by Paula Guran
“Just like that?”
“She went into Electric Squidland,” Jamie said in a low voice, “and she never came out.”
“Vanished without a trace,” Jesperson said, “and now it’s happened again. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Jamie said. “You mean somebody sorta disappeared?”
“Actually, yes,” Jesperson said and allowed himself a small, crooked smile at their expressions. “What we have are the remains of half a person.”
“Um, which half, sir? Top? Bottom?”
“The right half, I believe, Mr. Sharpton.”
Mick and Jamie looked at each other. “Well, that’s a new one,” Mick managed after a moment.
“Quite,” Jesperson said dryly. “We got a tip this morning. Anonymous, of course. Here.”
He pressed the play button on the recorder that sat, as always, on the corner of his desk, and a woman’s voice, drawling with a hard nasal edge, spoke into the quiet room: “There’s something y’all need to see. Right now it’s out in the Sunny Creek Dump in a big black garbage bag, but I don’t know how long it’ll be there, so you better hurry. And if you wanna know more about it, go to Electric Squidland and ask ’em what happened to Brett Vincent.” A solid clunk of metal and plastic as she hung up the phone, and Jesperson pushed the stop button.
And then both he and Mick were staring as Jamie lurched to his feet and said in a strangled voice, “I’ll be right back.” He almost fell against the door on his way out. Mick glanced at Jesperson for permission and followed him.
Jamie hadn’t gone far; he was leaning against the wall next to the water fountain. Dark-skinned as he was, he couldn’t go pale, but he was definitely gray around the edges. “Jamie?” Mick said, half-expecting his friend to slide to the floor in a dead faint.
“Sorry,” Jamie said. His eyes were closed, and Mick thought he was doing one of the breathing exercises he’d learned from practicing yoga.
“About what, exactly? Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Just wasn’t expecting . . . ”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting any of it, so I’m not sure how that gets you out here in the corridor looking like you’re about to have a heart attack. You’re not, are you?”
That got Jamie’s eyes open. “Mick!”
“You look bad enough. And if you are, I want enough warning that I can call down for a gurney or something.”
“Christ. No. I am not going to have a heart attack. I just wasn’t ready for . . . ”
“Oh,” Mick said, feeling like an idiot. “You knew the guy, didn’t you? Brett Whatsisface?”
“Vincent. Yeah, I knew him.” Jamie smiled, but there was neither mirth nor pleasure in it. “All too well.”
After a moment, Mick said, “I didn’t know you were bisexual.”
“What I am is monogamous,” Jamie said—mildly enough, but it was a clear warning to back off.
“We’re going to have Jesperson out here in a minute,” Mick said obediently.
“Yeah,” Jamie said. “You go on. Lemme get a drink of water. And, yes, you can tell him about me and Brett.”
“Okay,” Mick said, touched Jamie’s shoulder lightly, awkwardly, wanting to give comfort but knowing he was no good at it, and went back into Jesperson’s office.
“Jamie, um, had a relationship with the deceased,” he said to Jesperson’s raised eyebrows.
“Did he?” Jesperson said, and added just as Jamie came through the door, “Then perhaps he can identify the body.”
An hour ago, this had been a good day. Now, it was beginning to feel more like a nightmare.
Mick and Jamie were in the BPI morgue. Cold, echoing, the lights harsh on gray tile and metal, the psychic residue of death like dirt on every spotless surface. Mick hated it.
He hated it more today, watching Jamie’s grim impersonation of a hard-as-nails, ice-cold BPI agent. He wasn’t fooling his partner, and Mick doubted he was fooling himself, which meant he was hanging onto the act because it was either that or go off in a corner and have a meltdown.
Mick spared some hate for Jesperson while he was at it.
He understood the logic, and Jesperson wouldn’t have been competent to run the BPI’s southeast hub if he didn’t grab every advantage he could get and wring it bone-dry. But knowing that didn’t make it any more bearable to watch the way Jamie’s hands, carefully clasped behind his back, tightened and released against each other again and again, like the beating of some murderously overworked heart.
The morgue staffer seemed to catch the mood, for she was silent as she led them to the autopsy table, and remained silent as she pulled the sheet back.
Mick had to turn away. Even the mental images conjured up by the phrase “half a body” had not prepared him for the reality: the raw, ragged edges of bone and skin; the way what remained of the internal organs spilled untidily out of the body onto the table; the way that one staring dead eye was somehow even worse than two.
Jamie regarded the body for a long time, perfectly silent, then said in a level, almost uninterested voice, “Yes. That’s Brett Vincent. I recognize him, and he’s got the tattoo.”
“Tattoo?” Mick said; his voice, unlike Jamie’s, was a wavering croak.
“We went and got ’em together,” Jamie said, touching Mick’s shoulder to get him to turn around. He did, carefully not looking at the table, and saw that Jamie had rolled his right sleeve up, was indicating the bend of his elbow, where the Wild Hunt—who rode in somber, frenetic glory the length of his arm—broke like sea waves to either side of a design clearly the work of a different artist. For a moment, Mick couldn’t make sense of the lines, and then it resolved into a circle made of two snakes, each biting the other’s tail. Without knowing he was going to, Mick reached out and touched the tattoo gently, as if it might still be sore all these years later. His finger was shockingly white against Jamie’s dark skin, and they both pretended they couldn’t see how unsteady it was.
Jamie said, “Anyway, that body’s got Brett’s tattoo right where Brett had it. It’s him.”
“I’ll write up the report,” the morgue staffer said. “Thank you.”
Jamie was unhurriedly rebuttoning his cuff. “And I guess we go see what Jesperson wants us to do now.”
Jesperson wanted them to go to Electric Squidland.
“Never thought I’d see the day when the Old Man would send us clubbing,” Jamie said when he picked Mick up that evening.
“Never thought I’d see the day when the Old Man would send us on a date,” Mick countered, and was delighted when Jamie laughed.
They left the Skylark three blocks from the nightclub and walked the rest of the way, enjoying the mild night air. At 10:07 P.M. (Mick noted the exact time from force of habit) they walked into Kaleidoscope, the first level of Electric Squidland, mirrors and colored lights everywhere, and were greeted with a loud cry of, “Jamie! Lover!”
Mick stared disbelievingly at Jamie, who winced visibly before turning to greet an extremely pretty young man who was making the most of his Hispanic heritage with a pair of pale blue satin toreador pants. Mick, observing the pretty young man with the eye of an expert, saw that he was not as young as he was trying to appear, and he would be prettier if he admitted it.
“Ex-lover, Carlos,” Jamie corrected, but he let Carlos kiss him.
“Oh, nonsense, darling. Once I let a man into my heart, he never leaves. But who is your Marilyn Manson here? This your new flame, sweetie?”
Mick opened his mouth to say something withering about blue satin toreador pants, but Jamie’s abashed, apologetic expression stopped him. He swallowed his venom, said, “Mick Sharpton,” and endured Carlos’ cold fish handshake. He and Carlos understood each other very well.
“Mick’s never been to Electric Squidland,” Jamie said, adroitly avoiding the issue of whether Mick was or was not a “flame.” “So I said I’d show him around. Suzanne working tonight?”
“Is it Wednesday and is the Pope Catholi
c?” Someone across the room was trying vigorously to attract Carlos’ attention. He said, “We’ll catch up later, sweetie. When you’re not so busy.”
When you’ve ditched your gothboy, Mick translated and was not sorry to see the last of Carlos. “I’ll assume Carlos has hidden qualities,” he said in Jamie’s ear.
“Me-ow,” Jamie said, and Mick felt himself blush. “C’mon. We won’t find what we’re looking for up here.”
“What are we looking for, exactly?”
“Gal who has the Wednesday night show in Inferno.”
“Oooo-kay.”
Jamie grinned. “The two lower levels are Members Only. And I don’t think Jesperson’s going to let us put membership on our expense accounts. But Suzanne can get us badges, if she has a mind to.”
“And will she?”
“Will she what?”
“Have a mind to?”
“Oh, I think so,” Jamie said, and there was a private joke in there somewhere. Mick could feel it, and it made him a little uneasy. But only a little. He trusted Jamie, in a way he’d never been able to trust a partner before. He’d wondered sometimes, the first two years he was with the BPI, why he kept torturing himself, spending his days—and sometimes his nights—with a series of agents who disliked him, distrusted him. Some of them had openly hated him, and Mick had hated them back, fiercely and with no quarter given.
He had expected Jamie to be more of the same, Jamie with his bulk and his heavy hands and his deceptive eyes. And he still didn’t understand what was different about Jamie, massive, gentle Jamie with his night-dark skin and his tattoos like clouds—didn’t understand why Jamie had decided to like him and made that decision stick. Mick was painfully aware that he didn’t deserve Jamie’s liking—ever a proponent of “hit back first,” he had been unconscionably nasty to Jamie in the early days of their partnership, until Jamie had proved, immutably, that he would not be nasty back. So whatever it was Jamie was waiting to spring on him, he knew it wouldn’t be too bad.
He followed Jamie obediently from Kaleidoscope down the open corkscrew staircase that was the centerpiece of Electric Squidland’s second level, Submarine. Submarine was classier, the level for those who fancied themselves Beautiful People. No disco balls here, and the music was dark, very techno, very European. Mick bet the bar on this level went through a lot of synthetic absinthe.
Jamie used their descent of the staircase to reconnoiter, and at the bottom, he grabbed Mick’s elbow and said, “This way.”
“Your gal’s here?”
“Yup.”
“Is she drinking synthetic absinthe?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” By then, he could see the woman Jamie was aiming for, a petite woman with long plum-red hair, dressed in trailing, clinging black. The liquid in her glass was lurid green, and Mick moaned quietly to himself.
She looked up at their approach. Her eyes widened, and then she said, with apparently genuine delight, “Jamie! A very long time, and no see at all!” And then she gave Mick a once-over, seeming to take especial note of Jamie’s hand on his elbow. “Are you attached to this delectable creature?”
“At the hip,” Jamie muttered, only loud enough for Mick to hear, then said, “Sorta. I’m showing him around tonight.”
“Well, you can just leave him to me.” Suzanne extended a hand, the nails as long and black as Mick’s own, and said, “Hi. I’m Suzanne.”
“Mick.” He did not let Suzanne’s hand linger in his, although he knew he probably should have.
“Sit down, please,” Suzanne said. “How have you been?”
“Oh, fine,” Jamie said. “Listen, Suzanne, I really want Mick to see your act tonight.”
It was hard to tell in Submarine’s dim lighting, but Mick thought Suzanne blushed. “Jamie, how sweet of you.”
Jamie kicked Mick’s ankle; resigned, Mick picked up his cue: “Jamie’s told me the most amazing things.”
She was blushing. “He’s probably exaggerating. But . . . ” She looked at them, an expression in her eyes that Mick couldn’t read. But whatever she saw pleased her; she smiled and said, “I’d hate to let you down. Let me see what I can do.”
She left with a generous sway of her hips, and Mick leaned over to hiss in Jamie’s ear, “She can’t think I’m straight.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t.” He shifted guiltily. “Suzanne, um. She has a thing for . . . ”
“She’s a fag hag,” Mick said, several things falling into place; Jamie winced, but did not dispute the term. So that was Jamie’s private joke. Mick grinned. “You son of a bitch. And you want me to—”
“Jesperson wants information. Of the two of us, I’m the one who knows where to look, which means you get to play distraction.”
“But do I have to distract her?”
“You can distract her. And if you’re distracting her, I can tell the bouncer at Inferno’s side door I’m running an errand for her, and he’s likely to believe me.”
“Your plan sucks,” Mick said.
“It’s the only one we’ve got. And anyway, she’s coming back, so it’ll have to do.”
“Your leadership technique also sucks,” Mick said and forced himself to smile at Suzanne. Suzanne had brought them two pin-on black badges, each saying Inferno in fiery letters. “I’ve got to run and get ready,” she said. “Sit where I can see you, and I’ll talk to you after, okay?”
It was clear to both Mick and Jamie which one of them she was talking to, and Mick only barely managed not to sigh audibly.
“Be glad she brought two badges,” Jamie said, then hesitated. “Suzanne’s really not that bad. She’s like a lot of the kids here—thinks it’s exciting and sexy to work in a nightclub with a reputation. She doesn’t know what goes on in Neon Cthulhu.”
“And you do? What did you do, when you worked here?”
“Chief bouncer for Inferno. Adler called me Cerberus and thought he was being funny.”
“You must’ve been good at it. Why’d you quit?”
Jamie smiled widely, mirthlessly, the same smile he’d had when he’d confessed to knowing Brett Vincent. “Because they were gonna give me a promotion.”
“Most people,” Mick said, cautious now because he didn’t know this mood on Jamie, didn’t know which way Jamie would jump, “don’t find that offensive.”
“They wanted to put me on the door of Neon Cthulhu, the lowest level. And I wasn’t stupid enough to be interested. Inferno’s bad enough, and it’s really just play-acting.” He held up one broad palm, anticipating Mick ’s objection. “Nothing illegal in the Neon Cthulhu. Leastways not out in the open. It’s all consensual, and they got a license for public occultism. But it is nasty shit. I was only down there once.” And he shuddered, as if even the memory made him ill.
“Jamie?” Mick said uncertainly. “You okay?”
Jamie shook his head, a weary gesture like a bull goaded by flies. “Don’t like it here,” he said. “Lot of real crappy memories.”
“I’m sorry,” Mick said helplessly, and was relieved when Jamie smiled at him, even if the smile was thin and forced.
“Not your fault, blue eyes. C’mon. Let’s go to Hell.”
Suzanne, it turned out, was a class eight magician; her act was very good, very smooth. She had a rather pretty young man as her assistant, and looking at him, looking at Suzanne, Mick saw his own twenty-year-old self and understood what Jamie had been trying to say about Suzanne. So eager to be wicked, but with no clear idea of how to go about it, so ready to admire anyone who seemed to have the secret information she lacked. He was able to relax a little, though, more confident she would not turn out to be the sort that would try to get him into bed.
After her curtain calls, Suzanne came and sat at Mick and Jamie’s table, instantly making them the cynosure of all eyes; she preened herself, and Mick felt his patience with her slip another notch. Jamie, with his customary talent for evading the spotlight, went to get drinks, then muttered so
mething about the restroom and disappeared—leaving Mick alone with Suzanne and several dozen interested spectators, including her seething pretty boy.
Mick knocked back a generous swallow of his screwdriver, and offered the first conversational gambit, asking a simple question about how she accomplished one of the effects in her act.
An hour later, he was wishing Suzanne’s pretty boy would just go ahead and slip strychnine in his glass, because it would be less excruciating than this. The boy was hovering, green with jealousy; Suzanne, well aware, was flirting with Mick in a way he could have put paid to with a few pithy words, except that he was supposed to keep Suzanne distracted until Jamie got back, and where the hell was Jamie anyway?
Shouldn’t have let him go running off to play James Bond on his own, Mick thought, while acknowledging ruefully that there was nothing else he could have done. He smiled at Suzanne—a little too hard, but she wouldn’t notice in the dim light—and choked on his screwdriver when she asked, a trifle too nonchalantly, “Have you been Jamie’s partner long?”
The coughing fit was merciful; by the time he recovered, and Suzanne was saying, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he’d realized what she meant. She thought he and Jamie were lovers; her curiosity was prurient, not professional.
“You just surprised me,” he said. “I didn’t realize you . . . ” and as he hesitated, trying to decide what he ought to say, whether he ought to play along, or whether he ought to tell her about Jamie’s girlfriend, the image crashed into his mind, brutal as an SUV through plate glass—blood, black in lurid green light, and the harsh scent of cedar incense.
“Shit!” he said, setting his glass down hard enough to slop orange juice and vodka onto the table. “Jamie’s in trouble.”
Suzanne looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to be offended or alarmed. “What, are you psychic or something?”
“Yeah, actually. Three-latent-eight.”
She and her pretty boy stared at him with identical wide-eyed expressions.
“And I mean it,” Mick said. “Jamie is in serious trouble. Will you help me find him?”
