old, but well-kept homes sit snugly together on a street that’s a popular short-cut because it runs parallel to Main Street. It’s a way to avoid lights, so cars tend to zip by at a good clip. Across the street from 99 Fulton, there is a popular medical center and another home. To the left is, yet another medical center. So despite the obvious neighborhood, at least one house on Fulton Street had an unusual type of insulation from prying eyes.

The house on 99 Fulton radiated a dilapidated, haunted vibe Stephen King would love. With it’s sharply angled gables and tall, looming face, the house stared defiantly back at anyone foolish enough to steal a look. It was the place where mother’s told their children the boogie man lived, only because they believed it themselves. Scary isn’t strong enough word to describe the house at 99 Fulton Street. And although she had been there several times before, Catina never shook that primal fear that, yes, if the boogie man were into real estate, this would undoubtedly be his home.

On most sexual encounters, Catina and Francois crept silently upstairs to his second floor bedroom. Catina had marveled at how this hefty man carefully navigated up the stairs, avoiding the crunchy garbage that littered the floor.

Although she had only been inside at night, Catina knew that the Francois house was an absolute dump. The mingling odors of dirty dishes, unwashed laundry and grimy floors formed a general funk. Garbage and newspapers were piled hazardously near the stove and heating ducts. But even with all this filth, there was another smell. Catina couldn’t place it, but she knew that it was somehow…wrong.

Catina had lived with junkies. She slept with salty old men. She’d even witnessed a street stabbing. Each had it’s own special smell. It wasn’t any of those smells, but rather an amalgam of all three. It was almost as if there was something dead rotting in the walls of this house of horrors. One time when they did it, Catina wanted to use the bathroom, but was repulsed by the brownish flecks of filth on the porcelain. She held it in until she got home.

She was relieved that this time, Francois had decided to stay in the car. The inside of that house gave her the creeps. “My family is home,” he said in his thick, deep voice. “We’ll do it here.”

“What do you want to do, big boy?” Catina said, using her tired voice to sound sexy.

“I want you to get on top of me and fuck me,” Francois said, as if he was ordering a burger at a drive through window.

“That’s a hundred, honey,” Catina said, hoping he wouldn’t dispute the price. “You pay me first.”

Francois seemed to set his jaw for a moment. He didn’t like the price, but he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. Catina took the money and it felt warm and soft in her hands from his body heat. It even smelled like him. And now that they were sitting parked in the garage, with the August morning sun rising, Catina began to recoil from Francois’ intense body odor. She was already sorry that she had taken the money.

Trying to climb on top of Francois was almost comical. At 6’8” and 385 pounds, Francois alone practically filled the Subaru. But being skinny from drugs allowed Catina to hoist herself on top with his considerable help.

As soon as he entered her, Catina realized that Francois was a big man everywhere. She wasn’t a tiny girl, actually above average in height, but Francois was hurting her. Between the cramped car and Francois now sweating body, Catina wanted to stop, or at least take a little break. She was holding on, hoping he’d finish soon.

But it continued, until Catina couldn’t take it anymore. “Let’s take a little break,” Catina suggested sweetly. “I need a little break.”

She was trying to climb off him when she felt his fat fingers grab around her neck. Her eyes snapped open and was shocked at Francois’ sudden rage. His bloated cheeks were puffed with rage. Catina’s mouth was open, desperately trying to suck in a breath of air.

Her nails clawed frantically at his hands, but she didn’t have the strength to break free.

She kicked her legs spastically and pushed against the seat with her heels. Her head banged pitifully against the roof of the car and she felt her strength slipping away. She felt her skin on her face get prickly and hot and felt as if she could vomit. She was dizzy from the fight and her struggle grew weaker. In another moment, she was dead.

Francois looked at his watch. It was 8:39 AM.

END.

 

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