Lethal Fetish

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “Do not tempt him, Riley,” Ludwika scolded. “He does not need to be encouraged. He drinks too much vodka without an excuse from you.”

  Other customers seeking more conventional morning fare began to come in, so I figured it was good time to leave my payment along with an extra fin in appreciation of the custom breakfast—a tip that the Polish couple would never accept if handed to them. But I knew that running a two-person bakery was less lucrative than running a four-person extermination business, and I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough.

  ~||~

  I stopped by the shop and nabbed a couple of work orders in the hope of doing something less revolting than my primary task for the morning. Given that it’s only two miles from Potrero Hill to the Castro and that morning traffic was at a crawl, I could’ve walked faster than driving to the Pleasure Palace. But the rain had increased from spitting to rotten, the weather equivalent of a sulky teenager. The heavier the precipitation, the slower the commute—which didn’t reduce speeds enough to prevent a vegetable truck from overturning at 18th and Guerrero. The resulting salad bar became an impromptu bonanza for a half dozen homeless men who were gleaning the windfall, while the uninjured but outraged driver tried to shoo away the scavengers. Meanwhile, the cops did their best to create gridlock, as if a tipped-over delivery truck was an armored car heist.

  For my part, the traffic jam provided a chance to listen to the entirety of Camille Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals on KDFC. Tommy had recently come to relish this musical suite nearly as much as Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf. He figured out how each movement captured the qualities of an animal: rooster, tortoise, elephant or—his favorite—the kangaroo, which Saint-Saëns portrayed by hopping fifths and grace notes. The composer covered the spectrum of vertebrates—fish, reptiles, birds, and mammals—but omitted the spineless creatures. Presumably then, as now, most people considered insects, clams, and lobsters to be something other than animals.

  The tangle of cars made its way through the chaotic intersection during the twelfth movement: Fossils. Even the inanimate impressions of extinct creatures counted as animals. Insects just don’t get any respect. Saint-Saëns echoed his own Danse macabre in which he summoned humans from the grave and used the xylophone to evoke the sound of bones clattering in a darkly humorous allusion to death. Tommy loved listening for the riff on Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in this movement as it made him feel like a musical connoisseur. According to the radio host, the inside joke of this movement is Saint-Saëns’ allusions to musical pieces that the composer considered to be fossils in his time. Today, there might be snippets from the big band era—one of the last times that popular music was both fashionable and melodious.

  Although the musical carnival was light and playful, the piece had a disturbing quality in light of my morning’s venture. The menagerie of animals providing entertainment was ominously reminiscent of the zoophilia that was insinuated in Stefan and Michelle’s “dance macabre.” And now I was headed to their store in search of Luis—her confidant in all things sadomasochistic and animalistic. But to be fair, Saint-Saëns married a nineteen-year-old girl when he was nearly forty, became estranged from her, and probably preferred men over women when all was said and done, although nothing was publicly said or unquestionably done. Such was the nature of sex a century ago. Maybe in another hundred years, foreplay with spiders will be considered normal and people with be trolling the Castro in search of an eight-legged threesome. I’m glad I won’t be alive to see it.

  I bypassed a prime parking spot in front of the Pleasure Palace and found a metered place around the corner. It was ridiculous, but I didn’t want to be seen—by whom, I couldn’t say—parked in front of the sex shop. I couldn’t tell if I was being prudish or discrete, but there was a kind of guilt-by-association. I’d rather be caught crawling through an attic filled with bat shit or a cellar infested with cockroaches than perusing a store filled with whips, furry costumes and triple-action diving dolphins.

  The voluptuous redheaded salesgirl would’ve been more enticing, but Luis was a fine specimen in his own right—a Latin American with intense brown eyes, coffee skin, and a torso that was a testament to sit ups. He wore black-framed glasses that conveyed a scholarly demeanor despite a body builder’s physique under a white tee-shirt tucked into black jeans. I’m as straight as they come but this guy was a tribute to the human form. I feigned interest in a rack of sex guides including: The Joy of Kink, Cindi Love’s Sexercises, and The Tao of Orgasm.

  “Can I help you?” Luis asked, having quietly moved from behind the counter. I’d already decided that dishonesty would be the best policy.

  “Maybe. These books are not as creative as a guy might hope,” I said.

  “Meaning?” His eyebrows arched. I gathered that in his world, one had to be cautious about unfamiliar sorts. Grant Roberts was gunning for vice arrests and undercover pervert patrols were a fine way for the cops to score points with the assistant district attorney.

  “Meaning that Stefan told me you specialized in less humdrum practices.”

  “You know Stefan?”

  “I do. And I know about Michelle. That’s a terrible loss to those of us seeking pleasure beyond the dull boundaries of social norms.”

  Luis glanced around the shop. I was the only customer. Even so, he lowered his voice, “What do you know about Michelle?”

  “There was an accident involving a spider. Nobody’s fault. And hey, lots of people die of heart attacks during boring sex. I’d rather go while doing something imaginative.”

  “And what do you imagine?”

  “Maybe something at the intersection of animals and your expertise,” I said, trying to be a bit coy as I wasn’t really sure where the hell this was going.

  “My expertise?”

  “Yes. Stefan says that you’re a connoisseur of BDSM. That’s really quite a buffet of possibilities, eh?”

  “Well put. I can offer you anything on that menu, although my tastes run to domination and masochism,” he said. Given his build, I would’ve thought Luis was more into giving than receiving. But then, I was way out of my league in making guesses in this underworld.

  “A kindred spirit,” I lied.

  “I might have something for you,” Luis said. “Michelle and I collaborated on some projects, and I’m sensing that you could find one of our products to be exciting.”

  He led me to the back of the store, where he gestured for me to wait as he disappeared through the black curtains draped over the doorway to Michelle’s office. I perused a pegboard holding riding crops, fuzzy handcuffs and feather dusters, like a supply store for offbeat equestrians, cops and maids, although I undoubtedly misunderstood the precise function of the merchandise. Luis reappeared holding a videotape.

  “Here you go,” he said. The cassette had a handwritten label: Stiletto Squash. “There’s another one with a barefoot dominatrix, but I think the dialogue is better in this production. More natural and intense,” he said.

  I took the video case and followed him to the cash register. This was all fine and good—actually sick and bad—but I needed access to whatever was happening behind the scenes. Michelle needed money and Luis was my best hope for figuring out why. But watching a videotape of high-heeled women talking dirty and crushing cockroaches wasn’t going to get me any closer to an answer.

  “That’ll be fifty dollars,” Luis said.

  I grimaced and said, “A bit pricey, no?”

  “We produce these in limited quantities and high quality. If you want standard porn, we have an extensive inventory,” he said, flicking his head toward a wall covered in films of Bambi and Debbie losing their virginity in locker rooms and hospital beds for the hundredth time.

  “I understand. Of course, if there was a way to get closer to the action I’d be willing to pay a premium,” I said, handing him my credit card and hoping that the Pleasure Palace used discretion in recording transactions. Not that anyone would see the billing statement,
but having “Stiletto Squash” on my purchase history was like having the nuns tell me that my juvenile indiscretions would go on my “permanent record,” which at the time I took to mean a document that God would scrutinize when I stood at the pearly gates.

  Luis looked at me, apparently deciding whether I could be trusted beyond purchasing dubious videos. “Tell you what,” he said, “meet me for lunch at the Anchor Oyster Bar and we can discuss the possibilities.”

  I thanked him and left, figuring I was in for an interview to determine if I would be allowed access to something more sinister and vile—and hopefully more connected to Michelle’s murder. I wasn’t sure this line of investigation was leading anywhere, but I had nowhere else to go. Thankfully, my normal business could occupy me at least until lunchtime.

  ~||~

  It was a short drive over to Eureka Valley, a quiet residential neighborhood that used to be filled with working-class Irish families. A few were still there, but nowadays there were lots of homosexuals which accounts for the district having elected the first openly gay politician to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. The Irish Catholics and homosexual atheists made their community work rather harmoniously, Harvey Milk’s murder notwithstanding. The devoted and gay public servant was assassinated by an asshole whose lawyer got him a slap on the wrist with the infamous Twinkie defense—blaming junk food for the murder. Now there’s a perversion of justice.

  According to the work order that sent me into the hybrid neighborhood, Mrs. Moynihan was, in her words, “being driven mad as a box of frogs” by a chirping insect in her house. It took me about ten minutes to determine that the nice old lady was suffering from a combination of an underperforming hearing aid and a weakening smoke detector. The former wasn’t telling her where to look and the latter was telling her it needed repair.

  My treatment involved walking down to the corner market and picking up batteries for both devices, thereby exterminating the chirps and allowing Mrs. Moynihan to hear Days of our Lives and General Hospital without the volume turned high enough to vibrate the windows. The kindly widow served me Earl Grey tea while watching her shows. I figured that my day was shaping up more like The Edge of Night and Another World.

  CHAPTER 28

  Luis had nabbed one of the few tables at Anchor Oyster Bar, which consisted of a long, narrow room with gleaming walls and a floor of white, honeycomb tiles set off with black grout. Between a counter running the length of the dining area and four tiny tables, there was seating for a couple dozen customers. The ambiance was pure hokum with a nautical motif, but the food was the real deal. I ordered a platter of oysters on the half-shell and a glass of Riesling. Luis went with a bowl of steamed, black mussels from California (sweeter and richer than the greenlips from New Zealand, if you ask me) and a Bartles & Jaymes Tickle Pink wine cooler—not a drink to match the guy’s physique, but to each his own. After we’d made a dent in our lunches, Luis cut to the chase.

  “So Riley, what’s your angle?”

  “My angle?”

  “Yeah, you’re not into kink,” he said.

  I slurped an oyster and waited in silence.

  “You did your best to play the role at the store, but I could see through your act. I called Stefan and he was pretty cagey. He said I should trust you but didn’t explain what you’re up to. I know it’s not domination and animals. So, who are you?”

  “I’m an ex-cop operating an extermination business.”

  “Ex?”

  “Yeah. I’m done with law enforcement or vice versa.” The wine was perfect with the oysters, which tasted like the sea itself.

  “So, what’s the deal with Stefan?”

  “Long story. But the short version is that my business is at risk through a series of events linked to Michelle’s death. Something went wrong with the spider Stefan used to arouse her, and whoever messed up their foreplay is likely connected to a couple other deaths.”

  “You can’t suspect me,” he said, no longer interested in plucking the orange meat from the blue-black shells. “Michelle meant a great deal in my life.”

  I cocked my head and arched my eyebrows. It was enough to keep him going.

  “Okay, we were lovers. She didn’t hide it from Stefan, and he didn’t hide his interest in going both ways. Not with me, but I know other guys who he enjoyed.”

  The slippery tissue of the oysters had become uncomfortably sensual. I put some lemon on the last couple to make them taste fresher, cleaner.

  “Michelle and you were into sex but maybe looking for something more?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like money.”

  “I suppose so. We were putting together some funding for a series of films on topics of our shared interests.”

  “How much were you talking about?”

  “Five, maybe ten, grand.”

  “Chump change. I want to know why she needed a hundred thousand bucks.”

  Luis looked pained. I could tell that he had answers but they weren’t going to come as easily as his admission of banging his boss. I needed to deal Luis one more card to force his hand.

  I leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Luis, the trail leading to Michelle’s death ends with her breaking confidentiality and blackmailing a guy who was supposed to be anonymous in one of her films. Stefan said this was totally out of character.” I found the notion of any of these people having “character” to be ludicrous. They had urges and cravings. Luis would show me otherwise.

  “We need to find a more private place,” Luis said.

  The lunchtime noise seemed more than sufficient to drown out our voices, and nobody had shown the least interest in our conversation. But whatever he had to share was apparently even darker than what we’d discussed so far.

  ~||~

  Luis and I walked down 19th Street in the cold grayness. We ended up at Kite Hill, a small park with a captivating panorama of the city on a clear day. The low, skittering clouds eliminated any hope of a view. The winter rains were beginning to transform the parched grass into a verdant green. Nina and I had picnicked on the hill last spring, when she’d shown me a lily unique to California. Her people crushed the bulb of the “soap plant” into a foamy lather for cleaning and, when food was scarce, they cooked it like a potato. There can’t be many plants that are good for both shampooing and eating. But then, Luis and his sort figured out how to use animals for unexpected purposes. If nothing else, humans are inventive.

  “Let’s sit here,” Luis said, gesturing to a picnic table. The benches were soaked but a wet ass was the least of my discomforts. We sat across from one another. He gave a deep sigh and began. “I’m a member of the crush community. Do you know what that is?”

  I nodded, sensing I wasn’t going to like what was coming.

  “We get together and stage crushes. Michelle was our crush mistress— the one who performs. She totally understood what we wanted and always said the most erotic things.” He lapsed into a falsetto imitation of her voice, “You’re just a wriggling bug, trying to escape. Here, let me pin you to the floor. Squirm you little maggot. I’m going to squish you between my toes. You’re just a disgusting, greasy spot.” He sighed and shrugged somewhat apologetically.

  “Okay, where are you going with this?” I asked.

  “Well, she’d bring the crickets, cockroaches, or worms ...” He paused. I waited. “ ... or whatever.”

  “Whatever?”

  “Insects and stuff like that.” Another pause. This was getting tiresome, but I could tell he had something on his mind, and I hoped it would be useful to my investigation. “At least until the last couple of months.”

  “Go on.”

  “The group was drawn into some really wicked shit by this guy, Eunectes.”

  “That’s some name. Is the guy Greek or what?”

  “Maybe. He kinda looks the part, but it’s not his real name. Everyone uses an alias for confidentiality.” That meant tracking his actual identity would be nearly imp
ossible, if such information turned out to be important, which seemed increasingly likely.

  “So what’s this Eunectes up to?

  “We were all into soft crush, but he wanted to take it up a notch.”

  “Meaning?” There was a long silence. “Look Luis, you dragged me up here because you’re in some sort of bind—and it’s evidently not the kind involving fuzzy handcuffs. You can either bet on me or roll the dice yourself.” Luis was maybe twenty years younger than me, so I took a chance with using my best paternal voice to trigger both trust and trepidation—a potent combination when it worked.

  “Okay, okay. We started getting into hard crush. At first pinkie mice, the little newborns. Then adult mice. And in the last month, he brought kittens. Just strays from the alleys. They’d end up dead anyway, he said.”

  “And Michelle went along with this?” The icy water soaked into my pants, but the discomfort seemed like a kind of penance for what was unfolding.

  “It was weird. He was, like, charismatic. Even mesmerizing. Nobody argued about his suggestions or opposed him. Michelle seemed to be enchanted by his smooth talk. I know they were lovers and he probably pushed all of her buttons, even ones that I wasn’t into. I suspect she told him everything. He was irresistible.”

  “Okay, so we have this guy who entices everyone to follow his lead, progressing—if that’s what it should be called—from squirmy creatures to cuddly animals. And Michelle is pulled along as the ‘crush mistress.’ I’m not quite seeing where the money comes in, but I suppose anything this messed up generates the potential for extortion or blackmail.”

  “Maybe so ...” Another long pause while my ass went from chilled to numb.

  “Goddammit, Luis, we’ve come this far. How much worse can it get?”

  “It gets really bad,” Luis said, as if stomping on kittens wasn’t so awful. “Things have gotten out of control.” He took a deep, stuttering breath. “Eunectes is talking about crushing a person.”