Even Flow

by Darragh McManus

  Whitman mulled over which card to drop and said, “Yeah, don’t worry about it, buddy. It’s all under control.”

  He punched Waters on the arm. Even though he was only playing, it still hurt.

  The big guy didn’t have to hold his head now; didn’t have to force him. Tommy watched it all. A rolling montage of images cutting crazily from scene to scene: images of war and peace, love and violence, sex and death and inhumanity—some surreal, some frighteningly real. His mind was lifting from its moorings; something in his system now, something else in that needle. The pictures retreating and rebounding, bigger, smaller, stretched out of shape, the volume altering wildly. A buzz inside his ears, his eyes blurring, but not enough to block it out.

  Marching soldiers at the Nuremberg Rallies; a man’s head exploding in a cheap horror movie; girls putting flowers into the gun barrels of Soviet tanks; red lips, in close-up, vivid and voluptuous, almost over-ripe; fires on a chemically polluted lake; riot police beating a man through his bloodied shirt; a bald, professorial type, eye bulging and distorted against the camera, laughing hysterically; a feral, shaven-headed soccer hooligan baring his teeth; a woman fleeing from an alleyway, her dress torn, panic on her face; the taut, muscular sculpture of a line of Mapplethorpe-style nudes, a homoerotic frieze.

  Then a close-up of a boot kicking a man’s face, over and over, in visceral, nauseating detail. Tommy swayed dizzily; the big man righted him, fixing his view on the screen again—where the face being kicked was morphing into his own. The real Tommy shrieked in fright, his feet scrabbling on the ground to get away from it. Panic like a blood-flow throughout his body.

  The leader, the smart-talker, leaning across again, saying, “No further comment, I believe, is necessary.”

  Tommy had passed into unconsciousness before he found out what happened to the man with his face.

  Wilde dropped his cards, breathed heavily, looked Waters in the eye.

  “You trust me, right? You believe in what we’re doing, don’t you? Rob?”

  “I… Yes. I’m worried, but I trust you.”

  “Look: we’re doing the right thing, you guys. Believe me—people are starting to listen.” He took a cigarette from the pack and passed it to Waters. “Soon they’ll actually hear what we’re saying.”

  Tommy was almost fully awake. He had returned to the present and now tried to speak, the words a faint whisper at first.

  “Muh… muh… mother…”

  Danny and Troussier continued their conversation, oblivious, until Tommy sat up sharply and hollered, “Motherfuckers! You goddamn motherfuckers!”

  They rushed to him, easing him back onto the pillow. Troussier did whatever routine checks doctors did in these circumstances; Danny gripped Tommy’s face.

  “Can you hear me? Hey. Nod if you can hear me.”

  Troussier said, “Just a moment, Detective. I’d prefer if you allowed me to…”

  “No. Look, you’re the doctor, and in two minutes you can do whatever you need to do. But I need to know what this man knows right now. Please.”

  The doctor reluctantly nodded acquiescence and stepped back, a watchful eye on the scene.

  Danny said, “Kid—can you hear me? Just nod.”

  Tommy nodded, weakly.

  “Okay. Good. I’m gonna ask you a few questions,” Danny said. “You don’t have to speak. Just nod or shake your head. Do you understand that?”

  Another nod.

  “Alright. Did you recognize either the men who abducted you, or the place they brought you to?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Were their voices disguised?”

  A nod for yes.

  “And there’s nothing you remember that could be used for identification? A license plate, a…a street-sign, a smell, a sound, anything?”

  Tommy shook his head again.

  “Alright,” Danny said. “That’s okay; I suppose I didn’t expect anything. Look, you, ah, you get well soon, yeah?”

  He had turned to leave when Tommy started whispering again—a low, insistent rustle. Danny leaned in close. The man seized his arm, incoherence and alarm in his eyes, and said, “W-why me, man? I didn’t… Why me? I just kicked shit out of a few faggots, man. You…a cop. A tough guy. You understand, right?”

  He slumped back onto the pillow again, exhausted. Danny looked at him for a long moment. He walked past Troussier toward the door, saying, “He’s all yours. I think I should leave now. The atmosphere here; it, ah, it doesn’t agree with me.”

  He paused at the door as Troussier replied: “You get used to it, Detective. You get used to it until it feels like normal.”

  Chapter 7

  Klub Khan

  WHAT a ridiculous fucking name for a place like this: Klub Khan. Danny had drank here a few times, though not often, and every time he visited he couldn’t help marveling at the stupidity of that name. Was it some sort of reference to Kublai Khan or Genghis Khan, he wondered? Did the proprietors believe guys like that would hang out in this sort of club? Doubtful. He lit a cigarette and it struck him that maybe this was an oblique tribute to that British band from the 1980s, Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Gay trailblazers, scandalous, iconic in their own way. They mentioned the younger Khan in one of their songs, didn’t they?

  But who cared, anyway? He crushed the cigarette underfoot, took a deep breath and stepped inside. The place wasn’t as packed as normal, which was good, though they still had those unearthly strobe lights that usually gave him a headache. Danny didn’t like clubs as a rule—he preferred a quiet, European-style bar, on his own, with a beer and the newspaper (and a packet of smokes before the accursed ban came in)—but this wasn’t the worst joint in the world. And he had a reason for coming here, he rationalized, as music thudded in the background and a few guys half-heartedly danced under spinning disco balls. Clusters stood around talking and drinking. Danny scanned the place and sighed, then moved to the bar. He caught the bartender’s attention.

  “Hey. Uh, beer, please. Beck’s if you have it.”

  He sipped his drink, watching the crowds so intently that he didn’t notice a second man approaching.

  “Good choice. Higher purity standards.”

  Danny looked at him, startled. “What?”

  The man pointed at Danny’s bottle. “German beer. They have higher purity standards in their brewing techniques. That’s why they’re so renowned for the quality of their beer. Not like the piss we make here. Hi—I’m Michael.”

  He held out a hand and smiled. Michael was big, very broad across the chest and shoulders—gym sculpted, Danny knew straight away, not the body of a manual worker. He wore his hair in a high quiff that made his head look oddly angular, but he was a good-looking guy.

  Danny returned the shake and said, “Right. Higher standards. Well, that’s very interesting, Michael.”

  “No it isn’t, but it’s nice of you to lie like that. So what do you think of the new design?”

  “Design for…?”

  “The club.” Michael swept a hand across the room. “The new lights? The dancefloor? The seat coverings in the booths? It’s all been changed recently.”

  “Right. Sorry, I, ah… I haven’t been here in a while.”

  “I really like it. It’s funky and modern, but the place has still got that cozy sort of homey feel to it, you know?”

  Danny shrugged. “I…guess so. Sorry, are you in interior design or something?”

  Michael gave a nice, unguarded laugh and said, “Ha! Me? God, no. You’ve got the right field, but not interior. Web design. I know, I know. It’s all just a fad and the bottom’s gonna fall out of the whole online phenomenon any day now and leave me jobless and penniless and what, oh what, will I do then? Been hearing that for 15 years.”

  Danny laughed also. “Aw, I dunno. You seem like a fairly resourceful character.”

  “Again, no, but thank you for lying like that. So what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.” Danny w
inced in embarrassment. “Sorry. That’s such a cliché.”

  “Okay, I’ll try and better that. ‘Do you come here often? What’s a nice nameless guy like you doing in a recently redesigned place like this?’”

  They both laughed. Michael said, “So if I can’t have your name, can I at least know what you do? You know, sort of balance things up between us?”

  “I’m a policeman, Michael. A detective.”

  Michael nodded slowly, surprisingly impressed. “No shit. Well, good for you. I’ll know who to call the next time I get mugged while hailing a cab. Except I won’t, right, because I don’t know your name?”

  They laughed again. Neither spoke for a few moments. Faster music was pulsing over the sound system now. Danny stared at the glossy countertop and suddenly felt very tired. It had been a waste of time coming here.

  Then Michael said, “Anywaayy… I don’t believe in standing on ceremony with these things, so I’ll just come straight out with it: I think I like you. And I think I’d like to go somewhere else with you.”

  Danny rubbed his eyes and took a drink. He said, “Ah…listen, Michael. You seem like a really nice guy—sincerely—but I’ve just had a tough few days and a worse fucking break-up, and all I really wanna do is stand here and get slowly, horribly drunk. Is that okay? I don’t want you to be upset or anything.”

  Michael smiled and moved to leave. “Nah. Nah, that’s cool. Another time, maybe.”

  “You never know.”

  “Take care, Mister Policeman.”

  Danny called another beer and looked around some more, looked at the couples smooching on the dancefloor and two men in red suspenders having an intense discussion at their table. Maybe they’re discussing whether to finally leave the 1980s and ditch the suspenders, Danny thought. He moved onto whiskies, letting the alcohol seep into his system, feeling it loosen out the knots, that warm, careless glow radiating from his head to his limbs. This is why people drink, he decided: it didn’t make you forget, it just made you not give a shit.

  He was about to leave when he spotted Peter crossing the floor. Danny rushed across and grabbed him, whirling him around. Peter eyed him warily.

  Danny said, “Peter! I’m so glad to see you here. I thought you might be here, I didn’t know, but I figured…”

  “Danny, stop it. What…what is this? What do you want from me?”

  “What do I…? Jesus, I wanna talk to you, Peter. I wanna explain, about what happened and all that stuff I said. Did you get my messages? Phone and e-mail.”

  Peter sighed angrily and rubbed his temples. He was small, verging on tiny, and very smartly dressed, with designer geeky glasses and a thin strip of goatee beard on his chin. He stood next to a huge man in a sleeveless muscle top and tapered-leg denims. They looked mismatched. The big guy glowered at Danny and seemed like he was about to step in when Peter raised a hand.

  He said, “It’s alright, François. Just…go back to the table. Actually, get our coats, will you? I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

  François eyeballed Danny before moving off. Danny said, “Whoa. Wait. You’re leaving? You can’t. We have to talk, dammit.”

  He laid his hand on Peter’s arm, who threw it off angrily. “We have nothing to talk about. Got that, Danny? Nothing. And there is nothing between us; not any more. Now please piss off and leave me alone. You’re causing a scene.”

  “Peter, what…? Man, think, will you? Think about us, and what you’re doing. Come home, Peter. Please. We can work this out if you’ll only fucking talk to me!”

  Peter closed his eyes tight, then looked at Danny. “Okay, Danny. Fine. We’ll talk. Alright? But not here. Call me tomorrow around noon. We can get some lunch and… I don’t know. See what we can do about this. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Well…no, not really. For God’s sake, Peter, we need to sort this out. I’m only asking for five minutes here…”

  Peter brushed past him and began walking to the front door. He called back, “Leave it, Danny. Call me tomorrow when you’re sober.”

  “Fuck you, I am not fucking drunk!”

  Peter walked quickly toward the entrance, sprinting almost. Danny went after him, stumbling a little, distraught and more inebriated than he had realized. As the door closed behind Peter, shutting him off from view, Danny bumped into another man, a thick-necked youngster in a shiny shirt, making him spill his drink.

  The guy looked down at the spreading stain, indignant, and said, “Look what you just did to my shirt, you asshole. My fucking DKNY shirt.”

  “Listen, man, I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry.”

  The man placed a bejeweled hand on Danny’s chest. “You’re in a hurry, huh? Well, that’s fine. That more than makes amends for my ruined fucking shirt, doesn’t it?”

  “Look—I said I was sorry, okay? It was an accident. Now move out of my fucking way, please.”

  “Do you know how much this shirt cost, you dipshit? Probably more than you earn in…”

  Danny shoved him aside. The man said, “You clumsy, drunken, stupid son of a bitch” and threw a wild punch, scuffing Danny on the side of the head. He snapped then, slamming the guy to the wall and punching him several times in the head, enjoying it and repenting it all at once. Two security men rushed him, beefy giants in tight black t-shirts and earpieces, tearing him off the other man and wrestling him to the door.

  Danny kicked and struggled, shouting over his shoulder, “How’s your DKNY shirt now, pal? Huh!? Matches your fucking face now!”

  They hurled him out and he fell to the ground, crouching there, one knee in a puddle. He said quietly, “God…damn…it. Idiot. Idiot.”

  Across the street Peter and his new beau were slamming the doors on their car. Peter stared straight ahead as François gunned the engine. The osmosis of the puddle water moved up Danny’s trouser leg, that cold crawl. He was feeling thoroughly miserable for himself when his phone rang.

  He fumbled for it, pressing the connect button as he stood up: “Danny Everard… What? Can you speak up, there’s a lot of background noise here… Okay, slow down: two or three men in balaclavas…unmarked white van…yeah, that sounds like my guys. Gimme an address… Brooklyn. Seen driving toward Red Hook…” He began walking briskly to his car, parked on an adjacent street. “Alright, put out an APB with all available units in that area. Have them cruise within a ten-block radius of where the pimp was snatched and give a description of everyone involved. It’s not much to go on, but… I’m on my way there now. And listen: contact me immediately you hear anything, got me? That means right fucking away.”

  Danny sprinted to his car, wrenched the door open and hesitated for a moment—he was definitely over the legal limit, but was he safe to drive? He screwed his eyes shut and tried to slow his heartbeat. Got to work out the balance, Everard. Weigh the risk against a greater danger.

  Fuck it. He shook his head rapidly, like a dog emerging from a swim, gritted his teeth, climbed in, and turned the key.

  Blackness. Whispers flitting from left to right like bats through night-time treetops.

  “I still think it was a bad idea to just do it like that. Right off of the street.”

  “Yeah, that was risky, man. In plain sight like that…anyone could have gotten a mark on us, you know?”

  “Exactly. The van, the direction we were going… I gotta say, I don’t like this.”

  “Relax, guys. I told you, we needed to make a more…dramatic statement. Something bold and witty. To snatch someone off the street, like a daring costumed hero.” Laughter. “Anyway, it’s all okay. The van’s unmarked, right? We drove in a circle to get here. The whole thing only took about five seconds, and the only witnesses were winos or crack-addicts; neither renowned for their powers of observation. And besides which: why would anyone care if a piece of shit like this goes missing?”

  The blindfold was ripped off, and Painter blinked into the glare of a spotlight, set up on a stand about 20 feet away. He looked down and back up, and ther
e were three men in tuxedos and masks, their eyes dark and watchful behind black wool. Three little bastards in fancy suits. They were in an enormous, empty room in an even more enormous, empty warehouse complex. Painter looked down again: he was tied to a wooden chair, stripped to his underpants and vest.

  Wilde, standing in the center of the three, said, “Painter. That’s what they call you, right? ‘On the street.’ Or whatever stupid fucking terminology you people use.”

  Painter gazed slowly around the room, then smiled at Wilde. He was heavyset, in his mid-forties, with a moustache and broad Latino features. He was also scarred, leathery, and mean.

  He said, “Yeah, man. I paint pretty pictures, haven’t you heard? I could do a fine job on this place you got here. It needs some pretty pictures.”

  “Ah. A comedian, too,” Wilde said.

  “Isn’t everyone these days, Wilde?”

  “Too true, Waters. All too true. Right: start the camera.”

  Painter’s craggy face, staring at the ground, popped up on the viewfinder as Waters focused in properly, the whirr of the camera a low background note.

  Wilde said, “So why do they call you ‘Painter’, then, Painter?”

  The pimp smiled and looked away, shaking his head.

  “Ho-hum. Another reticent interviewee. Whitman, a little persuasion again, please.”

  Whitman took two large steps and slammed his hunting knife into the chair, millimeters from Painter’s groin. He gasped and jumped back.

  “Obviously, I don’t need to tell you that he deliberately missed,” Wilde said. “Whitman could slice off that pathetic excuse you call a dick and have it sliced and stir-fried and fed to you with soy sauce before you felt the first cut, so don’t fuck around with us. Why do they call you Painter?”

  “Because I like my bitches to wear a lot of make-up,” Painter sighed. “You know, get glamorous.”

  “And a fashion connoisseur as well. Aren’t you the talented one?”

  Waters said, “A regular renaissance man.”

  Painter shrugged. Wilde started to walk back and forth, slowly, hands behind his back. He said, “And how many—to use the argot of the working pimp—‘bitches’ do you run, Mr. Painter?”