“Poor mortals.” I save him the job of looking for a politically correct euphemism. His pain seems more genuine now, he accepts my rather irritated remark in silence.
“One last question.”
“What now?” He dusts off his piqued tone he used before.
“Did you know that Inla was expecting a child?”
Nylmeris almost falls to the ground. He grabs hold of his hair, the beginnings of his plait unravels, and he moans a denial which is closer to a sob.
“I beg of you… leave me alone… please.”
“Don’t tell me you fell for it.”
“He seemed genuine to me,” answers Cohl without looking up from the screen of his state-of-the-art mobile phone.
“Ah!” I exclaim with contempt. “Come on, it’s obvious he’s mixed up true things with lies.”
The kid tries to answer back but I don’t give him the chance.
“It’s a fact that he’s pissed off with Gilder, and that he hates him. It’s a fact that Inla’s attitude didn’t go down well with him. It is also a fucking fact that a part of him is disgusted by the fact that he murdered her, just to throw in a bit of psycho-babble. But I mean, come on, you can’t think that—“
“Here we are,” interrupts Nohl, reading online information on his phone. “Nerwer’s syndrome, let’s see. Blah blah blah… genetic… aging… etcetera etcetera… it all fits. There’s another interesting thing. Erm. It says here that, even if the condition is incredibly rare, it’s much more common where there is a higher number of blood relatives. Well, that makes sense, don’t you think? Elves descend from only a few individuals, and it’s common practice for them to…”
“ … fuck each other. And what of it?”
“I’m just saying that this explanation sounds feasible!”
“Asses can read stuff on Wikipedia as well, you know. Maybe he found an excuse to conceal something else.”
The secret he fears may be revealed.
“It would be difficult to fake it the way he did in there.”
“Are we talking about the same person? Nylmeris Lovl’Atheron, colonnel of the special forces, the infiltration unit? I bet if he used a touch of magic to alter his appearance you could happily go to bed with him at night your whole life thinking he was your wife.”
“All this intrigue. To hide what exactly? Why is he being so obstinate about this one aspect?”
“Because he’s weird, Cohl, just like finding a dead elf in a filthy alley is weird, and what’s even weirder is that the elf in question is a pregnant whore! And where I come from, three weird things make a lead.”
“For the father, I’d give a month’s salary to understand how you’re so sure he’s our man. Because, to be frank, I’m tempted to say you’re just stabbing around in the dark.”
“You can rest easy, I wouldn’t even give you my shoe size for the miserable fucking amount you earn.”
The Inspector rolls his eyes.
“In my opinion, we’re still in the same place. The stripper is the only serious lead we’ve got. Even if he isn’t the killer, he’s on the run nonetheless, that means he knows something.”
“That is something we finally agree on. Let’s put pressure on all our informers. An elf can’t just disappear off the face of the earth, particularly on the lower levels. Provided he’s out and about with his own face. And get your hands on those bloody phone records.”
“We could try and intercept him with the Bloodhound system. I’ve heard it can work miracles.”
“It would be a waste of time. Concealing oneself from an identification spell isn’t difficult, for those who know magic or have access to a decent sorcerer. Otherwise we would be able to find anyone instantly. We’d have more chance with a mobile number, another reason to hurry the warrant along.
“I’ll try, but I don’t think I’ll manage to get anything before Monday.”
My mobile phone clock says its nearly three.
“Listen, I owe that layabout, pain-in-the-arse Foemor a favour. I have to sleep a bit, otherwise I’ll pass out. That’s enough for today, you’re in a better state than I am, see if you can come up with any ideas.”
“All right. Will you call me then?”
“Yeah. ‘Bye.”
“See you tomorrow.”
We each go to our own car with a sense of thankful relief, finally freed from each other’s unbearable company. Mother fuck, the obese pig has already sent me two more texts, which means that he’s getting decidedly antsy. It’s plain to see that without my powdered petrol I can’t even stand up straight so the seemingly ordinary mission called ‘go and tell everyone that everything’s okay’ is impossible. A few hours’ sleep wouldn’t hurt anyway. And a blowjob. A blowjob would be an optimum solution.
I drive without seeing the road, looking forward to my well-earned rest, and more interested in spotting a public phone than not ramming into the back of someone’s car in the daily congested traffic. I must call that henchman and then curl up in the Brunette’s bed with my dick in a nice warm, moist place. These damn mobiles are causing public phones to become extinct, making even this banal search difficult. I bet if I were looking for water, Nectropis would dry up out of spite.
Mother fuck.
I arrive at the Brunette’s door dragging my feet.
“Arky, for the love of the Gods… you look—“
“—like shit, I know. I just need to crash here for a couple of hours.”
She’s wearing her usual concerned expression as she accompanies towards the bed, her arm linked in mine. She helps me undo my shirt and trousers and murmurs honeyed words, but I fall asleep long before my dick stands to attention in repsonse to her caresses.
“Fuck… I told you to wake me at seven, no later,” I protest when I wake up, she’s sitting beside me engrossed in a glossy magazine.
“Forgive me, darling. You were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to disturb you.” She strokes my face. “Anyway, what have you got to do that’s so urgent? You said they’d given you the week off.”
Yeah, what have I got to do? I look around in confusion, I have that pleasant sensation of feeling sleepier than when I went to bed. Right, Fatty, escort the shipment who knows where. Even though I spoke to his flunkey only a couple of hours ago, my memory of that conversation is as hazy as though it took place ten years ago. It’s a good job I wrote the instructions on my hand. The ink has worn off a bit with my sweat, but it’s still legible: road forty-five, red truck, eight thirty. That means no shower, fuck. I trudge from the bedclothes to the toilet like a robot, empty my bowels and fill the basin with ice-cold water before plunging my face in it and holding my breath. To remedy the revolting stench produced by my armpits, I use up half a can of a deodorant I pick up at random.
“Have you decided to play for the other team, baby? You’ll break my heart,” she laughs as she peeps at me from the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Oh crap, I only notice now that the label says SANDALWOOD AND ROSE PETAL PERFUME—ROMANTIC WOMAN.
“Have you got anything less ambiguous?”
She comes to my aid and her sheer nightdress billows lightly round her sensuous curves, a galvanising vision for which I really don’t have the time. She takes the spray off me and exchanges it for a decidedly more anonymous unisex roll-on.
“This should cover all that perfume you sprayed on yourself. But…” She smiles suggestively. “You’re confusing me now.”
She fixes me with her languid eyes as she holds me round the waist and rubs her hips against mine. She knows exactly which buttons to press, does my girl.
“You’re turning me on. First you fall asleep like a baby… so now I think you owe me something.”
I’ll just have to get there late, and the pig can wait. Where’s he going to go without me anyway?
After I’ve done my duty, I take a clean suit out of the wardrobe, we snort a line and I fill Eton’s bag to the very top drawing from the stash which, to
my joy, does not appear to be diminishing very much. I extract the Altra from its intradimensional holder so as to bring it into this dimension and reposition it on top of my clothes then conceal it once more.
“Even when you’re naked you’re wearing that invisible gun, it makes me feel uneasy baby. Next time, why don’t you take it off and we can have a threeway?
“I’m worried that it possesses qualities I don’t know about, and that it will end up seducing you and you’ll both decide to run away together,” I joke, throwing in a half-truth. This weapon is priceless, and she isn’t stupid. It might be true that it’s been years since she was on the game, but that doesn’t mean that she’s stopped being a whore; and then, it’s part of my code of ethics. Rule number one: the Altra always stays with me. Rule number two: the piece only comes out if it’s absolutely necessary and goes back into my trousers as soon as possible. To be honest, my rules aren’t really numbered. They usually earn the top spots depending on the requirements of the circumstances.
On my way out I notice a couple of letters on the drawers in the hall, tucked under a silver cherub paperweight. The Brunette never asks for any money outright. When it comes to financial issues, we communicate in code, the letters underneath the chubby angel may refer to the rent or unpaid bills, a new collection or a new designer ‘in the limelight’ slash ‘on the crest of the wave’ means she wants new clothes, when she says she feels like she ‘wants a gift’ it always involves some chic, overpriced item for the house and finally, its practically obvious that when an appliance ‘breaks down’ it’s time to buy another one that costs twice as much. Damned inflation.
I stop for a minute to think about what to do. What chance have I got to get away with it this time? Is it really worth it to cough up the money? I might need the cash I’ve got in my pocket to save my skin. On the other hand, it’s not enough to help me obtain something that I couldn’t get by flashing my badge or using a good dose of old-fashioned intimidation, and money’s no good to you when you’re a corpse. In the end I take two thousand of those babies out of the envelope and leave them on top of the drawers. The Brunette pops out from behind me again, she’s worried. I left her a lot more than was necessary, and her keen sense of smell tells her there’s a rat.
“Arky… what’s going on?” she asks, with just a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“It’s a mess.” I don’t have a better answer than that. “A fucking mess.”
“When will I see you again?” She draws nearer, displaying even more concern. As usual, there’s a part of me which wonders if after all these years, she’s only concerned about her investment or that she’s motivated by something more genuine.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re scaring me,” she says, taking my hand.
“If something should—“
“No. Please, come back.”
“I’ll try.”
She kisses me and pulls me close. A long, sweet kiss. When we pull apart, I leave without saying anything more. It’s probably all a farce, especially as it’s common knowledge that I’m a sucker for a pretty face, despite the slight progress I’ve worked hard at after every sentimental disappointment I’ve accumulated in my life. Anyway, it’s still a farce that is worth paying for. In the end it’s more real than other performances that last your whole life.
I’ll keep telling myself that until I believe it.
Dancing ‘til dawn.
“You’re an hour late, Whitey, an hour late!”
Despite looking like a half-ogre, he talks like a normal person while he tells me off, tapping his finger on his wrist, where in theory there ought to be a wristwatch but there isn’t. That’s not the only strange thing about him, his skin is an odd colour, it’s closer to bronze than orange.
“Your face, on the other hand, is enough to make anyone throw up, but you don’t hear me complaining.”
“Khan will find out that you arrived late.”
“Ooh, I’m trembling. Now get behind that steering wheel and shut that misplaced arsehole on your face. When we’ve finished, you can bring me back here to get my car.”
“What? No way!”
Everyone thinks they’re so important that they have the right to protest. I take out my phone and pretend to look for a number in the address book.
“What are you doing?” He’s suspicious now.
“Calling Ugube.”
“What?! Why?” Sick face is alarmed.
“To tell him that his dickhead delivery boy doesn’t want my help and I don’t know what to do.”
I hold the phone to my ear as though it’s ringing.
“No, no, stop!” He lunges towards me, ready to grab. In response, I open my raincoat and grip the handle of my gun.
“If you so much as touch me with your shitty mitts, I’ll kill you right here in this fucking layby, is that clear?”
Obviously I wouldn’t shoot him with my police gun, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t even pick up on the fact that only a complete moron would keep a gangster’s number on his mobile, stupid arse.
“All right, but don’t call Khan. I’ll bring you back, I swear.” He begs me with his hands together in a praying gesture. Pathetic.
I turn my phone off, but wait before putting it back in my pocket, so as to keep the threat nice and visual in front of his flat blowholes.
“Let’s get one thing straight, shitface. I’m in charge and you jump to it, clear?”
“Yes.”
“Get in and do what I tell you, nothing more and nothing less. You’re free to breathe as long as it doesn’t involve revolting grunting noises, otherwise I’ll perform a tracheotomy out here in the open with a nine-millimetre.”
“Tracheotomy …?”
“Just get in and shut up.” My humour is wasted here. Full ogres (they say) possess intelligence which is analogous with that of humans, but half-bloods are lucky if they possess an I.Q. of over seventy, at least in my experience. Losers and retards, it’s no surprise that up until the collapse of the Khanate they made up the largest caste of slaves.
The City toll gate is fifteen minutes away from where I parked the car. The traffic of people and goods within the federal area is usually free from checks and taxes, nevertheless Nectropis is, as in many other respects, an exception to the rule. Due to various reasons ranging from extraordinary maintenance required by the peculiar urban structure to the constant, endemic criminality, the metropolitan district enjoys a series of privileges which are wholly unaffected by the regular angry protests from other states. The truth? Nectropis is simply too important to be equalized with any other political body. Since long before the idea of unification enlightened the western sub-continent, the City was the epicentre of the whole region. “Blood inheritance” was the explanation behind the exceptions to customs regulations pertaining to the the union of customs which preceded the agreement and subsequent political union. In today’s constitution that definition has disappeared but it’s always the same old story, and deep down, everyone who lives here is irrationally convinced that the City is doing the rest of the world a favour by interacting.
Following my directions, we take the emergency lane, and the driver gets visibly antsy when the barrier doesn’t go up.
“Relax, that’s normal. No sirens or lights, someone’ll come and check us before letting us through.”
“Okay,” he answers, still suspicious.
“Did I say you could speak?”
What a drag.
A suit with a protruding belly and grey hair that matches his uniform approaches the car and taps on the window. Perfect, an old man with no axe to grind who knows the procedure off by heart. I motion to him to go round the vehicle to talk to me and I wind the window down, I stick my arm out and let my badge swing. It’s funny how when he sees it, he turns around and disappears into his booth without even stopping his bike. It’s a pleasure to work with expert staff. The all-clear comes so quickly that I don’t even have time to wind t
he window back up. The half-ogre pushes his foot down on the accelerator with a sigh of relief, and we’re onto the eternally gridlocked ramp. Goods arrive in the City mainly by rail, but once inside the traffic is ninety percent on wheels. Only express delivery services can afford flying vehicles, for everything else it’s a jungle seven days a week. Fortunately, on the sixth level, where we’re headed, the traffic improves as soon as we’re half a kilometre away from the suspended ringroad. The racket of the car horns in the traffic jam always calls for a consolation snort, but I make a point of only sniffing with people deserving of my respect. That doesn’t apply here. As a way of avoiding dropping off to sleep to the monotonous sound of the engine, I decide to broaden my cultural horizons with a conversation, which I suspect, will only consolidate my already unflattering opinion of half-pigs.
“So, seeing as this is going to take some time should I carry on calling you shitface or would you like to tell me your name?
“Bomutu,” he answers through the corner of his mouth, propping up his cheek with one fist and his elbow against the door, the other hand draped across the steering wheel.
“Bomutu. Does this name for a stomach complaint derive from the colour of your skin or is it the other way around?”
“It comes from the Horned Coast. I was born there.”
“Yeah. Now I can see how that happened. Do you also have some tragic dick disease to complete the pretty picture?”
“Listen, cop, you’re the boss tonight, but you’d better watch yourself if you want to see tomorrow.”
“So touchy. I thought your sort were hard.”
“I am hard!”
“Didn’t sound like it.”
“You get on my tits,” concludes Bomutu. The van creeps forward to occupy the small space which has appeared between us and the other metal coffin which moves in front of us at a snail’s pace.
“Mother always tells me to make new friends.”
I turn on the radio to fill the heavy silence inside the cab. I twiddle the dial until I tune into a non-stop music station. The insipid contemporary pop music helps me think while still keeping my wits about me.
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 20
