He was speeding along Highway 77, just east of the Atchafalaya Swamp in southern Louisiana, and it was fuckin’ hot. The old Rambler wagon didn’t have AC and he drove with all the windows down. Even so, the back of his shirt was soaked. It was August and the air was so friggin’ thick he figured he could grab a handful and wring the water outta it.

He was down from New Jersey to kill some time with his brother-in-law. They’d cast dough balls for catfish, watch some football, kill a few beers at the Swamp Rat titty bar and shoot the shit. Always a good time.

The General Store came up on his right-hand and the thought of an icy-cold Dr Pepper took hold of him like a hooker who had just bet her last dollar– and lost. He pulled onto the side. The damned sun seared his bald spot as his work boots crunched through the dusty gravel. He got his soda and was headed back when he spotted the shack across the road.

It looked to have been cobbled together from old packing crates and sun-baked palm fronds were nailed to the roof. There was a hand-painted sign: Suveners-Gaterheads. And nailed up underneath was a son-of-bitch. He was no authority on Louisiana alligators, but this mother looked like it would have had no trouble gobbling down a Volkswagen, passengers and all.

“How do you get the meat offen ‘em,” he asked, stepping over the old guy’s Redtick, which lolled in the shade and showed no inclination of moving outta the way. He was looking at a dozen bleached gator skulls, some on a counter, others hung from bent nails.

“Hell. That’s the easy part, son,” the old Cajun rolled his chaw to the opposite cheek. “Once I saw-s the damned neck off, I drive-s a coat-hanger wire through the ear-holes. I twist on a brick and toss the sucker into the swamp. The crabs ‘ill strip it clean inside of a week.”

“Jesus,” he said, looking over the bones. “Yuh only got one thing missing.”

“What? What’dyah mean ... missing.”

“The eyes.” he replied, looking at the empty sockets. “You missing them yeller eyes.”

The old wooden lamp pole stood, set in filthy asphalt, in the middle of the alleyway. Someone had strung a clothesline and above, an old lamp fixture was bolted to the rotting wood. He backed her into the pool of yellowish light so he could see, and pushed her to the ground.

“Please, sir. Don’t.”

“You were running away.”

“No sir. I just needed something at the store.”

“Uh-uh. I think you were running away.”

“No sir. Oh please sir.”

“Okay, maybe...” He had her down on her ass and backed into the grubby pole. “Sure. Okay, sweetie. I guess I could believe you but look, I want a nice picture of yuh. You know, for my wall. You’re so young. So pretty.”

She stared down with fearful eyes at the hacksaw that lay in the dirt by his knee and tried to squirm away, further back into the lamp pole. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“It’s not going to hurt. What’s your name, huh?”

“L-Lee.”

“Little Lee.” He tasted the words. “Well, Lee. You’re such a lovely child. I mean, I couldn’t help but notice. And I really need that picture, to get the eyes right. You’re my first, with them kinda eyes, understand?”

“My eyes, Sir?”

“Mmm. And you got a nice set of little titties on yuh. If you show me, I’ll take a picture of them too. You’re so pretty.”

“A picture of my breasts?”

“Yup. Now hurry along. We can’t be here all night.”

The girl seemed to gather a little strength. “Okay, please. If I open my top, can I go?”

“I need the picture,” he repeated and took a tinny digital camera out of his coat pocket.

“Okay ... okay.” And the girl reached up and twisted open buttons. She peeled the front of her top back from her shoulders and showed him two muffin-sized mounds, each tipped with a raspberry nipple.

“Oh my,” he breathed and began to lift his camera.

The voice came from beyond the light. “What the hell you doing here, in my alleyway?”

His ass puckered and he looked up. The brick wall opposite seemed to shift and she materialized out of the gloom. She was a fucking monster. A massive six-foot hulk, with shoulders that seemed almost as wide. She flexed her hands and her biceps bulged. The bitch wore black spandex– a bodysuit– and a badge.

His eyes bugged. “Shit.” And he rolled away from her, scuttling like a roach. He pulled himself up and looked again. He saw that her attention was diverted; that she bent over the child, and he took off. At the end of the alley, he hazard another look. She was still bent over, a hand on the girl’s shoulder. He couldn’t believe it. He was going to get away and he turned into the street and ran like hell.

Sharon sat behind two large monitors in her office on the fourth floor at the 14^th Precinct. She was the Director of the NYPD Computer Lab. “Don’t beat yourself up, Vencenzi,” she said. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Geez, but I had the fucker. If only I had just grabbed him by the god-damned throat.”

“The medical examiner put a rush on the saw. We’ve got confirmation. There’s dried blood and tissue matter from at least two of the victims. Jilly Anderson is in-charge of the case and she’s on her way up.”

Tomasina turned her head to one side. “I had the bastard...”

He ran for two blocks, zigged down an alleyway and zagged along a cross-street. It took him twice as long to reach the old Rambler he’d parked in a strip mall six blocks away and when he finally unlocked the car, he threw himself across the front seat to hide. He figured he’d avoided being followed and his roundabout route had dodged any security cameras. Still, he’d keep outta sight for a minute, just to be sure.

He lay on the bench seat breathing hard and listening to his heart. It sounded like a bass-drum in a Thanksgiving Day parade, for christ-sake. Geez, he had come so close to getting caught, and damn-it, who was that fuckin’ lady-cop anyway? She was built like an armored truck, muscle heaped on brawny muscle, but even being so overpowering, she had materialized out of the darkness like swamp gas.

An image rose in his mind. As impressive as her body was, it was the face he couldn’t shake: The hunkered look as she stared down on him. The heavy brow and high cheekbones. The jut of her jaw. But it was the eyes that held him. The deep brooding eyes, like watching a thunder storm come rolling in. He shuddered when he thought of her eyes. And how one of them wasn’t quite right.

The woman had a broken eye. And what’s more, some idiot who had tried to fix it got the color wrong. It was an abomination, he thought. What fucking idiot would screw that up ... I mean, getting her eyes wrong? Really! Well, he vowed– he would take it upon himself to help her with that. He alone, would correct one of the world’s great injustices. And she would thank him for it. But first he had to find the woman and all he knew was, she was a cop. But, he smiled, that would be enough.

The rap rattled the glass in Sharon’s office door and a tall, strident woman entered. “Vencenzi,” she nodded in Tomasina’s direction, “I understand there’s been a breakthrough, Tommy. Can you tell me what happened, please.”

Vencenzi watched the woman settle into one of Sharon’s guest chairs. Jilly was pretty, in a fresh wholesome way, and sporting a sassy cut. Short blond hair, good smile and a nice figure. Everything a man could want, but a bit on the skinny side, Tommy thought. Slim legs extended below Jilly’s hemline and when she crossed her knees there was the hush of nylon. Tommy had heard Jilly worked hard, was thorough, and that she was a good cop.

Tommy studied her fingernails a moment. “It was a random encounter. I was on the way back from the fight-club, walking along 20^th when I saw this young girl on the opposite side. I noticed her because she was dressed sorta like a dancer. She wore leggings and a skirt that looked to be just a bunch of silk scarves. And she was being followed.”

Jilly’s face came up. “Followed? Who? How did you know?”

“Dancer.” Sharon underscored the note on her yellow pad.

“Because,” Tommy continued, “he was a skinny dude with long legs and he had to keep stopping to avoid overtaking the girl. He was carrying a bowling-ball bag.”

“Bowling-ball...” Jill suddenly turned pale. “Oh Jesus.”

“Yeah. He was stalking her so I followed along, on the opposite side of the street.”

Jilly seemed to have drifted, maybe concentrating on her stomach.

“So the girl steps between two buildings,” Tommy said, “taking a shortcut, I guessed. And suddenly the guy behind breaks into a half-trot. And he follows her into the alleyway. He’s after her so I cut across to 19^th figuring I’d come at the alley from the other end. Safer that way. I was going to confront the perv, beat the shit outta him, and send him on his way.”

Jilly swallowed and pulled out her own note pad. “So you caught up with them?”

“Yeah. He had the girl down on the ground, on her ass and backed into a light pole. Her top was unbuttoned and he was crouched between her legs. When he saw me, he took off. But instead of running him down, I went to the girl. My mistake, I guess.”

“She would have been victim number eight, Tommy. You saved her life,” Sharon pointed out. “I wouldn’t consider that a mistake. Then what...”

“When I saw she wasn’t hurt, I went to look for the perv. I almost tripped over the god-damned saw. It was laying in the dirt and something clunked in my brain. I looked around for the girl but she had already hightailed it outta there. I was standing alone in the alley with my thumb up my ass. Anyway, I flagged down a passing patrol car. The young cop cordoned-off the crime scene and called for a CSV van.”

“That’s when I was notified,” Jilly added.

“Will he make another attempt on the girl?” Sharon asked.

“That depends,” Jilly answered. “If he picked her at random, from the street, probably not. But if he planned it, singled the girl out as his next victim, knew her name, had been following her, maybe for a week or two, then, yeah. There’s a good chance he’ll come after her again.”

“Okay.” Sharon came to a decision. “We need to find her. I’ll do a computer search of all the dance studios, theaters, and rehearsal halls within a ten block radius. Anything more than ten blocks and she would have taken a cab or used transit. I’ll have a print out within an hour. You’ll have to do the legwork. Tommy, you still on the trafficking case?”

“Uh-huh. But I can spare the time.”

“And I’ll need you to sit with a sketch artist.” Jilly turned to Tommy. “We need something to pass out at the dance studios after Sharon comes up with the list. And depending on the length of the list, I’ll recruit some junior detectives.”

“If it helps any, she was Taiwanese.”

Sharon frowned. “Taiwanese? You’re sure? Not Chinese or Japanese or Korean?”

Tommy shook her head. “Nope. Taiwanese.”

Jilly made a notation on her pad. “Anything else we missed?”

Tommy hunched her shoulders. She already knew it would be a futile waste of time, but said nothing.

His first attempt didn’t go so well. The northern crabs weren’t as veracious as their southern cousins and a week later, when he lifted the coat-hanger from the marsh-water, patches of wrinkled skin still clung to the bone, along with scraps of sinew and gristle, and clumps of black hair.

He tossed it back. It took another week and even then he had to set up the camp-stove in his garden shed and put her on to boil for a couple of hours. The jaw fell off, but that didn’t matter, it was the eyes. He placed the jaw with its line of even teeth into the trash can, changed the water in his aluminum pot and set her to soak in bleach.

Later, he pulled out a metal tray, lined it with newspaper and placed her on the windowsill for the sun to dry. It took a couple of days, and then, she was finally ready.

He got seated at his bench and pulled the light over. His fingers trembled as he studied her photograph, her terrified eyes flashed amber-gold and he looked over the set of glass eyes he had collected. He selected a pair that seemed right and after comparing them with the photo, he positioned them on the wads of modeling clay he had inserted into the eye sockets.

He meticulously worked with tweezers to get the position of the eyes just right, referring back to her photo again and again. After almost an hour, he was finally satisfied and using a hypodermic needle, he carefully injected epoxy resin behind the glass to lock the eyeballs in place.

The next morning, he excitedly held her in his hands. He kissed her. “You’re so perfect,” he said. And taking the skull to the shelf above his bench, he mounted her upright on the nail he had driven through the wood. And feeling giddy, he pinned her photograph below.

“You look so lonely, up there all-by-yourself,” he said. “But don’t worry. You’ll soon have company.” And he held up his blood-soaked bowling-ball bag.

Her shift over, Tommy squeezed into a stretchy little dress that defied the conventional need for underwear and called a cab. The cabbie took a second look, and then a third when he saw the dress and what it struggled to contain. And when Tommy gave him the address to the Calico Cat, he figured he’d stop by himself later, and catch her act. And offer her a ride home, maybe.

It was shortly after six and the crowd was sparse, mostly young office bucks stopping off for a beer and a quick lap dance before going home to a loving wife, the kids, and a hot meal.

Tommy took the two steps up to the narrow balcony that ran across the rear wall. She sat at her usual table in a dark corner away from the stage but from where she got a view of the patrons who crowded the performers at floor level.

“Christ, Vencenzi, take a hint would yuh?” The waitress climbed the steps. “The sign outside says this is a gentleman’s club.”

“I got more testosterone than any guy in here. You got something for me?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Denise rested the edge of her tray on the table. “What’s it to be?”

“Bring me a mickey of Jack and a beer. And make it a real beer, not that light stuff you got on tap. And tell the bartender you’re taking fifteen.”

Denise exhaled heavily. “Yeah, fifteen...” she sighed as she turned. “Why don’t you pick on someone else for once.”

She was back a moment later and set the bottle and a shot glass on the table. “And here’s your beer. LongHorn okay?”

Tommy took a swallow from the bottle. “Yeah, fine.” And she filled the shot glass with Jack Daniels. Tommy knocked it back followed by another sip of beer. “The anal, last time, that was good. More of the same, okay?” And Tommy lifted a leg and cocked her knee. Her high-heel dug into the naugahyde bolster. “Get on with it. I’ve had a shitty day.”

“Look, if I get caught doing this...”

“You were caught. By me, remember? I was the one who caught you with a kilo of meth. So you got a choice, Denise: Do your time in prison, or in my crotch.”

Denise crumbled. “Sure, Tommy. Anything...”

Tommy wasn’t a dyke but she wasn’t fussy neither, as long as she wasn’t expected to return the favor. So it little mattered to her that it was a woman down there, licking and finger-flicking the fob.

“And if I have the information you need?” Denise asked.

“Talk to me after you’ve finished frigging. I’ll be in a better frame of mind.”

“Ah geez...” And the pretty waitress with a head full of chestnut curls and the delicious overbite got to her knees and shimmied up the hemline of Tommy’s dress.

Tommy tilted her hips so Denise could reach her anus. Like the rest of Tommy, it was a burly knot surrounded by muscle, and buried between surprisingly small, but tough buttocks. Denise dipped her finger into Jack Daniels and with the opposite hand, pried the ass-cheeks apart. She felt about for a moment, found the gnarled cavity and wiggled her fingertip inside. “Ready?” she asked with a scowl, and without waiting for a reply, she knifed forward, knuckle deep. A vindictive thrust.

Tommy’s ass came up off the bolster. It stung like a son-of-bitch and she relished the burn. Denise pulled back, and, adding more Jack Daniels, drove in again, this time with two fingers. “Ah Jesus,” Tommy hissed, and meeting the trust with a roll of her hips, she reached for the back of the girl’s head.

Denise retched.

Tommy’s cunt was oozing. The lips, curling up through thick hair, looked like two slabs of pink lamb’s liver, and smelled like a sulphur pit. The swollen clitoris protruded from between and was large enough for Denise to get her lips around and suck on. And, bullet-shaped, the clit even looked like a small penis. Denise held her breath and took a swipe along the slit with her tongue. Tommy’s vim was as heavy as sludge and Denise, thinking of a cow’s cud, chewed on it before swallowing.

She took first one lip, and then the other and, sucking off the slime, Denise nuzzled and nibbled. Then, searching with her tongue, she wiggled into the vaginal chute and sucked at the flow of jiz she found leaking there, sucked it up into her mouth.

Tommy gripped the girl’s head in two hands and ground down on her face. “Do it,” she encouraged. “Make me cum.”

It was a relief to get her tongue out from between the greasy cunt lips, and with her fingers still moving deep in Tommy’s rectum, Denise plucked up the clit and gave Tommy her blowjob.

As Denise suckled, Tommy leaned back and sipped Jack Daniels. The lights dimmed and a small girl stepped into the spotlight. To the soaring refain from Swan Lake, she pirouetted, spinning up onto her toes. Her top slipped and the tiny stripper presented the men with two muffin-sized mounds, each tipped with a raspberry nipple.