I'd had to wait down the block at the corner of Eleventh, keeping out of sight in the side doorway of the plumbing supply place. Waiting until I saw Curly Sasso come out of the alley next to the house after he'd waited for me at the bottom of my cellar stairs. I gave him half a block, then followed him from the other side of the street (the three-hundred pounds of him not hard to tail), back across Tenth and Ninth and almost to Times Square, just to make sure he wasn't going to double back to catch me sneaking into my place. Which, of course, is just what I was going to do. 

At one point, on the sidewalk between Ninth and Eighth, he pulled out his cell and tapped in a number. I felt my phone vibrate, didn't answer. I still needed time to come up with some excuse for not copping that Warhol. Or better yet, come up with a Plan B. For both of us. 

And now here it was nighttime, ten hours later, and I'm standing under the Beacon Theater marquee, Tonight, Lady Gaga lit up on it, waiting for Szu. I'm in a crowd that was everything from teeny boppers in Gaga drag to guys in suits with their wives. 

When my phone vibrated this time, I took it out, saw it was a text from Szu: 

In taxi, bad traffic. Leave ticket at window, meet you inside. 

I'd give her ten minutes and then do just that. Didn't want to miss the opening. 

                                                #          #          # 

He was running late for work, Sickblade was, goddamn taxi taking forever. But he couldn't leave her out like that, lying on the table after doing the knife work. Knew too well what that body would smell like when he got back. Never mind the blood drying up so it's near impossible to clean. So he'd washed her face off and moped up all that blood from her hand that she almost pulled off, and of course the mess from her throat he slashed. Dragged her out and put her behind the wall where the others were. Her own space, she deserved that. But with pulling the rocks out, each one heavy as a bitch, and fitting her in just so, and then putting the rocks back the right way, each in its place, it took time. He'd toyed with the idea of leaving her somewhere to be found, but was concerned that the ruined hand might make it look like he was losing his finesse. 

"What about West End?" he called up to the turbaned driver. 

"We are almost there," the driver said. "Would not save time." 

Yeah, right, almost there. We're on Ninety-Fourth, for chrissake, twenty more blocks. Freakin' rickshaw retard.   

Anyway, he sat back and tried to relax. Closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift to, well, tongues. About how if you studied them, made comparisons, they all were different. And not just size. This last one, Marla's, was long and slim, like a reptile's. He'd left it out by the sink to let the blood drain, so later he could get right to the embalming, his procedure. He knew that this particular one, after all his experimenting and practice he'd had over the years, was going to make an extra-fine addition to the collection (never mind he felt like that about most of them). 

"We arrive, see?" 

He opened his eyes and the driver was right. There was the Beacon across the street, relic from Vaudeville days that had been restored to where it had caught on with the big rock groups, bless their noisy asses, as a place that had to be played. Fine by him, work was work. The last of the crowd was squeezing through the bronze doors to get inside. He paid the driver and jumped out, waited against the car for a bus to pass, then darted through the southbound traffic, hopped across the narrow island running down the middle of Broadway, waited for a break in the northbound flow and then made for the opposite curb. Had to jump out of the way of a taxi just pulling up. 

The taxi door swung open and a foxy Asian girl leapt out, almost collided with him when she started running toward the ticket window. She gave him a quick look, didn't stop, both of them hurrying off in opposite directions.  

It was only after he'd rounded the corner on Seventy-Fourth and was jogging toward the Beacon back entrance, where the crew and equipment went in, that it struck him who that Asian girl was. 

                                                #          #          #   

The crowd was yelling Ga-ga, Ga-ga, all of us on our feet, clapping in rhythm and stomping, the place in semi-chaos, waiting for Her Ladyship's grand entrance. I kept turning around and looking toward the back, checking if I could spot Szu. Wave and try to let her know where I was, a longshot that she'd see me in all the hoopla. But the front row seats were numbered on the tickets, so if she got here she'd find me. 

And she did. Came squinching along between the front seats and the stage, dodging the clapping hands and waving arms. 

"Hi," she said, catching her breath. 

"Hi, glad you made it." 

"Guy went on forever - tried to stretch it into a double." 

I could see she was looking concerned. "You OK?" 

She took another breath. "You're not going to believe who I just saw." 

"Who?" 

I was expecting some big name, but before she could tell me, the crowd let out a roar.  

The lights had come up on the stage, a misty green glow that revealed the set – a deserted jungle in a tropical storm. There was rain falling on giant leaves and dripping off flowers and vines. The audience's cheering went quiet, waiting to see what would happen. The only sound was the falling rain, not a person in sight on stage. 

Szu tried to say something but I waved her quiet. 

We started to hear jungle drums. Distant at first, then gradually getting louder. Suddenly there was a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder and music boomed. A spotlight lit a huge plant that Lady Gaga burst out of. She was wearing a leopard scanty, dancing like she was the animal itself, screaming and singing Bad Romance. 

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance 

The crowd jumped and squealed, most of them knowing the words and singing along, suits and wives included.

I want your ugly

I want your disease

I want your everything

As long as it's free 

The place was going ape shit. The lady knew how to kick off a show. 

She belted the song, danced up a storm. And the singing, like she'd said when she gave me the tickets, wasn't anything like what she'd sung me last night. She boomed the words and was awesome-plus, at least in my opinion, better than when I saw her in that show before. 

I glanced to my left and could see Szu was hooked, had lost the frown and was singing along, faking the words she didn't know. I mean, here we were, front row, just a couple yards from one of the hottest acts in the world. 

Gaga was in complete control of the stage, stomping and dancing her way through songs from her "Fame Monster" album. Never missing a beat, never taking a misstep. Every costume change had an animal look – leopard, eagle, lizard... and some I'm sure she just made up – all of them sexy, all of them trademark Gaga. The dozen backup dancers and the band had their own versions.  

After she finished a killer arrangement of Poker Face, she stopped the music and signaled that she wanted to speak to the crowd. 

"As a lot of you know," she said when the place had quieted down, "this is a homecoming for me – to play the Beacon for my beautiful friends who I grew up with. I lived right around the corner from here." She raised a fist in the air. "I'm a West Side girl!"

Again, the place went nuts. 

She raised both hands to calm them down. "And now, I've got a special treat for you," she said as she turned stage right. "Another West Side girl." She held out her hand and beckoned offstage. "Julie?" 

Out from the wing walked a little girl, looked like she was maybe in sixth grade. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Gaga said, "my new young friend, Miss Julie Fortunato." 

The crowd gave Julie a nice welcome while she went over and took Gaga's hand. 

"So, Julie," Gaga said, smiling down at her, "tell us how old you are." 

"I'm twelve." 

"And where do you live?" 

"Columbus Avenue." 

A cheer went up from the locals, lots of locals. 

"And you play the piano, is that right?" Gaga said. 

"A little." 

"Uh-huh. Well, let's see if we can work something together here." 

Gaga led Julie over to the band, the keyboarder getting up from his bench. I remembered that Gaga herself had started young – like was playing the piano at four. Had gotten into Julliard just down the street, the hotsiest of music schools, when she was eleven. 

She sat down at the keyboard and patted the bench for Julie to sit beside her. 

"So, you have any favorites?" Gaga asked. 

"Born This Way", Julie said. 

Gaga turned to the audience with a deadpan look. Everyone broke up. It was one of her biggest hits. 

She played an introduction that Julie picked up on with her small hands. Then together they started to sing, Gaga keeping her voice down to make it Julie's show: 

My mama told me when I was young

We are all born superstars

She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on

In the glass of her boudoir

"There's nothin' wrong with lovin' who you are"

She said, "'cause he made you perfect, babe"

"So hold your head up, girl, and you'll go far

Listen to me when I say"

I'm beautiful in my way

'Cause God makes no mistakes

I'm on the right track baby

I was born this way 

The two of them were totally natural together, Gaga working with Julie like a big sister – which struck a chord with me. By the time they were finishing up, they had everyone in the palm of their hand. Even hard little Szu had taken hold of my arm. 

The crowd blew kisses and applauded Julie off the stage while Gaga revved the band into another full-speed rollout of songs. I shook my head at how quick she changed gears, remembering the soft touch she had when she played for me. Much energy and smarts packed into that compact package.  

She gave the crowd three or four encores, getting a grin back from me when she flashed a thumbs-up my way. Finished with an all-out repeat of Born This Way. On the last note, she brought little Julie back onstage to share the applause. 

Excellent Lady Gaga.  

                                                #          #          # 

The bitch could sing and dance, he'd give her that, carrying on in that way of hers, getting everybody worked up with those costumes that were all tits and ass. And who was this punk in the front row she just gave the thumbs-up to?  Him standing with that Chinese chick he almost collided with outside, the one he'd tried to hit on when he picked up Marla. It looked like she might have recognized him, which wouldn't be good if they were trying to trace Marla. He'd kept Marla's phone, probably had this chick's number in it, something like Zoo her name was, should think about how he could get to her through that. 

Anyway, here came Gaga offstage with her cute little friend she got everybody to melt over. The two of them likely off to some party while he'd be here all night again, packing up Gaga's crap, making up for coming in late like he did.   

She gave him a smile when she went by, not one friggin' bit of recognition. Or maybe there was, the way she glanced back at him. She went over and hugged the foreman, gave him a kiss. Maybe he should go after her. Add her tongue to the collection. Seriously, he'd be a name for the ages – right up there with his main man, Jack the never-caught Ripper.   

Lady Gaga trophy tongue – now wouldn't that be something.                  

        (To be continued...)