Black Market Blood

by Francis Gideon

  “Was it German? Yiddish?”

  “Maybe…,” Chaz said, but knew that wasn’t it. The only accents he had experience with and could identify from a single word were his grandfather’s Yiddish one and the Caribbean one his grandmother had. Memories of them both came back in a rush, but he pushed them away. “I don’t think so, actually. What about something else from that region?”

  “Like Polish? Slovak or Czech? Let me see.” Gordon’s musing tapered off as he typed something into his computer. “Ah, okay. Here’s something: an immigrant center for those from the Czech Republic and surrounding areas right in the middle of that search area. It may narrow down what you want to look for.”

  “Gordon, that’s perfect. Thank you so much.” Chaz hung up after exchanging a couple more pleasantries.

  Declan held out the search area on his phone with all the parameters factored in. Using the vampire den, the magazine publisher’s distribution, and the immigrant center as the corners, a perfect triangle was formed.

  “That’s probably where Patrick Mortimer disappeared,” Chaz said. “Let’s go find out how.”

  Chapter 7

  THEY PARKED the car a block away, near the magazine distributor’s parking lot. Though it was nearly eleven at night, the lot for the magazine was half-full and lights flickered inside as if people were working. They both tried to walk casually down the block to see if they could spot a brothel or a motel where Patrick took clients, without looking like cops, but Chaz realized they’d both been doing this job far too long. Even if they’d ditched their trench coats in the car, each step they took was disciplined and practiced. Their guns were holstered under suit jackets and their badges were in the bottom of their pockets. As soon as they passed by a broken-down storefront, they were made.

  “Hey! Get away! We didn’t call you!”

  Chaz glanced up to spot a woman with messy, dark hair, hanging out an apartment window above the storefront. She was soon joined by other women, who were younger and blonder. Chaz hoped they were all above the age of consent because he really didn’t want to be dragged into a mess like that. Boards had been added over some of the apartment windows, only allowing each woman a small hole to reach out of and make rude gestures at Chaz and Declan.

  “No one called us,” Chaz said. “We’re not vice. We just want to talk.”

  “Liars.” The women shouted more at them, some of it in Spanish and another language Chaz didn’t know. Czech? Maybe, and it made sense given the center around the block. Chaz turned to Declan, who had his hand on his gun.

  Chaz touched his elbow. “Hey, man. Don’t. They’re not going to harm us.”

  “But he might.” Declan gestured to a man with a thick beard, so black it was almost blue. A cigarette hung from one hand, adding some light to the broken storefront sign. What used to be a grocery store had been emptied out and filled with couches, chairs, and mannequins dressed in skimpy clothing. A red-light district, disguised as a thrift store. Exactly the place they needed to be.

  “Were you the ones calling about a date with my Cupid?” he asked, his voice more arrogant than afraid. The accent was thick and the same as the one from the phone call.

  “We did,” Chaz said.

  “Well, I have no dates anymore. Sorry to disappoint. I only sell clothing to my models upstairs.” He threw down his cigarette and grasped the door to step back inside.

  “No, wait,” Chaz said, reaching out for him to stop. “We’re not trying to jam you up with any charges. We’re trying to find the kid we called. Cupid, like you mentioned. Where is he?”

  “I have lots of Cupids,” the man said after a while, then gestured upstairs. “Cupid boys and girls, all of the age of consent. All who want to accompany men like yourself on dates, but that is it. The arrow of love has a mind of its own.”

  Cupid was less Patrick’s nickname and more of a generalized term for sex worker in this area. Chaz dug through his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone to show the photo he’d taken of Patrick’s ad. “We want this Cupid. Have you seen him before? We’re trying to figure out what happened to him. He went to the school.”

  “They all go to school. Then they can’t pay. Then they work for me.” He smiled, as if this was a boast. One of his front teeth was so black it was blue, too. He took the phone from Chaz and squinted as he looked. “I don’t know him.”

  A woman from the second floor said something. It wasn’t in English, though. Chaz glanced at Declan, who shook his head, uncomprehending.

  “Are you sure you haven’t seen this kid? You answered the phone number.”

  “For Cupids. I have all kinds of Cupids. He is one of many lost boys. I can’t keep track of them all. Only what’s in stock.”

  Chaz shuddered at the man’s wording. When he handed back his phone, Chaz wanted to smash it into the ground. He slipped it away in his jacket and pulled out his card for the Toronto police instead. He flattened it out against the door the man stood by and wrote his number down on it. “Can I give this to you? If this particular Cupid comes back, the police will pay a lot of money for him.”

  “Money for him? More?”

  Chaz nodded. The man looked down at the number and scoffed. “City of Monsters. Are you trying to save one of your own?”

  “We’re only trying to do what’s right. And we want him.”

  “Okay,” the man said, tucking the card away. “For now, do you want different Cupid?”

  When Chaz shook his head, the man scoffed. He left Declan and Chaz and walked inside and shut off the neon light. Chaz blinked to recover from the sudden darkness.

  “I don’t like this,” Declan whispered, his face sour. “Giving our numbers to a pimp. Worse than Bluebeard from the fairy tale. Ugh. We should have just arrested him.”

  “Charges wouldn’t hold, and we can’t risk the women’s safety. I don’t like it either. But there’s not much else we can do here. He’s in charge, but probably not a vamp.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “His teeth. One of them was black. Vamps need their teeth and the smallest infection bugs them. He would be in extreme pain if he was a vamp and had a tooth like that.”

  Declan nodded, considering this. “Why’d you give him our number, though? Patrick’s dead. We know he’s dead.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t know we know that. If he thinks the police will give more money for him, maybe he’ll call in with information. Or maybe, just maybe, one of the women will and tell us what happened to him.”

  Declan opened his mouth to ask something, but a woman from the second floor shouted again. She was someone they hadn’t seen yet, and she had several men beside her who looked to be workers, not johns. Her dark bangs seemed stuck to her forehead. She gestured with her arms to the left and made a sign of wings.

  Or is that her firing an arrow?

  “For Cupid?” Chaz asked.

  She spoke faster in her language, but nothing was in English. Chaz shook his head, wishing he’d stayed in school longer or done something other than fuck around when he was in Divine Interventions. He could have learned so many languages, but instead, he’d been a drunk. Chaz turned to Declan, who also seemed perplexed. “Maybe she wants us to look next door?”

  “That’s the magazine, though,” Declan said. “Even if people are there, no one will answer us. Not after this exchange. And either way, we’ll need a warrant, which will take a while even if we wake a judge up.”

  “You’re right. But what if we disguise ourselves? I think if we pretend—”

  “It’s midnight. We’ve done all we can right now, Chip. Let’s call it. Maybe in a couple days, we’ll have a warrant and we can search the magazine, but tonight? It’s out of our hands. No more.” Declan’s tone was sharp, insistent. Stress lines appeared around his mouth and eyes, reminding Chaz he’d been up even earlier than Chaz today to see the autopsy. There was the plane, and now… whatever this was. The streetlamps flickered. Cats crossed the road. Dirt marked every sin
gle storefront, making the whole street seem like it had been tainted by the brothel. This was no time to be playing dress-up to get into a magazine warehouse. Jack had all the information now, and after another quick update, they would be done.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

  “It’s fine,” Declan said. “We all want to get this guy, especially given what he’s doing.”

  As Declan walked, Chaz stayed on the sidewalk, as if rooted in place. He replayed all the terrible scenarios that could come out of this. Even if they’d figured out what happened to Patrick, there were still the days leading up to the boat and Lake Ontario to account for. Ten days, ten days in a hellhole like this. Chaz needed to speak to this woman and the other men. He wanted to free them.

  Declan glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He jogged to catch up.

  A silence fell between them, taut and unmoving. A few men walked by them and toward the house Bluebeard guarded. They were let inside without issue. Soon the women disappeared from the window and went back to work. Chaz thought of Sully again, but only for a flash because he remembered Declan’s mouth on him too. Years disappeared and Chaz was outside a diner with the rough brick of the wall against his back.

  “Hey. I know it’s been a long day, but how do you feel about getting a drink at the bar when we get back?” As soon as Chaz said the words, he remembered the chip Declan had been fidgeting with like a magical charm. “Shit. I mean. Not an alcoholic drink, but something to talk over. You know? Diet Coke maybe? With no turbulence there won’t be as many stains.”

  Declan chuckled as he slipped into the passenger seat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Because we’re partners? Because we’re both alcoholics?”

  “No, actually. I’m not an alcoholic. Didn’t know you were.”

  “Eh, way back in the day, I would stay drunk instead of dealing with things. I can handle myself now, though I usually limit myself to one kind of drink. The rest of addiction got… well, boring, I suppose.”

  Declan nodded solemnly. Though they were both now in the car with belts on, Chaz didn’t start the engine. Declan fidgeted with his seat belt, checking it twice, before he wrung his hands. The only light was a rocky streetlamp that kept flickering, casting shadows on Declan’s face.

  “I’m not so lucky. I can control my urges for the most part, but the addiction itself isn’t boring. Still bright and shiny and tempting.”

  “For what, though? If not alcohol, then drugs? I’ve seen some guys go off the deep end once they taste Dino.”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m a sex addict.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  Again, Declan nodded. His angry tone and disgust back in Wannong and Patrick’s room and around the doorman for the brothel made so much more sense. So did their tryst in the back alley years ago, without even exchanging names. Chaz felt bad for thinking of Declan as a way out of his blinding loneliness tonight. The mere thought of sex seemed to have Declan clasping at the chip in his pocket.

  “Sorry, man,” Chaz said slowly. “Are you going to be okay? Working this case?”

  “This one? Oh yeah. Don’t worry. The Cupids don’t tempt me. Love’s arrow won’t strike.” Declan mimicked the guy’s accent. “But I wrestled with myself a lot when I realized you’d be my partner. One of the reasons I wanted to do the autopsy alone. Wasn’t sure if I could work it with you and me in a closed space.”

  Chaz nodded, completely understanding. The separate hotel rooms. The hesitancy around him. Everything about Declan was falling into place. And you made a pass at him.

  “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean before that—you know—I just meant that traveling is lonely and well, bars are places for people to talk. Just talk. And um.” Chaz bit his tongue, then his cheek, because hooking up had been exactly what he was implying. He wanted to be with someone tonight after a long day, and he had his sights on his partner, even though that was an awful idea. And he was trying to lie about it now, which only seemed to make everything that much worse.

  “No, it’s fine,” Declan said, oblivious or not caring Chaz was lying. “I don’t care. I shouldn’t care, because I want to live a normal life again. Part of doing that, and being in this program, is that I should face my past and apologize. So, Chip, I’m sorry.”

  “For what, though? You did nothing wrong.”

  “I had sex with you and never asked your name. I didn’t care about you. I only cared about getting my next fix. So I apologize for treating you that way. I never meant it to be something so crass.”

  Chaz bit his tongue, forcing himself to wait for his urge to say “it wasn’t a big deal” to pass. To Declan, it was. So Chaz needed to allow him to apologize as much as he needed to accept that apology himself. “Thank you, Declan. I appreciate the sentiment.”

  When Declan smiled next, it was as if a load had been lifted from his chest. “You’re a good man, Chip. I enjoyed your company back then and perhaps if I wasn’t sick, we could have had a good time together.”

  “But?”

  “But now I don’t want my past creeping up behind me and causing everything to be that much more difficult. Just because I’m a sex addict doesn’t mean I can’t have a relationship in the future. But it does mean that my past relationships are not the best start for a new one, if you understand what I mean.”

  “I do. Again, I apologize if I was implying anything—”

  “It’s fine. Even if you were, it’s understandable. Familiarity is nice, especially when we’re both in a place where we don’t want to be.”

  The car grew quiet and Chaz’s stomach lurched. That was the exact feeling. So much had gone on today that Chaz’s urge for a drink or a fuck wasn’t something he needed, like an addiction. It was something familiar amongst the strange. It wouldn’t happen with Declan, not ever, and that thought actually made Chaz feel better. The past they shared could be forgotten now. They could just be strangers meeting again years later.

  “You know, how about some coffee to celebrate our new and strictly platonic partnership? Or maybe ice cream?” Chaz suggested. “There’s gotta be a place open. We’ve done a lot of work.”

  When Declan smiled and slipped the SA chip back up his sleeve, Chaz knew he’d done something right.

  Chapter 8

  WITH STRAWBERRY ice cream still on his lips, Chaz walked into his hotel room. Declan had gone to bed an hour or two ago while Chaz hung around in the hotel bar with a drink. He’d watched sports, but it soon bored him. He was surprised when no one approached him for a night of sex for cash. Given what he’d already seen in Winnipeg, he expected there to be a lot of workers around. But there wasn’t even a barfly to pick him up for a casual lay.

  Chaz undid his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, along with his gun holster. Desire bloomed in his belly. He needed someone tonight. With the way his thoughts had been going, only Sully would suffice. He sat on his bed, cock half-hard and in his hand, as he dialed Artie’s number.

  She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Artie. It’s Chip.”

  “Hi, doll. What can I do for you?”

  “You do phone sessions, right?”

  “Not me. But yes, we charge for phone. It will show up as a fishing magazine on your credit card, so no need to worry. And the number will show up as the same thing.”

  “Right.” Chaz realized he was calling on the work phone since it was the only one he had. He eyed the landline on the hotel nightstand. “Shit. I should switch.”

  “Yes, you probably should. But even if you stayed on this line, our systems are secure. Techno-witch approved.”

  “I still can’t risk it. Not after the day I’ve had.”

  He was surprised Artie didn’t ask him to elaborate until he remembered she couldn’t care less. His woes were not what she was being paid for. He fed her the number for the hotel landline and she wrote
it down.

  “Tom is working tonight. I can see if he’ll call you back—”

  “Actually, I’d rather talk to Sully if he’s willing to take calls.”

  “Of course.” Chaz swore he could hear the smile in Artie’s voice. “Give me five minutes and he’ll call you right back.”

  “Thank you.”

  While he waited, Chaz tried to delete the call to Artie from the log, but it didn’t work. Just a fly-fishing magazine, he told himself. That’s what it will show up as. Besides, if anyone caught him with the real number, Chaz could say it was for the investigation. He wondered how connected Artie’s fake fly-fishing magazine was to the magazine distribution center they’d passed. He didn’t get a chance to wonder for long before the phone rattled from the bedside table. Chaz jumped out of his skin, not used to the clanging sounds of old landlines. He picked up the impossibly heavy receiver and held it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Chip?” Sully’s voice was small, as if he was far away. “Do you want to talk tonight?”

  “Yeah, I do, actually. I’m in Manitoba.”

  “Yikes. What do you need to be in Manitoba for?”

  “Work. You probably don’t want to hear about it. It’s depressing.”

  “Oh, I know a lot of depressing things. I bet you could tell me everything you witnessed and it still wouldn’t make me sad.”

  “That’s a horrible bet.” Chaz furrowed his brows, trying to decipher if that was humor or sadness in Sully’s voice. “Why would you want to play a game like that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not as depressing as you probably think. One of the girls here, a new one named Tabby, she and I play it a lot. The ‘whose childhood was worse’ game. We list events and try to one-up each other.”

  “That still sounds awful.”

  “But it’s not. That’s the thing about bad stuff and broken homes. Whatever name you want to give it, it doesn’t matter, because it still has power over you. It still happened to you and there’s no way you can undo it. But when we tell jokes about it and see if we can one-up the other person with our own tragedy, we take back the shitty stuff that’s happened to us so it’s ours again. It has no power over us—we have power over it.”