by Adam Steel
Down one of the side streets a neon sign glowed in the distance. Through the dribbling water that was flowing over the sign she could make out a word:
Aya crossed the street wary of any more fast moving, chain-smoking metal hulks.
The shop was not exactly what Aya had in mind when she came to its darkened entrance. The full name on the sign read, Gringo’s Finest Ladies Attire, in flashing neon pink and red. It featured a winking Mexican man, wearing a huge sombrero and a dirty grin. The window display was adorned with dubious looking outfits that left nothing to the imagination. Terrific. It’s a sex shop, she thought and sighed.
‘That’s just great,’ she groaned, considering her next move.
Shopping for clothes in Sector Seven wasn’t something she wanted to be doing. She needed to get to Jack and cover up her work uniform. Fast.
In the window was a long, thick, black leather jacket. She looked at her rain soaked uniform. That’d have to do, she thought, and pushed the door open.
A cheap, electric, orgasmic moan rang out across the shop when she opened the door.
A man, who was pretending to be Mexican, wearing a ridiculously long fake moustache, looked up from behind his counter. He also wore the same ludicrous hat that was in the picture on the front of his shop.
‘Ahh Senorita! Welcome to Gringo’s! I have just what you need here, yeah? Maybe you got what I need too huh?’ he drawled in a fake Mexican accent, and then burst out laughing to his own joke.
Aya made her way across the room, dodging numerous hanging whips and chains.
Next to Gringo on the counter was an enormous dildo. He had stuck a mini-sombrero on it and drawn two little cartoon eyes near the top. She stood in front of the absurd man, who was now grinning like a maniac.
‘I’d like that jacket in the window please,’ Aya said politely, trying hard to avoid looking at the huge, plastic menace on the counter.
‘Yeah, Yeah nice jacket,’ Gringo agreed. ‘Bring in the punters that one will yes? Eeeez in the ‘cock-magnet’ range, spehhshiall offer just for the prettiest senoritas!’ he continued, in his best imitation Mexican accent.
Gringo leered as he shuffled through a pile of stock behind him.
Aya ducked as a wave of furry handcuffs, lubricant and panties flew through the air, as Gringo dug for the jacket. She jumped when a dull vibrating noise went off nearby. She eyed the huge dildo on the desk suspiciously. The vibration went off again but the mini sombrero didn’t move.
It took Aya a few seconds to realise it was her Info-Pad. She mumbled, embarrassed at her suspicion, and checked the phone.
Mum Calling...was displayed onscreen.
Aya had added “(uh-oh)” underneath.
She checked her watch. It was after seven. She should have been home by now and Mada’s alarms had gone off. She disconnected the call and turned the phone off. She’d just have to be ‘gone’ for a while.
Gringo’s massive hat and then Gringo himself appeared back behind the counter, brandishing the jacket. The grin never left his swarthy face. He looked like a Botox victim.
Aya held up the phone apologetically, ‘Sorry, just my mum,’ Aya said nervously.
Gringo nodded rapidly, ‘Si, Si, Bring her down to Gringo’s too! Double the money, double the fun, huh?’
His grin was almost convulsed.
Aya coughed loudly to avoid bursting into hysterics. Despite her fear of everything and the desperation of her situation, Gringo’s insane grin, enormous hat, and the sincerity of which he had made the absurd statement was just too funny to resist. She had a brief mental image of the sheer disgust on Mada’s face at being surrounded by Gringo's extensive sex toy collection. Her lip trembled, threatening to release the laughter as she handed over the money for the jacket. She didn’t have a lot on her but it was just enough. Gringo handed over the jacket before brandishing a bright red, pair of latex, crotch-less panties and a peekaboo bra.
‘Gringo will throw these in for another ten!’ he offered enthusiastically.
Aya thought for a micro-second of her passionate nights with Max, but then realising that they weren’t likely to be repeated anytime soon, she politely declined and left.
She swiftly put the jacket on under the light of a streetlight.
It was too big. Good.
She checked behind herself. The jacket concealed her CURE uniform pretty well, nobody would see it unless they got very close and Aya was planning on avoiding that. At least it would keep her warm and dry. It was getting colder and wetter by the minute.
A click of high heels and a tap on her shoulder made her jump. A plump woman – who was wearing far too much lipstick – growled angrily at her. She was wearing the same jacket; which was now shiny and wet. She seemed to have purchased the rest of her clothes from Gringo. She must be freezing, Aya thought.
‘Hey…Ho!…This is my patch!’ the woman yelled in her face.
Her cheap jewellery jangled as she started to push Aya bodily off the pavement.
‘Find your own corner biatch!’ she shouted, as she aimed a high heeled kick at Aya’s backside.
Aya scurried to get away from the flailing boots, apologising profoundly.
‘I’m sorry! I’m not after anything…look, I don’t want your patch, I’m just looking for someone…I…’ she tried to explain.
The plump women came after her again, brandishing a cheap handbag.
‘All the ‘someone’s around this corner belong to me…ho! I’m gonna whup your ass bitch!’
The women took a swing with the bag, missed and her breasts fell out of her peekaboo bra. Aya scurried for cover and left the woman on the pavement adjusting her rain soaked cleavage and cursing.
Aya got her breath back on the edge of the sidewalk. Was there any outfit that didn’t get you into trouble in this place? she thought.
She was thinking that it was time to dispense with the pleasantries and find Jack, if he even existed.
Her life seemed to be spiralling out of control. By day she was a secretary: by afternoon, a princess (and now, by evening), a cheap hooker. She shook her head at the insanity of it all.
Southside Street wasn’t far. It was claustrophobic and cluttered. The roads were wet and the gutters flowed rapidly with rain and litter. Drains were blocked and large pools of filthy water spilled out around them. The air stank of dampness and despair and the black rain clouds brought the evening in faster.
Aya tallied up that she could have made at least 300 credits by the time she had arrived. Her calculations were based on the numerous, leering offers from the Docky’s that she had received. Apparently, Gringo’s jackets were a good advertisement after all.
Number Forty Two was a large bricked building of communal apartments. Lazy aerials poked out the building at odd angles. Even though they served no purpose anymore, nobody had got round to removing them.
A can rattled down the street and startled her. She hesitated briefly at bottom of the steps, for Max, she pressed herself. She hadn’t come this far to turn back now.
The rusty, iron railings were cold and slippery under her naked hands. The cold, damp air wrapped itself around her legs as she climbed the gloomy, unkempt steps. The temperature had fallen sharply after the rain had set in. The peeling, black door had multiple buzzers. The mis-matched, scrawled, names of the occupants were hard to read. The rain had got in behind some of the plates and smudged the ink. She scrolled down the list with her finger. It was in alphabetical order.
Her finger stopped on number thirty three.
“Jack,” was written beside it in heavy black ink.
Pressing the buzzer, she stepped back and strained up to see a light on in one window. Rain drops hit her in the face and ran down the front of her blouse. She pulled her collar up and wiped the rain out of her eyes. A figure moved from the window and disappeared. Waiting at the door she could feel the cold creeping up through her thin shoes. Her feet were so wet that they were starting to slide about inside her shoes.<
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The intercom crackled, and a woman’s voice came through.
‘What?’ it demanded.
‘Um, I’m trying to find a person…His name is…’ Aya didn’t get to finish.
‘My hubby ain’t paying any more whores! Get lost!’ the crackling reply came through.
Aya tried the switch again.
‘Hello? I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m looking for Jack?’ she pleaded, and shifted from foot to foot trying to shake out the rain water.
After a few seconds the angry response came back.
‘Learn to read you dumb bitch. There’s no more business from here, now fuck off you numb cunt!’
The intercom clicked off, leaving Aya stunned.
She tried to compose herself again and looked closer at the list of names on the door buzzers. A piece of paper had folded over slightly on the ‘Jack’ name. She unfurled it.
It read: “Jack-ie” Apt. 33.
Further down the list she found what she was looking for. “P.I Jack” Apt. 43.
That must be it, she thought. P.I? Private Investigator? What’s Max up too? She’d soon find out.
Aya depressed the buzzer firmly.
‘Hello?...I’m trying to reach Jack?’ she said into the intercom.
The intercom crackled, and the door latched open.
‘Third floor,’ a rough voice scratched its way through the crackles.
The heavy door closed behind her with a loud, clunk.
It made her jump.
It wasn’t any warmer inside the musty old building. The cracked, cold tiles echoed under her feet as she hurried down the litter strewn corridor. The stench of stale urine filled her nostrils. She noticed a faint light coming from under one of the badly fitting doors that led up towards the bare wooden staircase. Thin noises and muffled voices soaked through the walls. The wall had an ugly tide mark that stretched up the stairs at body height.
Graffiti was scrawled along the hall that ran up the stairs.
Aya couldn’t help but read the various Graffiti as she made her way upwards.
The last statement “FUCK THE CURE,” sent shivers down her spine.
She pulled her jacket up around her neck, concealing her uniform. God I hope Max knows what he’s doing. A shuffling noise coming from the second floor caused a trickle of fear to spurt a small dose of adrenalin into her system.
A scruffy, young man shot out from the darkness of his doorway. I’ll be glad when this is over and I can get the hell out of this place. She could feel him watching her as she hurried past and up to the third floor. He didn’t say a word, just hung there as menacing as the darkening sky outside.
Turning into the corridor, she could see a shaft of light coming from the window in Jack’s office door. Aya grasped the grubby door knob. She noticed the shiny, brass plate on the door. It read:
“Detective Inspector Jack Greaves”
Finally. This is the place. Max could’ve warned me about this sleazy area, perhaps he’s used to it. I’m not.
Aya stepped into Jacks domain. It was an untidy shambles of an office. It was dimly lit with a threadbare carpet. Several dingy, filing cabinets that did not quite sit right were placed in a wonky line along the wall. Things had fallen between the cabinets and stayed there forever. Scrappy posters hung around the walls; strategically placed to try and hide the worst of the decay. A fridge stood in one corner; filthy fingerprints around the door. A coffee machine leached brown stains over the top which streaked down one side.
Aya made a face. Ugh, hope he doesn’t offer me a coffee, not out of one of those mugs, disgusting, she thought.
A stark wooden chair, placed in front of his desk, seemed to have one leg stuck in the carpet. Something’s missing. It took Aya a few seconds to realise what it was, no computer system.
She stood waiting, with her coat dripping water on the filthy carpet.
Jack was slouched back against his chair by the window. A cigar was hanging out of one corner or his mouth. He was a fat, scruffy man in his sixties, who looked like he had not washed in some considerable time. His greasy, greying hair flopped over his podgy, unshaven face. His tired, grey, jacket partially covered his faded, shirt, which strained across his huge stomach. Food stains and cigar ash marked the front. Cigar smoke filled the room. It made her feel sick. It hung, like stinking cloud, at one level. His level.
Jack swivelled around on his crusty, black imitation leather chair to face her. It appeared to have bits of food stuck on it. The arms were peeling and bits of foam were hanging out of the worn plastic.
He seemed almost fixed to it, like it was part of his body and she thought, if he gets up that chair is going to be stuck to him.
His desk was piled high with papers, empty food cartons, dirty mugs and glasses. An ashtray spilled over with the remains of long since expired cigars.
How is it that he’s still living smoking than many cigars? She puzzled to herself.
A vintage, dial telephone squatted in the middle of the desk like a grubby fat frog. A shot glass and an almost empty bottle of bourbon balanced precariously on a pile of papers in the middle of his desk. The chair tipped slightly and he leaned forward. His hands seemed to fall onto the bottle and glass as though they had rehearsed it a thousand times. He poured the last of the bourbon into the sticky, shot glass which had left brown rings on the file covers. The rings merged with food and ash particles to form a picture that Aya supposed could have won the Turner Art Prize in days gone past.
‘Right, what can I do for you?’ Jack said, gesturing Aya to come forward and sit down.
He eyed her jacket and she could see his eyes roll slightly as if he’d done this a hundred times before.
‘Let me guess,’ he said, reaching for his worn notebook. ‘One of your clients owes you?’
Aya was about to answer when he caught the look in her eyes and continued.
‘No? Okay, you’re chasing child payments? - No. Your man’s ran off with one of your friends and you want me to drag him back?’
Aya sat down awkwardly on the wooden chair, not daring to move again. As she suspected, the leg was firmly stuck in the carpet. She wasn’t used to people speaking to her like this and her usual confidence was draining away as surely as the bourbon he was drinking was disappearing down his throat.
‘No, no. It’s nothing like that. Well. I do want you to help me find someone… but...’
Jack nodded, interrupting her mid-sentence.
‘Uh huh thought so. Lesbian huh? Right. What’s the name?’
Aya frowned. She gave him a look of intense irritation.
‘Max.’
Jack raised an eyebrow at her and puffed on his cigar.
‘A tranny?’
Aya was about to reply again when Jack cut her off.
‘Can we just get one thing straight is Max a man or a women? I mean in the traditional sense?’ he queried, while adjusting the cigar that was burning down towards his mouth.
Aya’s patience snapped. She leaned forward cutting a path through Jack’s fog of smoke.
‘Mr Greaves…Uh. Jack. Can you please stop assuming things?’
Jack paused, re-lighting his cigar and listened to her for the first time.
‘I’m not a prostitute. I’m not a lesbian. Max isn’t trans-sexual. Max is a man and he’s been arrested,’ Aya explained, exasperated.
‘Arrested?’ Jack quipped, ‘for what?’
Aya sighed and tried to explain, ‘Drugs specifically that stuff called Apexir.’
She didn’t notice the change in Jack’s eyes at the mentioned of the drug.
‘It’s all been some horrible mistake…’ she continued unaware of his changing interest.
‘They think he’s part of some big criminal gang. He got arrested along with a bunch of them Saturday. It’s all over the news,’ she paused, ‘the Marseilles gang?’ she finished.
She tried to picture the news report. It had gone by in a blur. Her lip began to
tremble at the idea of her Max in prison. Her Max that would have rescued her from the dreaded Aarif and Mada if he hadn’t got himself arrested.
Jack’s cigar had fallen out of his mouth. It burned steadily on the carpet until he recovered his composure enough to stamp on it sending up small clouds of ash. Shakily his hands reached for another.
He leaned forward, eyes deep in thought, ‘the Marseilles gang has been arrested?’
The change in his voice was subtle. It now had a tone of genuine interest. His eyes scanned her, scrutinising her every move with old, well-practised ease, searching for lies or falsities in her body language. He could not detect any.
Aya continued, too caught up in her own worries to notice the sudden change in Jack’s demure.
‘Some of them, yes. One of the ringleaders I think, Marko? Yeah, Marko Marseilles. Max right along with them, haven’t you seen it on the Info-Coms? Don’t you read the news? It’s been in the headlines all day.’
Jack sunk back in his chair rocking back and forth lightly. The new cigar grew bright in his mouth as he pulled on it deep in thought. He hadn’t seen the news lately. He hadn’t left his office in the last three days. He been conducting a very thorough (top-priority investigation) of three bottles of bourbon and an ageing hooker named Lutricia.
He looked over the pretty young woman sitting in front of his desk and dripping water all over his carpet. ‘Who are you? What’s your interest in all of this? he questioned.
‘My name is Aya, Max is my…. partner. He asked me to contact you. I need you to help him.’
Aya was watching the ash fall from his cigar like gentle grey snowflakes. He rubbed it into his clothing to join the other stains.
‘He asked for me?’ Jack added and frowned. This Max must know the Marseilles gang then, he thought. The name was unfamiliar to Jack. Still the girl’s story shouldn’t be too hard to check. If Marko has been arrested the news will be all over the sector. It also meant Jack was running out of time.
