Lethal Fetish

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  It was my turn to sit silently. We’d gone from weird, to sick, to evil. “What do you want from me?”

  “I need your help.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Stefan vouched for you. Things are sliding downhill, fast. I’ve got nowhere to go, so I’ll take my chances with an ex-cop who can stand up to Eunectes.”

  “You’re pretty ripped, Luis. Why can’t you challenge this weirdo?” He dropped his head in shame.

  “I’m strong, but I’m not courageous, Riley. I have the body of a lover, not a fighter. Stefan said you could ‘solve problems’ and I’m desperate.”

  “Maybe Eunectes is all bluff or fantasy,” I said. A soft rain started to fall. “I can’t see how anyone is going to lie down and let some woman trample him.” I was trying to grasp what Luis was saying and struggling to imagine anything so twisted.

  “Like I said, Eunectes is alluring. He’ll find a woman to replace Michelle. As for the guy, I don’t know what he’s planning. Maybe the dude will be drugged or something.”

  “You make it sound like Eunectes has some poor sap lined up. I need the whole story if I’m going to help you and maybe figure out how this connects to Michelle’s death,” I said, pulling the collar of my jacket around my neck to keep the water from running down my back. Luis didn’t seem to notice the rain.

  “Shit, I’ve taken you this far. So here’s what I know.” Luis slumped as if weighed down by what he was about to say. “One of the guys in our group is sort of like Eunectes’s disciple. He told me that Eunectes has some retarded kid living with him. And—“

  “Slow down, Luis. Let’s start with the disciple. What’s his name?”

  “He goes by Redbug.”

  “Any reason?”

  “Yeah, he has red hair and works at some insect laboratory. He’s occasionally supplied beetles and roaches for crush nights.”

  “What about the retarded kid?”

  “Not much to say. I’ve seen him around Eunectes’s car a couple of times after our events. He doesn’t join us, but crush isn’t everyone’s thing.”

  “That’s a safe bet,” I said. Luis flashed a crooked smile. “Describe the kid.”

  “My sense is that he’s your basic gutter whore, although Eunectes probably fixed him up. At least his clothes are clean. He looks to be late teens, sandy blond hair and sunken eyes. He has a reddish purple blemish on his face, like maybe from being burned.”

  “Or a birthmark?” There were hundreds of homeless youth wandering the alleys of San Francisco, but Eunectes’s adolescent companion, or captive, was a disturbingly close match to Petey—the kid who Nina was worried about.

  “Could be. Hard to say, given he stays in the shadows, like he’s hiding but not scared enough to ditch Eunectes.”

  “I might know who he is. Or to be more precise, I know somebody who might care a great deal about him. And if I’m right, then whether or not my wading into this filthy swamp does any good for Stefan or you, I need to make sure that this kid isn’t hurt—or killed. But I’m wondering whether we’re getting in over our heads. Maybe it’s time to go to the cops.”

  “No!” Luis sat bolt upright, as if jolted by an electric shock. “They’ll sweep up everyone, and most of the guys aren’t doing anything illegal. The prosecutor will humiliate all of us to please that Moral Majority asshole in the DA’s office.”

  Apparently Grant Roberts had put the fear of God into anyone not using the missionary position, although crushing creatures for kicks didn’t strike me as the sort of behavior that warranted social approval. But neither did it require arrest in a city with plenty of homicides, burglaries, and rapes to keep a police force productively occupied. When we get to the point where a bunch of guys getting off on a woman mashing insects is the biggest problem in San Francisco, we’ll be close to utopia.

  “Alright, we can keep this unofficial. For now. But if I’m going to make any progress, you need to get me access to your little crush carnivals,” I said.

  “There’s a performance tomorrow night. I might be able to get you in, but there could be a test of sorts. The guys are pretty anxious about newcomers and you don’t come across as a genuine crush freak.”

  I took that as a compliment. But I didn’t know what he meant by “a test”—and I didn’t want to ask. Sometimes a swamp is best entered without knowing what’s beneath the fetid water. We walked back into the Castro, and Luis said he’d give me a call. Then I drove up to Hayes Valley to solve a problem I could understand.

  ~||~

  In the early part of the century, the district was ethnically mixed like Potrero Hill, but after World War II, Hayes Valley became an African American neighborhood. The streets were reasonably safe during the day, but no place to be at night. I stopped at a sagging Victorian townhouse on Grove. According to Carol’s work order, the owner had found, “smelly worms with lots of legs” in the laundry room.

  I knocked on the door and a big, black woman answered. She led me to the kitchen and showed me the invaders she’d trapped in a margarine tub. Just as I expected, she had a cozy little collection of millipedes. I explained that they wouldn’t do any harm and she explained that, “I don’ care if they be hurtin’ any folks. I want ’em gone.” Fair enough.

  I checked the yard and found a rock garden built up against the house, along with a pile of scrap wood and a bed of roses with a thick covering of mulch. The woman loaned me a rake, and I spent a half hour removing millipede habitat from around the foundation. The house was just south of where the 1906 fires stopped, making it historically valuable and structurally questionable.

  Back in the day, builders mixed beach sand into the concrete. When the salt leaches out of the sand, the result is a crumbling foundation—and job security for exterminators. All sorts of creatures move through the cracks and holes in search of a better, indoor life. Given our cold, wet winter, the millipedes were undoubtedly tickled to find a warm, dry home. I spent an hour hunting millipedes in the basement and devoted four tubes of caulk to sealing the foundation. Between the outdoor mud and the indoor dust lurking behind appliances and storage boxes, I was effectively tarred and feathered.

  Finally, I went upstairs and explained what had happened, how the problem was fixed, and why there was no need to spray insecticide. She seemed somewhere between pleased and dubious, telling me, “You be the expert Mister Riley, but if’n they’s back in da’ house, I be callin’ you.” Fair enough.

  I drove back to the shop, feeling filthy—inside and out.

  CHAPTER 29

  Back at the shop, there was a stack of phone messages. Carol had checked the “Urgent” box on one from Lieutenant Papadopoulos and added a parenthetical note: “Not a nice man.” I began by returning calls from several potential clients and a couple of disgruntled customers. Of the latter, one was convinced our work had insufficiently scorched the earth. I assured him that having every single living creature, other than the family dog, “tits up”—Larry’s term, which I didn’t use with the homeowner—within a day of treatment wasn’t our goal and shouldn’t be expected as this would mean the house was a toxic waste dump. The other customer complained that our scheduled inspection was unnecessary because he hadn’t seen a cockroach or earwig around the apartment complex in weeks. I explained that not having vermin was like not having blood in your urine or oil on your driveway—a sign that your doctor and mechanic were doing their job and everything was copacetic. But the absence of a symptom didn’t mean it was no longer necessary to have an annual physical or a regular tune-up. Having assuaged these concerns, I called the dithering detective.

  The station operator connected me to Papadopoulus. “Lieutenant,” I said, “how can I make your Monday more pleasant?”

  “Stow it, Riley. I need a status report on the Linford case.”

  “Hey, our deal was that I had until the end of the week.”

  “The new deal is that the DA’s office has caught wind of something perverted in the works
, and Roberts’ God squad wants a bust to placate the holy rollers.”

  “I can assure you the pieces are starting to come together.”

  “I can assure you that obstruction of justice is a felony,” he retorted.

  “Look, you’ll be the first to know when I have something worth reporting.”

  “I let you pursue this as a favor, but if things don’t start happening I’m taking over—whatever it might mean for your little business.”

  “Things are happening, Lieutenant.”

  “And understand that if those things happen in ways that require code two assistance, I’ve never heard of you.” Translation: if I needed emergency backup from law enforcement, I was on my own. He hung up.

  I took care of ordering some chemicals and supplies, while thinking through my next moves. I called Dr. Chen and explained my need for some professional insight regarding a situation that could be headed toward another murder. That was enough for her to make time to meet with me tomorrow. The afternoon appointment was workable, given that the freaks weren’t going to gather until evening.

  These best laid plans, which might involve both mice (squished) and men (excited), gave me the opportunity to contemplate what to do about Nina’s stalker. Now there was a problem I could handle on my own. I unlocked my filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. The snubnosed .38 Special was tucked into a gorgeous, custom holster with “Erin Go Bragh” tooled into the side—a gift from my father when I made detective. The smell of full-grain Italian leather melded with the vapors of Hoppe’s No. 9 gun oil.

  I could hear Carol shutting down the front office, so I went up the hall to ask her for a favor which was crucial to what I had worked out for the evening. I needed to pick her up around eight o’clock, have her wear a bulky coat and hat, and drop her off at Nina’s place. There, she’d go into the apartment, turn on the lights, leave the front curtain open a crack, disappear from sight, and wait until I knocked four times as a signal to come out.

  She was dubious, but I told her that Nina was in danger and her role in my evening’s drama was critical to making the situation safe. Carol’s response was typical of what she’d come to understand after years of working with me: “I doubt whatever you’re planning is legal, but I have no doubt it’s the right thing to do. Or at least you’re making the best of some awful situation. I’ll be ready at eight. Please don’t tell me anything more.”

  I love that woman.

  ~||~

  My next stop was Marty’s Gym for a short, hard workout before dinner. Jump roping, interspersed with bouts on the heavy bag, had me gasping and sweating. I cooled down with some speed bag training, then wandered over to the sparring ring. A big, black fighter with a sculpted torso was getting schooled by a focused Mexican kid with solid footwork and impressive hand speed. I sidled up to the old codger, who was leaning on the apron and grinning mischievously.

  “What’s up, Marty?”

  “Watching a man learn a lesson,” he said, shifting the unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth.

  “You figure it’s okay for the pretty boy to take a pounding?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How so?”

  “Two reasons. First, he got into the ring.” Marty spit some errant strands of tobacco onto the floor.

  “So he consented.”

  “Yup, he knew the deal. And second, he was over confident. Figured he was too pretty to lose and didn’t respect his opponent.”

  “So he deserves what he’s getting.”

  “Brainy sorts have yapped about this shit for centuries in highfalutin books. Nothing like a boxing ring to clarify what some people want to make complicated.”

  I took a quick steam, showered, and headed up 18th to Van Ness, where I met Nina at Whiz Burger—a romantic setting in my book. A run-down, neon-signed drive-in that’s been in business for a quarter of a century evokes sweet nostalgia, like a ratty, leather motorcycle jacket from 1955. We grabbed a couple of stools at the counter.

  I ordered a Whiz burger, along with fries and a malted. They still call it a “malted” which resonates with the ambiance. My father used to love double-rich chocolate malted milk from the Walgreens soda counter, a drink reminding him of the best moments during the worst times in the Great Depression. Nina opted for the Junior burger with a diet Coke. She was watching her weight, although I found her to be perfectly sumptuous. In fact, admiring the profile of the sweater she was wearing as she leaned over to take a bite of burger had me feeling lusty. I prefer sex to violence, but tonight was going to be focused on the latter—a reality I was keeping from her. However, there was another unpleasant reality I needed to explore.

  “Nina, I might’ve found out something about Petey,” I said without the nonchalance I’d hoped to evince. She sat bolt upright, turned toward me, and almost knocked over her drink,

  “What? Is he okay? Riley, tell me what you know.”

  “Slow down. I don’t know anything specific—”

  “Goddammit Riley, don’t play games. This matters to me. A lot,” she said, latching onto my wrist as if preparing to apply a submission hold.

  “I have a vague description of a street kid who might match his appearance and who might be in danger,” I said.

  “What kind of danger?” her grip tightened.

  “Sexual. Whoever this is might be part of a violent fantasy.”

  “Jesus,” she said, “What do you need from me? How can I help?”

  “Give me whatever you can about him. Anything.”

  “I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks. When he dropped in at the daycare, he was needy—like a child making his way on the streets. He’d barely speak, except to Tommy and Karsa, but I could tell he was easy pickings for predators.” Her grasp began to relax.

  “Okay, good. You said he had a birthmark on his face. Give me a full description.”

  Nina lapsed into police mode. “Five-eight to five-ten, late teens maybe early twenties, thin and reedy, hundred-and-thirty or -forty pounds, curly blond hair over his ears. He usually wore ripped jeans, a raggedy sweatshirt, and red sneakers.”

  “Good.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, not good. The kid I heard about could be Petey. I should know by tomorrow night. Until then, there’s nothing to do but sit tight.”

  Nina let go of my wrist and leaned against me. “I’m scared, but I trust you’ll protect him.”

  I gave her a long hug to convey a confidence I didn’t possess. Then I managed to get her onto another subject while we finished our meal. She was heading to a knitting circle this evening. The women provided social support (hence their self-appointed nickname, “stitch and bitch”) and shared a love of all things fibrous. Nina’s people had a long history of weaving. As a girl, she’d learned to harvest willow, wild grape, and bear grass, prepare the materials, dye the fibers using berry juices, and form the baskets which were beautiful and functional. The Chowok passed down the knowledge from one generation to another but now that the tribe was scattered, having other women to teach her about knitting made her feel connected. I alluded to our knotting the sheets tomorrow night, and she rolled her eyes—but then gave me a lusty kiss.

  ~||~

  While Nina headed off to a peaceful evening, I headed into a violent night. I picked up Carol, who was dressed so that from a distance she could pass as Nina. I went over the plan on our way to Nina’s apartment, gave Carol the key, and dropped her off a block from the place so my truck wouldn’t spook Tim. I retrieved my gun from the glove box, crossed to the other side of the street and watched her head to the apartments. I avoided the streetlights and loitered in the shadow cast by a New Zealand Christmas tree, like an armed Santa deciding if my quarry was being naughty or nice. It was soon apparent that Tim was awake and hadn’t been watching out.

  Carol left the drapes in the front window open a few inches and within minutes Tim had slithered out from under a concrete staircase, quickly glanced around and slowly s
tarted up to the second floor. He’d made it halfway to the top by the time I crossed the street into the courtyard. The guy was entirely focused on his goal, so I was just a couple stairs behind him when he sensed my presence. I reached up and grabbed the back of his fatigue jacket.

  “Hey man, let go. I’m not doing anything,” he said, struggling to escape.

  “Tim, we need to have a talk. Come downstairs with me, or I’ll bounce you down the steps.”

  When we got to the ground level, he made my decision easier by shooting off his mouth. “This is a free country. I ain’t doin’ nothing. Just out for an evening walk and you grab me. I should call the cops.”

  “Look, I gave you fair warning. You knew the deal,” I said, taking a fistful of his jacket and pushing him into the shadows under the stairs.

  “You better not hit me or I’ll press charges,” he said.

  “I’m not going to hit you, Tim. That would mean messing up my hands, and maybe you really would be stupid enough to call the cops from the emergency room. Then, I’d need to explain my bloody knuckles and your broken face to the cops.” Pulling the .38 from my holster and putting the muzzle under his chin, I continued, “I don’t have time for that, Tim.”

  “What the fuck? You can’t shoot me. They’ll find you and gas your ass,” he said with a tremor in his voice, trying to convince himself that I wasn’t going to pull the trigger.

  “Ya know Tim, you’re right. I can’t blow your brains out. Too messy. So I’ll do the next best thing.”

  I moved the gun to an inch from his left ear, took a step back, angled the barrel toward the concrete overhang—and pulled the trigger. I was using the “Treasury load” that Winchester provided exclusively to police—or to those who had buddies inside law enforcement agencies. When I’d been a cop, we had round-nose lead bullets which didn’t penetrate for a damn. To improve stopping power, you had to move up to a .38/44 or a .357 Magnum, which had their downsides. In the 1970s, a jacketed hollow-point became favored by the Secret Service—hence the “Treasury load.” These babies exceeded the industry-standard pressure limits, so cops had to sign a waiver acknowledging the potential for firearm damage. But the upside was damage to the target, compared to the old ammunition.