Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

  The view from the street is discouraging, even though the building is a fair way from the centre of all the illicit activity. Groups of decrepit sentients swarm backwards and forwards, along with clumos of gremlins and stray animals. The few windows of shops open in the late afternoon are inevitably lit with various shades of red, whether they be fast-food joints, porn video stores or clubs showing off their ‘dancers’ to passersby—commonly referred to as “whore houses” by patrons, rarely classy enough to use the more polite “bordellos”.

  A tramp slumped in a corner asks for a few coins by tugging at my trousers and breathing his putrid breath towards my face. Shrugging him off I light a cigarette to get rid of the revolting stench, praying to God that Cohl isn’t looking for a place to park, while the beggar goes back to talking gibberish to a bag of rubbish, his new best friend. Instead the Fiamma pulls up right behind my double-parked car, thank God.

  The entrance to the apartment block is an obscene graffiti-covered door, squeezed between a hardware shop with its shutters down and a minimarket that went bankrupt. In the poky waiting room, there’s a bloke staring at a quiz show on a black and white TV that’s more or less my age. The age of the viewer, on the other hand, is a complete mystery. I’m pretty sure he ought to be dead. His yellowish skin looks like it’s been stretched over his bones with difficulty, speckled with brown patches of various sizes. Grey hairs emerge disgustingly from his body, seemingly at random, some out of his head, some out of his face, some out of his shoulders and some out of his arms. He’s wearing shorts and a greasy cream-coloured vest, which was probably white once. In one hand he’s clutching the remote control, in the other a pack of filterless Federals, the cigarettes universally recognised as an incentive to stop smoking. It’s so fucking warm.

  “Two crowns an hour. I’ve got a clean room too, I know that…” He coughs. “… your type likes cleanliness.”

  He finishes with an abortion of a laugh, a lascivious ‘eh’, without even looking at us. I’d punch him in the face if he weren’t so repulsive. Cohl takes the lead.

  “We aren’t interested in a room. Metropolitan Police.” He shows him his badge.

  At last that snot ball looks at us and gets up from the sofa in the ‘reception’.

  “Hey. Cops. Hey. Sorry.” He gurgles for a moment and then spits in a basin next to the TV, hitting it spot on with precision that only comes with years and years of practice. I force myself not to look at the contents of the basin.

  “What can I do for you? Whores? Eh.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve already paid my dues, already paid them, eh,” he exclaims, worried, before coughing and hitting another bull’s-eye in the spittoon.

  “I’ll pretend I never heard that. We need information.”

  “Ah, information. Eh. About what?”

  “Elves, a male and a female. They lived here a few years ago,” I interrupt, to stop myself from succumbing to the temptation of looking inside the spittoon. It’s as if he’s offended, the human bogey spits again.

  “Eh. Yeah, right, the two asses. Eh. They’re not here anymore, they left. Didn’t have any money, eh.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  Coughing fit, spit in the basin.

  “I made an offer to the chick, eh. So they could stay. But they were like, ‘no’, eh. Madame Arsey must have preferred the streets, eh.”

  “Where. Did. They. Go?”

  “I. Don’t. Know. Eh.” He smiles like I imagine a slug would smile if it had a humanoid mouth. He’s even got a trace of saliva on his lower lip. At least, I hope it’s saliva. Either way, he’s totally fucked me off. I take my regulation gun out of its holster and disengage the safety.

  “Hey. You can’t shoot me. Eh.”

  I shoot the TV, and make both Cohl and the slimeball jump out of their skins. The ancient cathode ray tube dies during its first and last explosion of colour.

  “Okay, okay!” He raises his hands, imploring me to calm down with his open jaundiced palms. “I don’t know where they went, but I know where he works, eh. Happy now? Bastard cop. Eh.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Cicisbeo, down on the Eighth. Eh.”

  “The strip club?”

  “Eh. For queers, yeah. Eh.”

  “Let’s go.” – I nod to my faithful cop companion who walks outside before me. I’m just leaving when I hear the hairy piece of snot murmur: “Poofs, eh.”

  I turn and fire at the spittoon from a safe distance, sending fragments of cheap china and balls of catarrh flying all over the room. Then I go out again, leaving him in stunned silence. Bet it’ll only take him a couple of minutes to clean up, even though there’s enough there for weeks and weeks.

  As soon as we’re outside, Nohl anxiously grabs my arm.

  “Tell me you didn’t kill him, Lieutenant.”

  A yell comes from inside: “QUEERS!”

  “Why, do you want to?”

  We leave and go even further down.

  It’s chaos outside Cicisbeo, on the eighth circle of the abyss. The degenerate souls are anxious to flap their moth’s wings up to the blazing stake of oblivion. There’s a stench of urine, of faeces, and more faintly, of degrading, desperate sex, the whole thing is held together with an indiscernible bouquet of trash. The lower levels, are simultaneously, the most depressing and the most intense. Here, nobody’s got much to lose, so they all throw themselves head first into any old demented scheme that comes their way. Like a decomposing carcass, the city’s slums are swarming with carrion-eating invertebrates, who build their existence on the death of the animal they dig into by frenetically opening and closing their chitinous mandibles.

  A great fat pile of steaming shit.

  I can’t seem to find a place to park, despite my renowned casual attitude to council regulations, which is nothing new ‘round here. I’ll just have to wait, while Cohl puts his back into looking for a spot which breaks as few laws as possible. This is as stupid as it is futile. A couple nearby observe me for a few minutes before plucking up the courage to come over.

  “Oh mate, have you, like, got anything?” he asks with eyelids at half mast, scratching the back of his neck. The girl, black hair with blue stripes and three separate rings in her nose, looks as though she was pretty once. Of course, her urban scum look, combined with a nasty cut on her lower lip—recent, if the surrounding bruise is anything to go by—does nothing to help the overall effect.

  “I’ve got a gun,” I reply, deadpan. “Actually, two.”

  He doesn’t get it.

  “No, yeah.” He shrugs his shoulders as if he’s just said something blatantly obvious. “No, like, I mean shit.”

  “Might have. How much ‘shit’ is your slut worth?”

  He looks at her in a new light, estimating a figure. Stripy, on the other hand, looks somewhat alarmed.

  “Guy, I don’t…” interjects Miss City Dump, without much conviction. Could it be that she’s only just discovering how far he will stoop for a fix?

  “Ten grammes.”

  I burst out laughing right into his face.

  “It’s not like she’s the Queen of Blowjobs. Two, and I’m being generous.”

  “Five.”

  I shake my head.

  “Two.”

  “Four, come on, mate!” He opens his arms wide as if to say ‘you’re killing me’! What a character. As if he’s selling his arse.

  “Three.” He lowers his price even further, insistent.

  I pretend to think about it, scratching my chin.

  “So, let’s see, pimping for the procurement of drugs. Hmmm. And assault and battery, I reckon,” I say, indicating her black and blue mouth, “between six months and two years. That’s a rough guess”.

  “What the fuck are you on about?”

  “Come on, Guy, let’s go…”

  I grimace at Guy with an expression that must look enigmatic to him.

  “You’re not a cop?!” he asks, amazed, a
s though the simple idea of a cop waiting in a carpark smoking a cigarette, is totally incredible. It’s fantastic how everyone in the City is surprised when the inhabitants of a different “compartment” appear before their eyes. A fed at the scene of a murder is incredible, a fed at the restaurant is incredible, a cop on the Eighth is incredible. Bastard Father, I wonder if anyone is expecting a flatfoot at the precinct.

  “Yeah.” I smirk and show him my badge.

  Moment of panic.

  Escape.

  That was good fun.

  Foemor, I’m dog-tired. You’re not a kid anymore, Arkham, how many times do I have to tell you? You can’t sleep for two hours over two days. Fuck. A pick-me-up is needed here, I think, while fingering the half-empty packet in my pocket. And here, right in the middle of this romantic idyll with Onirò, Cohl pitches up with a distraught expression that I should be wearing, if the world were as it ought to be. As usual, everything is the wrong way ‘round.

  “So, shall we go?”

  “Wait.”

  “What?” Nohl is anxious to put an end to today and go to bed.

  “We can’t just walk up to the door waving a badge around.”

  I nod at Cicisbeo. There isn’t a queue, just groups of patrons smoking and chatting, under the watchful eye of a bouncer (who obviously has an ogre grandmother) with a scarred face and a ridiculous black bandanna on his head, decorated with a pirate skull and cross bones. He thinks a minute, then nods.

  “Yeah. He could tip the hare off inside. What shall we do then?”

  “The queers plan might just work.”

  The inspector’s eyes pop out and he stares at me in astonishment. I press my index finger on his chest.

  “You’re the woman, let that be clear. Talk to the pirate only if the pirate asks you something, otherwise, let’s just go straight in, got it?”

  “Erm, but I’m not sure if—“

  “Put on a falsetto voice, tell him he’s a hunk, tell him what you like. Just make sure he doesn’t call his boss and tell him that two weirdos have gone into his club. Understood?”

  I fear that I am visibly embarrassed, because the kid starts to look amused.

  “Let’s do it! But Lieutenant, you’ve got to make it convincing…”

  “Fuck off.”

  He doesn’t answer and puts his arm in mine. Oh Fucking Mother of God, I hate this stuff. Like pretending to be a shirt-lifter.

  “You even look like a fag,” muttering all the way to the entrance to the club. When we’re a few metres away, the scarred pirate watches us approach with a menacing air. I hope to God I’m too exhausted from the effort of ignoring Cohl to blush at the sweet things he’s saying to me. A couple of metres away and the bouncer takes his hands out of his pockets and takes a breath to say something.

  Cohl kisses me on the cheek. I try my best to continue walking and be all nonchalant, gritting my teeth so hard I almost shatter my teeth. Scarface gives us half a mocking smile and lets us through without any questions. Once through the metal double doors, I push Cohl away.

  “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

  Inside, the club is filled with muffled music to fuck to, that kind of music packed with moans and words like ‘hot’ and ‘sexy’. The thick smoke screen generated by the club-goers almost manages to create an air of intrigue in this ex-warehouse done up like a brothel. Soft lighting, mostly red. Behind the bar down one side of the room stands a barman with a face like a pimp and a gold chain round his neck. He’s chewing on a toothpick with surprising dedication; behind him there’s a small shelf holding all the types of booze which are popular with the lowlife and next to it there’s a poster of the stars of Cicisbeo. I’m dying to know the name of the guy who’s squirming around on stage right now like a worm on a fish hook. He’s wearing a policeman’s helmet and, thank the Lord, he’s still wearing his studded leather underpants to hide his sausage. No really, I can’t wait.

  “Let’s get a drink. Carry on with the homo thing, tell him you’re dying to see an elf’s cock. Touch me again and I’ll rip your face off and stick it up your arse.”

  “Roger, Lieutenant,” answers Cohl, in a sing-song voice. Glancing around I notice with a sense of relief that despite the human bogey’s conviction, the tables, arranged in front of the stage, are mainly occupied by women looking for fun while the husband is in jail or out whoring. That’s funny, the catwalk extends into the room like an over-sized dick. Very appropriate.

  The bar offers clients half a dozen leather-covered stools which have definitely seen better days. Originally they must have been zebra-print, now all that’s left is a series of dark stains. Sitting down I wonder what the hell do homos drink? Luckily Cohl is very well-informed.

  “We’ll have two fruit cocktails… uhm, what do you recommend?” he asks the barman with a wink, who launches into the usual rigmarole. The Inspector is so good at playing a raving fruit loop that I’m beginning to wonder about him. I make use of my time examining the posters on the wall, I’m immediately rewarded with a blow-up of who, at a guess, is our Gilder. Here he is, with a very unoriginal stage name: “ONLY AT CICISBEO—THE SPIRE”. Judging by the photo he’s got quite an impressive piece of equipment, but this aside, I bet a stripping elf brings the punters in in droves. It’s not something you see everyday. I interrupt the sparkling debate about fruit—it’s between pineapple and banana, for God’s sake—with a sudden question.

  “When is The Spire on?”

  The barman moves the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, and God knows how, but clicks his tongue at the same time, this is all accompanied by a slimy smile.

  “You’re in luck, my friend. The main event goes on stage in half an hour. Enjoy it with your boyfriend, and if you like it…” He winks and points at me with his thumb raised, mimicking a gun. “… maybe afterwards he’ll be free for autographs”He lowers and raises his thumb. I smile and ask for a poster for him to sign, which he does, so I make my exit using the toilet as an excuse. Cohl whispers something inaudible to the barman, shielding his mouth with his hand, eyeing me conspiratorially as I retreat.

  The bog is a standard bog. While I snort my miracle salts, I surprise myself by wondering if strippers get a hard-on when they perform. If I were a woman I’d be disappointed if it were soft. Shit, what kind of a question is that? Don’t tell me I’ve become gayonic? No way, it’s because I’m high, I could give Cohl a punch in the kisser, to reassure myself. I cop a feel of my crotch. I dodged it, I didn’t get a hard-on thinking about naked guys. When I was touching my cock I remembered Dorisa. Mmm, Dorisa. It’s hard now all right, everything’s in order, we can go.

  I must admit that Cicisbeo looks totally different now. Almost pleasant even. My head bobs along to the music as I stare at the temporarily deserted stage. Crap, I’ll have to wait for THE SPIRE to get the answer to my question. Christ, elves must have some serious complexes. I mean, what’s with the towers a thousand kilometres high? And they’re not short, therefore they must have problems with their pendulum. Or this is psycho-bullshit because they’re immortal. No, wait, I’ve got it. They’ve seen the dwarves’ equipment, and they definitely don’t have any problems. They live underground even though they’re dwarves. I am so fucking hilarious.

  Speaking of which, get a load of the busty blonde at the table at the front…

  “There’s a table over there!” yells Nohl over the top of the music, pointing at an empty place.

  “You’re making me lose my hard-on.”

  “What?”

  “You’re making me lose my hard-on!” I bellow in his ear.

  “Thank goodness for that!” he answers with a laugh. It’s no fucking laughing matter. That blonde will go to waste and have to masturbate herself, when I could give her the fuck of her life.

  And so, me and that closet queen Cohl end up sitting at the same table drinking a fucking alcohol-free pineapple cocktail. I just know he’ll want to make conversation.

  “So…�
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  Not again.

  “You’re not going to ask me about my mother, are you?”

  “No. Erm, ‘course not.”

  I take a tiny sip. It’s obvious he wants to ask me about my mother, for Christ’s sake. It’s Nohl ‘predictable dick-head’ Cohl.

  “Yuck.”

  “I know. This stuff appeals to those who like cock.”

  I empty my glass onto the floor, and intercept a waiter. Holy crap, white latex trousers and red braces, bare chest. What a shit hole.

  “Two double bourbons. On the rocks.”

  “Are you having two at once?” asks the Inspector, as soon as Macho Man is out of earshot.

  “Are you queer?”

  “No!”

  “Then you need a drink.”

  I don’t believe it, the blonde is on her way to the bathroom, and she has to go past my table to get there. A resounding slap on her arse is in order. Nohl looks far more scandalized than her, who after a moment of surprise, walks away more slowly, watching me and licking her fingers. She slips into the women’s toilets with a look that is much more than a suggestion or invitation, but the Inspector stops me just as I’m about to follow her, with a harsh ‘Lieutenant!’, holding me by my arm.

  “We’re supposed to be working.”

  He’s an icy bastard, but he’s right. No, what am I saying? Fuck it, and fuck that bleeding contract. As if I would voluntarily say no to a ride like that. Which, by the way, is free.

  I sit myself down on the sofa which is peppered with numerous cigarette burns.

  “Just out of curiosity, Lieutenant Arkham. What’s your name?

  “Arkham.”

  “No, I mean your first name.”

  “Queerbasher.”

  “Oh come on, be serious. After all, we’re close now.” He blows me a kiss.

  Dammit, I’m about to shoot him when the music explodes and the lights on the catwalk suddenly become practically blinding. The audience is in raptures, and the blonde, probably ticked off because I didn’t show up, bursts out of the bathroom towards the front row yelling with her arms over her head.