Dying For a Cigarette, Part 2

    Notice: This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, graphic violence, and explicit smoking. If you're not
sure you want to read it, think again. It's a corker.

    Copyright 1996 by G. M. Sullivan. All rights reserved. This story may be
copied and distributed for the unrecompensed amusement of others only.


    "Dying For a Cigarette" Part 2 of 4


    Part Two: Becoming Natalie


    8. 22 December, West 8th Street, 6:50 PM

    Selene Rothstein had a ritual she performed each night before going out.
Her only superstition, it had seldom failed her.

    Sitting before her vanity mirror, she applied the finishing touches to her
makeup, pausing to admire the final result. How young and beautiful she was!
Flowing, dark-red hair, silky from 500 brisk stokes. Large, ice-blue eyes,
carefully outlined and highlighted. Pouting, sensual lips, painted just the
right complementing shade of red. Her dress was an iridescent blue, sleek,
sexy, revealing a painfully maintained figure.

    To complete the ritual, she reached for a pack of B&H menthols.
Withdrawing one, she placed it carefully between her wet lips. Striking a
match (appealing retro! she thought), she raised the flame to the tip of her
cigarette. She drew in the flame smoothly to achieve an even light, observing
her every move in the bulb-lined mirror.

    She drew in fragrant smoke for as long as her capacity allowed. When she
withdrew the cigarette, she opened her mouth to expose the milky cloud,
letting some trickle out suggestively. Then she inhaled deeply, watching it
all go away down into her mysterious depths. She puckered her lips slightly
for her exhale, allowing it to pool against the mirror, the smoke luminescent
and lovely around the lights.

    She had seen scenes like this in movies and on television. A beautiful
woman, sitting at her vanity, smoking and watching herself smoke. This was her
movie scene, her perfect moment, for her eyes only. But not forever...

    She blew a series of smoke rings into the mirror, noting with pride their
opalescent sheen, their perfect symmetry, their slow spin. Not overnight was
this effect achieved. She managed four good ones on this exhale, then blew out
the rest of the smoke in a thin stream through the center of the last ring.
Like Cupid's arrow through a heart, she thought.

    Smoking, she had been pleased to see, was becoming increasing useful in
attracting male attention. In the clubs she frequented at least three nights
per week, it was becoming a sure head-turner. More men seemed to realize now
that feminine smoking, when done with the proper 'tude and style, had panache.
It spoke of reckless disregard for all things responsible or domestic, the
very things in fact that scared most single men away in nothing flat. Sooner
or later, she knew, she'd find the man who would be her ticket out of this
flea-infested rat-trap of an apartment.

    She continued her self-admiration as her exhales gradually obscured the
mirror. The ritual was almost complete.

    The killer waited outside the room on the fire escape, peering around the
edge of the window frame. He was waiting for the moment when the smoke would
be thick enough to prevent the woman from seeing his reflection.

    Again, he felt an unwelcome tide of lust rising within, much stronger than
what he'd experienced watching young Jennifer. It no longer troubled him quite
so much, though. He could afford to be patient with himself, now that his work
had begun. Soon, when his tasks were complete, those hated feelings would
never have cause to return. A young woman smoking would be as rare as a snowy
day in July.

    He had been enraged when the papers had made no mention of his message in
their reports on the slaying of Jennifer O'Brien. Somehow, someone who hated
his motives had obscured the true meaning of his act. That would make her
death partly in vain, and we couldn't have that, no. This time there would be
no cover-up of the truth. He would see to it.

    Jennifer had come to him in a dream last night. She had stood before him
in her Catholic schoolgirl uniform, looking up at his kind face, her eyes
brimming. Her small hands were innocent of any cigarette and would remain so
now, forever.

    "Why did you kill me?" she had asked.

    "To save you," he had answered in a sure, steady tone. "And millions like
you, from the pain of a lingering death."

    Jennifer had understood. She accepted her sacrifice. She had forgiven him
her murder.

    The sliders were oiled, the lock silently disabled. He'd already seen to
that. The mirror was enveloped in poisonous vapors. The time was now. The
killer raised the window.

    Like Jennifer before her Selene died, never knowing she was dying. The
mirror ran with streaming gore and developed a spider-web of cracks. Selene's
head fell to the vanity table with a soft plop. Drifting smoke was disturbed
by her fall.

    The killer entered her apartment. He walked to the vanity and picked up
Selene's nearly full pack of cigarettes. His gloved hand trembled from contact
with the vile things, but he steeled himself. Long, white cigarettes poured
from the pack onto the vanity, the floor, the bed. Reverently, the killer left
his symbol on Selene's back, and many more like it on the vanity, the mirror,
the walls, and the paperboard furniture. Then he picked up the telephone.

    "Daily News, how may I direct your call?"

    "City Desk, please."

    A pause. "City Desk, Branahan."

    "There's been another killing, like Jennifer O'Brien's last night."

    "Wha...who is this? Wait a..."

    "The address is 242 West Eighth Street, apartment 2C, at the corner of
Bleeker."

    "Wait, lemme.."

    The killer hung up. They would come, he knew, and this time the message
would be delivered.


    9. 22 December, Park Avenue South, 7:13 PM

    Flinn lit his 56th Marlboro since dawn and tightly gripped the wheel of
the speeding Camaro. His expedition to the O'Brien neighborhood had been
fruitless. He had found three female students from St. Jean's, all smokers,
all who had known Jennifer. They had been reticent, thinking he was there to
bust them for underage smoking. He had smoked a couple with them to let them
know he was cool, even if old and a cop.

    None of them had seen any strangers hanging around the school. None had
been approached by anyone. None knew of anyone who might have wanted to hurt
Jennifer.

    The squawk box came to life. "AC, AC,111 rep at wilco eight, two four two,
delta one, acknowledge, over."

    "Delta one" was Flinn. "Acknowledged, on my way, out," he said into the
mike. He popped the bubble light onto the Camaro's roof and hit the siren. The
Village? Christ, he thought.


    10. 22 December, West 8th Street, 7:35 PM

    Flinn walked into a nightmare. Cigarettes were scattered all over, the
damned no-smoking stickers plastered on every available surface. The corpse, a
gorgeous doll, was face down in a pool of blood. Worst of all, the forensics
team was dodging a group of News photographers in the midst of the chaos.

    "Get these clowns out of here!" said Flinn. "Who the hell let them in,
anyway?"

    Sergeant Mendoza was there, of course. "Sorry, Jake. They got the call
first. I'm afraid our little secret is out."

    "Shit!" Flinn spoke with passion. The News people were being herded out,
though, and soon a measure of efficiency was restored.

    "We have a slug this time," Mendoza said. "From the mirror. It's already
bagged. Match grade, 9mm soft tip, copper jacket. Looks German to me. A good
bullet for killing people."

    "Aren't they all?" said Flinn. "Think we'll get any prints this time?"

    "No," said Mendoza. "This guy's a pro. You should see the number he did on
the window."

    Another sleepless night, thought Flinn. A worse tomorrow. And out of
Marlboros, too. Just what I need.


    11. 22 December, East 68th Street, 9:58 PM

    Marcia Kelly's east-side brownstone was a lot like Marcia herself, Nattie
often observed. Elegant, understated, with a thousand subtle touches. A small
Christmas tree was up, all glittering silver with tiny white lights.

    Nattie looked at her sister across the white-linen-covered table, where
they'd just finished a late supper of shrimp scampi. Marcia was positively
beaming as she drew on her latest Kent Menthol, gazing on her sister and
masterpiece.

    It had all happened so fast, Nattie thought, with the lightning efficiency
of long practice. First had come stops at Bonwit's, Bendel's, and
Bloomingdale's, all decorated in holiday cheer. Then on to Marcia's agency,
where there were even more exclusive lines of clothes. There, Nattie had
received the sort of tender ministrations from Master Beautician Beth that
were usually reserved for Vogue cover girls. Hair. Makeup. Posture.

    Nattie had seen a rack of long cigarette holders at Marcia's agency.
Smoking models were back in demand, and Marcia was always ahead of the latest
trends. Seeing the holders had started Nattie thinking.

    Finally, a stop at Nattie's apartment, where they had picked up the
contacts she had been fitted with a year ago, but had been too afraid to ever
wear.

    That word again. Afraid. Nattie was done with being afraid.

    Somehow, she had thought her makeover would take weeks if not months.
Instead, it had proceeded with the inevitability of a swiftly-moving
thunderstorm, or like an event long planned. Which, Marcia told her, it had
been.

    When Nattie had seen herself after it was all done, she thought Marcia had
somehow pasted a picture from a magazine across the mirror. Nattie was pretty.
More than that; Nattie was beautiful. Dressed in a rose-colored evening gown
that would be worth a year's pay to her, with matching Ferragamo pumps. Hair
not dyed, but still shining, alive, and tied in a loose braid that fell gently
over her right shoulder. Eyes large, liquid, flashing, delicately highlighted,
her lips painted a shade to match the dress.

    "Nat, I don't know if I would have recognized you if I hadn't watched the
change myself. You look like a whole other person."

    "I feel like a whole other person. I'm just afraid I'll never look this
good again," Nattie said.

    "Nonsense, kiddo, just remember what Beth taught you today. I'll help you
tomorrow morning. You did know you were staying here tonight?" Marcia's smoke
was emitted mischievously.

    "No, really I should..."

    "Don't be silly. It's late, and you've had a lot of champagne. God knows I
have enough bedrooms for two big families. Call in sick tomorrow, if you're
still not sure about working for me." Marcia winked. She believed the issue
was settled.

    Marcia was right, Nattie thought. She was more than a little inebriated
from all her unaccustomed drinking. There was, however, something remained to
make the day's transformations complete, and she needed to start tonight, in
case tomorrow it all melted away.

    "Sis, may I have one of your cigarettes?" Nattie asked.

    "A cigarette?" Marcia looked surprised for the first time that day. "Why,
kiddo? You never wanted one before."

    "I don't know...yes, I do. It's because of Mr. Stephanson. He hates
smoking more than anything. I'd love to plant a Marcia-sized exhale right in
his face the next time I see him."

    "That's no reason to start smoking, kiddo. Smoking's a life sentence, even
if you quit. Remember when I quit for three months, back in '94?"

    "Two months. You only quit for two months."

    "Well, it seemed like three at least. Every day was hell. Anyway, nobody
starts at 23! I started at 14, and you never even wanted to test the waters!"

    "It wasn't for the lack of you trying," said Nattie. After Marcia was
given parental permission to smoke at home when she was 17, she had
mercilessly badgered plain, 12-year-old Nattie about starting herself.

    "You don't know what you're missing!" Marcia had said back then. "Boys
LOVE it. It changes your whole LIFE! I wish I had started at 12! At 10!" and
so on. Nattie had been too scared at first, of course, but soon it had become
a matter of pride, of not admitting that she might be wrong. The pressure
hadn't let up until Marcia went away to Vassar. Her mother had said she was
proud of Nattie for resisting, but had sounded less than sincere. Mom loved
smoking too much herself to really understand Nattie's abstinence.

    "I did ride you hard that last year, didn't I?" Marcia admitted. "You've
been living with smokers so long, you're at least an honorary member of the
sorority. It's probably in all our genes somewhere. Well, far be it for me to
lecture you." Marcia moved her chair to Nattie's side of the table. "Here you
go, kiddo."

    Marcia handed Nattie a long, white cigarette. Marcia lit one for herself,
and her next words were spoken through billowing smoke. "I've had to teach
several of my models to smoke in the last year, the market being what it is
now, so I've done this before. Believe me, the starting part is easy. Just put
it in your mouth, filter first."

    Nattie looked at the white cylinder in her hand. She had held cigarettes
before. She and Marcia had often used unlit cigarettes, "borrowed" from her
parents, as props for their childhood play at being grown-up. This had
continued even after Marcia had started smoking for real, at least while she
was still in the closet. Nattie hadn't known about Marcia's smoking, then. It
had been a dread secret from everyone in the family.

    The cigarette was pristine and pretty, perfect in its own small way. It
seemed somehow silly to set fire to it and burn it up. Nattie did as Marcia
asked, though, placing it in her lips, letting it dangle. She noted a minty
taste she hadn't expected. This would be nice, something to share with Marcia.
She felt like giggling.

    "Now", said Marcia, "when I hold the flame to the tip, suck gently. Take
just a little smoke into your mouth. Remove the cigarette, hold your breath,
and blow out the smoke slowly when the time seems right." Nattie was
impatient. She wasn't 12 anymore, and wanted to get on with it.

    Marcia flicked her gold Calibri to life and touched the flame to Nattie's
cigarette. Nattie sucked hard, wanting to emulate Marcia, and found quickly
that living in a smoke-filled house and smoking herself were two very
different things.

    The minty taste was there, but there was also heat and bitterness, and the
odd feeling of having a full mouth with nothing to chew or swallow. It was
irritating to the soft tissues of her palette. She removed the cigarette and
blew out swiftly, not slowly, anxious to be rid of the taste. She watched her
cloud of uninhaled smoke drift across the table. That I like, at least, she
thought. It's mine. She grabbed her flute for a quick sip of champagne to wash
out her mouth, making a face.

    "It's definitely an acquired taste, kiddo, " said Marcia while exhaling
her latest drag. Watching her, Nattie noticed for the first time how Marcia
never managed to exhale all her smoke on the first "blow." Little wisps
escaped her nostrils with almost every breath between puffs. "Thinking better
of it?"

    "No," said Nattie. "Quitting when something gets hard is a habit I need to
break. It's not part of my new self. Let me try again." Nattie did, taking a
less aggressive puff. Better prepared for the taste and feel, she managed to
hold the smoke in her mouth for a few seconds. She tried to exhale in a thin
stream, slowly like Marcia always did, but it didn't look the same at all. Her
exhale reminded her of male cigar smokers she had seen. Still, it was pleasing
to blow smoke like her big sister.

    "Much better, kiddo. You're a quick study as always. Now comes the big
step-inhaling. This is the part that can grab you and never let go. Do a puff
like you just did, but drag a little longer and breathe in air before
exhaling." There was an inscrutable glint in Marcia's eye.

    Nattie raised the cigarette to her lips and drew, this time taking in more
smoke than even on her first puff. This is definitely getting easier, she
thought. When she removed the cigarette, she saw the sudden burst of curling
smoke from the lighted end. Then she breathed in.

    Her lungs were filled for the first time with a non-nutritive vapor. It
was the oddest feeling, a little like being underwater. Her lungs did not
register the smoke's heat, but felt full and empty all at once. She felt her
heartbeat accelerating. She paused, then began to blow out.

    Her cough and gag reflexes suddenly triggered. Smoke escaped
uncontrollably as she hacked loudly. "Marcia, I'm sorry," she finally managed,
gasping, taking a sip of champagne. "I must have done something..."

    "No, no, you did just what I said. Sorry about that, kiddo, but I thought
it important that you experience all the delightful nuances of that first
cigarette, just like I did oh so long ago. Including coughing up your first
inhale!" Marcia was chuckling.

    Nattie was furious. "You mean you could have warned me? I didn't have
to..." When Nattie saw Marcia's expression, suddenly both girls fell to
giggling. This was not Marcia's first practical joke on Nattie, but they were
never really hurtful. And, there was something delightfully sophisticated
about laughing while holding a lit cigarette.

    "Excuse me, Sis" Nattie said, unable to suppress the giggles. " All that
champagne..."

    "And nicotine on top. It'll hit you hard, at first. Soon we'll call it
quits, but first let's try that last one again. Only this time, don't drag as
hard, breathe in just a little air, and let it out as slowly as you can
manage."

    Nattie raised the cigarette to her lips again. She was determined to show
Marcia she could do this. She had a lot to prove to her, to herself, and not
just with this. Then, there was her other motivation for smoking, to have
revenge one day on Stephanson. She drew just as heavily as last time, took in
a little less air, paused, then took in a little more. Her exhale was slow, as
instructed, but far heavier than either woman had expected. The final wisps
actually came from Nattie's nostrils. She managed not to cough or gag.

    Marcia applauded. "That's the way to go, kiddo! Breeding comes through. No
one would believe that was only your second real puff."

    Nattie was pleased. She took two more drags, each a little longer, each
inhale a tiny bit deeper, each exhale just that much denser and
better-controlled. Then, she found her head was spinning in earnest. She
stubbed out the Kent as she had seen Marcia do a million times.

    "That's smoking, kiddo. For a beginner, you do it very well. Now, I think
we should get you to bed, it's been a long day."

    Nattie didn't argue, and allowed Marcia to lead her to a guest room.
"Sleep tight, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning."

    "Oh, Sis," said Nattie. "Could you please leave me some cigarettes? In
case I want one later, or in the morning?"

    "You're really serious about this, aren't you, kiddo?" said Marcia. "All
right then, just don't burn the house down." Marcia fetched an open but almost
full pack of Kents, a Bic lighter, and an ashtray. She made sure Nattie could
use the lighter, tested the room's smoke alarm, then said goodnight.

    Alone in the bedroom, Nattie undressed and washed up in the attached bath.
She paused to admire her nude body in a full length mirror. She had always
thought her figure to be her best feature. Now she looked good from head to
toe.

    She regarded her breasts and loins; unloved, untouched, unkissed. Perhaps,
soon, that too would change.

    Nattie found a flannel nightgown in the closet. She had always kept some
things at Marcia's for the occasional sleep-over, and she had owned this
nightie since she was 16. It still fit. It's well-worn fabric fell good on her
on a winter's night. It also made her feel like a child; innocent, protected,
cherished.

    She climbed under the covers and switched off the light. However, the
alcohol was loosening its hold, and she found herself too wound-up to fall
asleep. Her mind kept going over the events of the day, trying to take a new
inventory of her emerging persona.

    Anger, even hate, had seemed to settle into her very core. An emotion she
had always rigidly repressed, once released it filled her like an empty
vessel. Around that new core she was still Nattie, but changed almost beyond
her recognition. Her anger anchored her, strengthened her, until she felt she
could face anything, do anything. Fear was still in there too, but muted,
imprisoned, impotent to hinder her anymore unless she let it. She had no
intention of letting it, not ever again.

    Her anger, she saw, had Stephanson as its immediate focus but went much
deeper. It embraced the multitude who had hurt her, embarrassed her, laughed
at her. Even her family was not exempt, for where had they been when she
really needed them? Her parents, with their business and social pursuits,
Marcia with her whirl of a life, had often not noticed when she was in pain.

    Still, she could not blame her family too much. In her pride, she had told
them little of her anguish. They had done the best they could with what she
had let them know. It was all the others who had to watch out, now.

    With that though, she propped her pillows and sat up, reaching to the
nightstand for her pack of cigarettes. These will help me, she thought. They
will be the symbol of the new Nattie. Whenever I have one, I will remember who
I am, now. She took a cigarette and awkwardly used the Bic to light it. She
drew in smoke, watching the glowing tip briefly illuminate the bed. She
inhaled the smoke deeply for her, holding it for three beats, exhaling slowly.

    She was disappointed to find her exhale invisible in the dark, so she
switched on the bedside lamp. She blew her next exhale directly into the
light, watching the smoke swirl thick and luminescent beneath it. She felt
like she was starting over at 16, all the years since erased, hers to live
again in an entirely new manner.

    After a soft knock her bedroom door opened, revealing Marcia. Nattie was
taking another deep inhale.

    "Hey, kiddo, what are you up to?" said Marcia.

    "Smoking," said Nattie. Soft clouds of smoke emerged from her mouth and
nostrils as she spoke. Nattie hadn't tried to do that, it just happened
because she had talked while exhaling. She liked that. She blew out more smoke
toward the door to further illustrate the truth of her statement. The
dizziness was returning, but it wasn't too bad when she was lying down.

    "So I see, Nat. You should try and get some sleep, and not overdo it."

    "Okay, Sis. And Sis?"

    "Yes?"

    "Please start calling me by my full name, Natalie. "Nat" and "Nattie"
sound like names from an old book. I think Natalie suits me better...now."
Natalie paused, inhaling again. "You can still call me kiddo, though. I like
that." More smoke emerged with her words, deliberately this time.

    "Okay, kiddo." Marcia stared in frank wonder at her sister. "Natalie it
is. Sweet dreams."

    Natalie stubbed out the Kent, exhaling for the last time beneath the lamp,
re-breathing the exhaled smoke. She would sleep well, now. Tomorrow would be
her day, the first of many.


    12. 23 December, One Police Plaza, 7:52 AM

    Sitting at his desk in NYPD Headquarters, Flinn smoked compulsively and
regarded the morning papers with distaste. The Times: "Killer has a Grudge
Against Smokers." The Daily News: "Anti-Smoking Killer Stalks New York." The
News was also full of pictures of the crime scene that strained at the very
edge of taste, even for these days. Both papers carried many related stories.
Of course, the connection was now solidly made between the Jennifer's and
Selene's slayings.

    The mayor's office had called Flinn's chief of detectives an hour ago. The
mayor and police commissioner would be holding a joint press conference at
noon, and wanted to be able to report progress on the investigation.

    Writing up his results so far wasn't a problem for Flinn. It was the
"progress" part that had him stumped. The last murder scene had been as clean
as the first, despite being an inside job. There was just really nothing good
to report, yet. Flinn knew the commissioner wouldn't settle for what he was
writing.

    Flinn had been in uniform during the "Son of Sam" killing spree, and had
not been close to anyone actually involved in the investigation. Like every
cop, though, Flinn had dreamed of being the one to bring that perp down.
"Sam's" escapades had monopolized the city's attention for weeks and changed
behavior all over the metro area. While "Son of Sam" had been loose, you never
saw any couples in parked cars, anywhere. Now, Flinn thought, public smoking
would go the way of dinosaur even faster than it already was. Maybe private
smoking, too.

    The prospect did not please Flinn. He felt like every smoker was a kindred
spirit, entitled to special protection from at least this cop. Like his last
partner...

    He would nail this bastard, Flinn promised himself. No trial, no loony bin
this time. This was one perp who would not walk away.

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