Bed of Nails

by Michael Slade

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Have you any idea how much money I make? Enough to put both of us through graduate school. If a john wants to flip me a C-note or two to give him a hummer, what fucking business is that of yours, Ms. Holier Than Thou?”

  Good question, Chandler thought.

  “And come to think of it, honey,” said the blonde, “you wouldn’t be here if some john hadn’t blown a load.”

  The academic huffed.

  “In the real world, baby, they’re all johns,” said the hooker.

  On that coup de grâce, the inspector cocked an ear to eavesdrop on the conversation on his starboard side.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Stanley.”

  “Hi, Stan. I’m Mona. Moaning Mona, to my friends. What do you do?”

  “I’m a studio accountant.”

  “Mmm,” purred Mona. “Would you like to count my beans?”

  “I know a joke,” said Stanley, “about a woman like you and a man like me.”

  “I like jokes.” She placed her hand on his thigh.

  Stanley looked like … well, like an accountant. His bald pate had a comb-over of seven strands plastered in place. Thick Coke-bottle glasses magnified his beady eyes, strained no doubt by too many years of adding up false figures. It was hard to know which was more endearing: the cute little dimple on his chin or his roly-poly belly.

  “A woman walks into her accountant’s office,” he said, “and tells him that she needs to file her taxes.”

  “Fat chance,” Mona said, squeezing his pudge.

  “The accountant informs her, ‘Before we start, I need to ask some questions.’ He gets her name, address, and social security number, then he asks her, ‘What’s your occupation?’

  “The woman replies, ‘I’m a hooker.’”

  A sharp intake of breath from mock shock almost popped Mona’s bountiful breasts out of her bodice. Her free hand rose like Betty Boop’s to her luscious mouth. “No!” she gasped, wide-eyed.

  Stanley’s Adam’s apple caught in his dry throat as he struggled to complete the joke.

  “The accountant balks and says, ‘No, no, no. That won’t work. It’s much too crass. Let’s rephrase it.’

  “‘Okay,’ the woman says. ‘I’m a prostitute.’

  “‘No,’ replies the accountant. ‘That’s still too crude. Try again.’

  “The woman thinks for a moment, scratching her head. Then she tells him, ‘I’m a chicken farmer.’

  “Puzzled, the accountant asks, ‘What does chicken farming have to do with being a whore’”—Stanley’s voice broke on uttering that word—“‘or a prostitute?’

  “‘Well,’ the client replies, ‘I raised five thousand cocks last year.’”

  Mona laughed the sort of deep throaty laugh that would terrify a mama’s boy’s mom, and her hand slid toward the beckoning bulge in the fidgeting bean-counter’s pants. “Shall we make that five thousand and one?” the hooker asked.

  “How much?” Stan croaked.

  “An even grand. For the best afternoon of your life.”

  “Phew. That’s expensive.”

  “You don’t think I’m worth it?”

  Mona crossed her long legs on the bar stool to expose creamy thighs complemented by garters and nylons, seen through the slit of her tight green dress. Elbow on her knee, chin in her free palm, she leaned toward Stan so he (and Zinc) could gaze down the valley of her awesome cleavage to the mystery beyond. Her quizzical eyes were emeralds the same shade as her clinging sheath and her red hair as wild as licking flames. As a faithful male in a strong relationship with Alexis Hunt, the inspector would keep his wanton lust in check. But he had to acknowledge that Moaning Mona would be cheap at twice the price.

  “I don’t know,” said Stan. “Can’t you go lower?”

  “An accountant goes into a bar,” Mona said, “and sits down beside the sexiest hooker in the place.

  “‘How much?’ he asks.

  “‘A grand,’ she says.

  “‘Gee, I don’t know,’ he hems and haws. ‘Can’t you go lower?’

  “‘Sure,’ says the hooker. ‘For less, you get a penguin.’

  “‘What’s a penguin?’ the accountant asks.

  “‘You’ll see,’ she replies.

  “So off they go to one of the upstairs rooms, where the horny guy drops his pants and waits for his ‘penguin.’ The hooker kneels and gives him the ultimate blow job. Then, just as the accountant’s about to come, she stops, gets up and walks away. With his pants around his ankles, the cheapskate waddles after her. ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ he shouts. ‘What’s a penguin?’”

  Stan was still waiting for the punchline when the eavesdropping Zinc burst out laughing.

  Mona winked at him over Stan’s sparse pate.

  “Hello, handsome. What sharp ears you have. Shall we make that five thousand and two?”

  And that’s when the barkeep approached Zinc.

  “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Information.”

  The Mountie flashed his bison-crested regimental badge.

  “Tsk-tsk,” Mona clucked. “What a waste.”

  “Oh no,” Stan gulped, and bolted from the bar.

  “Our graft’s paid up to date, Officer,” the barkeep said.

  “Where can we talk?”

  The young man flicked his wary eyes toward the end of the bar.

  As Zinc swung off the bar stool, Mona said, “Did you hear the one about the hooker and the horny cop?”

  “I gotta warn you. I’m an actor,” the barkeep said. He looked like a snow stud in ads for boarding on Whistler Mountain’s usuriously ticketed slopes.

  “This your day job?”

  “Night job, actually. I’m working double shift to cover a bad case of the flu.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Denny.”

  “Denny what?”

  “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not yet,” said the Mountie.

  “Denny … Dennis Tobin.”

  “You work last night?”

  “Yes,” said Denny. “What’s this about? The guy upstairs? There’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “Why the warning that you’re an actor?”

  Denny cracked a cautious smirk. “I’ve seen this scene enacted in a thousand noir films. A cop goes into a bar and leans on the bartender for information. He strong-arms him with”—the young thespian dropped his voice to a growl—“‘Is that a hooker I see? Are those two high on drugs? Either you talk, buddy, or we’ll be all over this place like a dose of salts. You won’t know what hit—’”

  “What’s a dose of salts?” Zinc asked.

  Denny blinked. “Beats me.”

  “Are you going to blame me for that?”

  “For what?”

  “Beating you.”

  Denny’s smirk switched to a genuine grin.

  “The guy upstairs,” Zinc said. “What’ve you heard?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No? Then how do you know about him?”

  “Hey, I work here. I heard the basics. Thelma found him when she did the room this morning. He’s naked. He’s dead. He’s hanging upside down. He’s got a halo of nails in his skull. And shit’s gonna hit the fan in here when the news breaks.”

  “Too bad for you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be out of work. And all because you kept mum instead of helping me.”

  “No way.”

  “Think about it, Denny. Would you haunt a bar to relax when the patrons are being stalked by a psycho like that? This spot will be as dead as the stiff—is ‘stiff’ a word they use in those noir films?—is upstairs. Will you be able to land another cool job like this? Tending bar at the in place for the film industry? I doubt it. Now let’s take a look at the flip side of the coin. Instead of playing the sap—you do know what a sap is?—you could be a Hollywood hero, front and center. Say the shit
hits the fan when news of this breaks. Word spreads far and wide, to every mover and shaker in the film biz. Then—presto!—the psycho is caught before he and/or she can kill again. Why? Because of the sharp eyes and ears of a certain hero who tends the bar in question. I see a movie of the week in the cards. Hell, maybe even a feature film. And who better to play the hero than the hero himself? Hollywood loves that sort of self-congratulatory stuff. Well, Denny? Whaddaya say? Are you a good enough actor to play yourself?”

  Zinc caught a glint of starlight in the barkeep’s eyes.

  “Well …” drawled Denny.

  “Well, what?”

  “I might have caught something.”

  “Something like?”

  “The dead guy talking to a hooker last night.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “A hooker and her pimp.”

  “Somewhere further.”

  “A pimp who also deals coke.”

  “Oh, hell, Denny. Forget that feature film. You have a blockbuster on your hands.”

  “You figure?”

  “The stiff’s an L.A. producer. Work it out. Look what happened to those involved in the O.J. case.”

  That was enough for Denny. The cameras were already rolling in his mind.

  “The hooker and her pimp are new players in town. They followed the money up from L.A. The pair began coming in about a week ago. To be blunt, we want them gone. They’re too heavy for the ambience of the bar.”

  “How so?”

  “Rough trade. Black leather and such. She’s into discipline. S&M. He’s into coke. His own supply.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “Nothing. The place was packed. Just saw them talking. And I put two and two together.”

  “From what?”

  “Another deal. One I overheard the first night those two came in.”

  “A week ago?”

  “Yeah. The guy upstairs. Was he screwed in the ass?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re the cop.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss details of a case under investigation.”

  “A dollar says the stiff was sandwich meat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know. Between two pieces of bread. Pussy fucked in front. Cock plowed behind.”

  “And if?”

  “It’s them. They’ve done that before.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Big ears,” Denny said, tapping both sides of his head. “A patron drinks too much, then talks too loud. He does a coke-and-sex transaction at the bar. The barkeep overhears.”

  “Overhears what?”

  “Remember that director with the gerbil up his ass? It happened in Hollywood a few years back? He had to go to the hospital to get it pulled out. Gerbiling, remember? It was a Tinseltown fad.”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Hollywood spawns kinks. Anyway,” Denny said, “he’s in town to shoot a film.”

  “The gerbil director?”

  The barkeep laughed. “I hope they have an animal wrangler on his set. He’s a regular in the bar, Mr. Gerbil. He’s the one I overheard cut a deal with the pair.”

  “For a sandwich?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For a two-on-one with the same hooker and pimp you saw talking with the dead man in the bar last night?”

  Denny went back to his cop voice. “Is that what you guys call an M.O.?”

  “The hooker’s name?”

  “Joey.”

  “Joey what?”

  The barkeep shrugged.

  “And the pimp?”

  “Gord.”

  “Just Gord?”

  “I think he’s her brother. Family resemblance. They might even be twins.”

  “Know where they live?”

  “I know where they hang out.”

  “Here, you mean?”

  “If they didn’t blow town after last night, the pair should wander in around ten.”

  PIMP

  “Hello, handsome. I knew you’d be back.”

  “Hi, Mona,” Zinc said, taking the stool beside her at the bar of the Lounge Lizard in the Lions Gate.

  “How’s tricks?” she asked.

  “Shouldn’t that be my line? Did Stan the Accountant return to count your beans after I left?”

  “Shh,” shushed Mona, her index finger bisecting her pouted lips. “That’s a secret. I never betray a client.”

  “Solicitor-client privilege?”

  “Tsk-tsk, Big Red. Soliciting is against the law.”

  A shadow fell across them from the far side of the bar. “What’ll it be, sir?” asked Denny the Barkeep.

  “A 7UP.”

  “Now that’s a drinking problem.”

  “And something for the lady.”

  “The lady wants you,” Mona said, leaning forward, neck arched as she crossed her legs. Between her décolletage and the dress slit up to her garters, the swath of green suddenly shrank to the size of a torso-hugging corset.

  “Ooh-la-la,” Zinc said. “But I’m just browsing.”

  “On duty?”

  “You could say.”

  “I read this book,” moaned Mona.

  “Which book?”

  “Mailer.”

  “Norman?”

  “Tough Guys Don’t Fuck,” she teased.

  The 7UP hit the bar with too hard a tap for what you would expect from an experienced barkeep. “Heads up,” Denny whispered as the cop’s attention swung back to him. Though a Wild West gunslinger would not be caught dead in a bar like this for fear of being plugged in the back, the mirror beyond Denny gave Chandler a complete panoramic reflection of the room behind him. Despite his earlier prediction, the bar wasn’t devoid of patrons, for those who feared they might fall prey to a psycho stalker were replaced by the curious, drawn to the excitement of hanging out at a murder scene. At six-foot-two and seated on a high bar stool, Zinc could see over the heads of most of the standing-room-only crowd to where a black leather pair stood just inside the door to the street, surveying the pickings for predators at this upscale watering hole for Hollywood’s meat on the hoof.

  Survival of the fittest.

  King of the beasts.

  The law of the jungle ruled tonight at the Lions Gate.

  The beast at the gate reminded Zinc of U2’s Bono. Black hair, cut short like a helmet on his head. Dark wraparound shades, even though it was nighttime and he was indoors. A black leather jacket, designer label, with black leather pants to match. His black boots probably cost Zinc’s monthly salary.

  The hooker who had slinked in with the pimp was a lithe, beautiful, blatantly sexual, sado-erotic dominatrix. She too was sheathed in black leather, but hers fit as tight as a glove. Her black hair was short, cut like a man’s, yet there could be no doubt about this night creature’s gender. The tight top, wedged open in a V that plunged almost as deep as her navel, made Chandler want to kick himself for not investing in breast-implant stocks when they first hit the market. As for her pants, they were as hip-hugging as a second skin, and tailored so they subtly outlined her pubic mound. A black belt woven with silver chains hung loosely around her waist. Black boots with spiked heels encased her feet. And encircling her neck was a black choker linked to a silver chain that ran like a leash to the pimp’s clenched fist.

  Sniff, sniff …

  Flare, flare …

  Their nostrils twitched. The pimp and his hooker had coked up to prowl the bar.

  “Ooh,” said Mona. “So that’s your type.” She was watching Zinc watch the door in the bar’s mirror. “I see you naked on the floor with her spiked heel on your spine, while a cat-o’-nine-tails in her grip stripes and checks your bottom.”

  “Keep my seat warm.”

  Zinc swiveled off the stool.

  “Mess with her, Big Red, and your seat’ll be warm for weeks.”

  “We don’t want a barroom brawl,” warned Denny, as the inspector waded
into the crowd.

  What makes life dangerous is the unexpected. The “oh no” that blindsides you out of the blue. A whammy like the whammy that hit Zinc now.

  “Hey, Inshpector,” a voice in the bar crowd called out.

  It was Stan the Accountant, drunkenly waving to Zinc.

  Which caught the attention of both the pimp and his hooker.

  “Wha’s goin’ down? A big drug busht?”

  Oh no, Zinc thought.

  And that’s when the coked-up pimp drew his gun.

  When you’d been a cop as long as Zinc had, you learned to read the signs. The pimp’s attention focused on him from across this crowded room, and what it expressed was: one, I’ve been to jail; two, I’m not going back; and three, I’m holding a lot of coke to deal to these hungry snouts tonight.

  As the gunman raised the .357 to aim its muzzle at Zinc, the Mountie reached into his jacket for the Smith & Wesson holstered at his waist. Pandemonium seized the bar crowd. With the sight of the lethal hardware, all thoughts of heroics died. Patrons were dashing, diving, and scrambling every which way to save their skins, when—bwam!—one of them took the slug meant for Zinc. Her face was there, and then it wasn’t, as she spun into the Mountie. Down they both went as—bwam! bwam!—the Python Magnum in the pimp’s fist spit again.

  Panicked patrons threw themselves flat to get out of the line of fire. The standing-room-only crowd required too much horizontal floorspace, so there was no alternative but to go for a layered effect. Zinc had to bushwhack his way up through a thicket of arms and legs to regain his feet, and by the time the periscope of his head broke the surface of this sea of squirming flesh, the predators were gone.

  “Police! Police! Coming through! Get out of the way!” he yelled as he stepped around, over, and sometimes on the melee.

  The Mountie burst out of the bar onto Lonsdale Avenue. Wouldn’t you know it? Not a cop car in sight. Standing at the curb on the east side of the street, he turned his head left toward the harbor, a minute’s walk away to the south. Through puffs of fog condensing in the chill night air from his ragged panting, Zinc could see the old ship that used to be the Seven Seas floating restaurant, its lights now snuffed by a financial crisis. Beyond that, the SeaBus chugged across the moon-dappled water toward the distant lights of the port’s loading docks.