Lethal Fetish

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  Some of my pals on the force complained that the new load was dirty, especially in a short-barreled gun like mine. And firing them made a lot of flash for a .38, along with an earsplitting crack. This last feature was, for my purposes this evening, a virtue rather than a drawback.

  When the gun went off, Tim grabbed the side of his head and crumpled to the ground. My skull was ringing but I knew he was in far worse condition. Tim writhed in a fetal position, screaming about being deaf. And he was, since the blast had burst his eardrum, or so I judged from the blood trickling out his ear and down his neck. After a minute, he stopped moaning, and I jerked him to a sitting position against the cinderblock wall.

  “Here’s the deal, Tim,” I said into his right ear that was likely still ringing but not bleeding. He grunted so I figured he could hear me well enough. “You won’t be hearing anything for a long time, maybe ever again, in your other ear. Take that as an ongoing reminder of what will happen if I see you anywhere near these apartments.” His face was screwed up in pain, but his eyes shifted in my direction so I knew he was listening. I jammed the gun between his legs and he winced. “That’s right Tim, next time you end up with vaporized balls rather than just a ruptured eardrum. Now get out of here before I decide not to wait with your .38 castration.”

  He stumbled to his feet, shuffled out the back of the breezeway to the alley and disappeared into the night. I retrieved Carol from Nina’s apartment, locked up, and listened for sirens, but it seemed that nobody was sufficiently worried about a gunshot to call the police. Nice neighborhood.

  CHAPTER 30

  Coming through the front door of Goat Hill Extermination the next morning, I was greeted by the sounds of Carol tapping away at her new computer while her radio featured a guy crooning the vacuous lyrics of a love song to his partner in bed. I shook the raindrops off my jacket and turned down the volume just as the lead singer and his twanging band slid into a chorus of “feels so right.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Riley, don’t make fun of that song or you’ll have more than me to deal with,” she said.

  “Let me guess ... Larry.”

  “That’s right. He has a stack of Alabama albums in the back. How’d you know?”

  “I can’t imagine Dennis being a fan of a group that sounds whiter than new-fallen snow. Speaking of which, if it gets any colder out there, we might see a repeat of ’76. Remember that?”

  She shook her head and smiled sheepishly. “I sure do. A friend of mine got her car stuck trying to drive up to Twin Peaks. Five inches of snow is more than enough to bog down a Ford Escort with bald tires,” she laughed.

  I hoped to be of some value in the never-ending pursuit of six-legged vermin and cash flow for the business this morning. Rather than pressuring Luis about the upcoming crush event, I wanted to give him time to work on getting me access and to give myself a few hours of normalcy.

  “What’s on the schedule?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  “The guys have the work orders in the back,” she said. I turned up the radio and started down the hall when Carol called out, “Riley, one more thing.”

  I came back to her desk and said, “Shoot, babe.”

  “Call me ‘babe’ again and I will shoot. Except talk about gunshots reminds me of last night. I need to know, did anything happen that, well ...”

  “Well?”

  “That I need to cover for.”

  “Cover for?”

  “C’mon Riley, just tell me, should I have a story ready if the police come asking about your whereabouts?”

  “They won’t. But if they do, keep it simple. You spent the night at home and have no idea where I might have been. I can assure you there are no bodies or trails of blood. Just a chunk of concrete missing from an overhang and no reason for anyone to suspect that you or I were there. Especially you. Relax, doll.”

  That last bit had the desired effect of breaking the tension. Carol threw a roll of tape, which missed me and plunked Mr. Coffee. I headed to the back where Larry and Dennis were laughing at a recording being played over their boom box.

  “What are you guys listening to?” I asked.

  “Shhhh,” Dennis said, “Larry be educating me through his boy, George Carlin.”

  The comedian was riffing on homosexuality. He was sardonically observing that guy parts and girl parts match up and fit together, while homosexuals have to share the parts in ways that don’t seem natural, whatever that means. As Carlin put it, people were more inventive than nature, adapting the sexual apparatus to our purposes.

  “You gotta love this Riley,” Larry chuckled, “Carol listened yesterday and told us it was righteous. The man tells it like it is.” Dennis shushed him.

  The comedian observed that rubbing against a naked person in a dark room feels really good. But when the light goes on, if your partner is the same sex, society dictates that you scream in horror. But, it felt really good. And to be honest, generating pleasure seems entirely normal—whether or not it’s natural.

  “That is one funny honkey, but he be no Richard Pryor,” Dennis said as Larry turned off the recording.

  “Good point, m’man. Carlin didn’t set himself on fire,” Larry said.

  “That’s harsh, homey. True, but harsh.”

  “The dude wigged out, for sure. Free basing is bad shit.”

  “So Riley, what you make of Larry’s killer comedian?” Dennis asked.

  “Nothing wrong about two people enjoying one another’s bodies. But what if one of the bodies isn’t okay with what’s happening? What if one of the bodies is being damaged for the other’s pleasure?”

  “Sheeit, boss,” Dennis said, “you being a major downer.”

  “Yeah, ’sup with that?” Larry added, looking annoyed.

  “Sorry, guys. My investigation has run into some dark corners.”

  “Like with those messed up videos at the Linford’s house?” asked Dennis.

  “And that heinous spider shit between Stefan and his lady?” added Larry.

  The guys had been talking and knew about what each other had seen, so I filled them in on the rest of the story—at least as much as I could understand. When I was through, they looked bewildered.

  “This Luis dude, maybe he just be yankin’ yo’ chain, Riley,” said Dennis.

  “Maybe, but one of those videos you found in Lane’s office had a title about crushing crickets, if I remember,” I said.

  “Watching a chick step on some insects is one thing, but crushing another person? Man, that’s too twisted, even for this warped city,” said Larry.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’m meeting with an expert on psychological disorders later today. I should know more after that,” I said.

  “And after your freak show tonight,” said Larry.

  “So, what do you need us to do?” asked Dennis.

  “Two things. First, be ready to roll with whatever comes. Whatever happens could come quick—and I might need you guys to provide support.”

  “We be yo’ homeboys,” Dennis said. Larry nodded.

  “And second, we need to get after the work orders that Carol put together. Dennis and I can take the job at the Summit Towers penthouse, as that could mean some serious cash flow and having two people will impress the client. Larry, you take the rodent job for Mrs. Orbison.”

  “You mean Mrs. Robinson,” Dennis said with a leer.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Tell him, you bodacious stud,” said Dennis, giving Larry’s bicep an affectionate squeeze and getting his hand slapped away.

  “It’s nothing, Riley. Mrs. Orbison is an attractive woman in her fifties. And Dennis figures that she’s as seductive as Anne Bancroft in The Graduate, which means my co-worker’s mind is in the gutter,” Larry said.

  “She not just into boy toys, she be into weird shit. That woman make me nervous,” said Dennis.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “You know how some customers get juiced by naili
ng a mouse in a snap trap. Bang, and the little pest that’s been nestin’ in the dish towels is pancaked. But, Mrs. Robinson—

  “Orbison,” Larry corrected.

  “Yeah, whatever. She be quivering when I set them mole spears in her backyard, wanting to know how they worked. I thought she was goin’ to start moanin’ when I tol’ her about the scissors trap. No way that this boy is headin’ back to that house. She be all Larry’s.”

  Moles could make a mess of a lawn, even during the winter. If the ground didn’t freeze, the little varmints didn’t hibernate. The traps either the impaled or sliced the unsuspecting rascals. Apparently, either fate was enough to get Mrs. Orbison’s imagination cranking in disturbing ways. So, Larry took one van while Dennis and I took the other. It was unlikely that our prospective customer would see what pulled up, but even from the twentieth floor my truck might look pretty grungy.

  ~||~

  Winding through downtown traffic on the way to Russian Hill, I tuned into KDFC. Apparently listeners who preferred dogs to cats had called in about last Tuesday’s program celebrating the connections between felines and classical music. Dennis approved of my “choice jams,” trying to figure out what movie the first piece we heard came from. I explained that “The Ride of the Valkyries” was written by Richard Wagner in the 1850s and came from the second opera of the famed Ring Cycle and therefore didn’t originate with Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now.

  Dennis wasn’t impressed with my knowledge, being much more intrigued by the radio host drawing a connection between Wagner and canines. The great composer supposedly played his work to a cherished spaniel for approval, although just how the dog expressed its judgment wasn’t mentioned. One of Wagner’s dogs is buried at his master’s feet in Bavaria, which Dennis found touching. It struck me as weird, but I was suspicious of unusual expressions of affection between humans and animals these days.

  The radio program’s next selection also met with Dennis’s approval, which is saying something for classical music. The announcer noted that Carl Orff had a beloved dog, which seemed like a stretch of the morning’s theme. But the first movement of Carmina Burana is undeniably powerful, and Dennis reported that it was the soundtrack for an epic battle scene in Excalibur—a movie I had boycotted on political grounds. The story of the legendary King Arthur establishing a British empire encompassing Ireland was too raw given the hunger strikes by Irish republican prisoners last May.

  We were about halfway through Orff’s masterpiece when we reached the luxury condos. After the doorman called up to Mr. Nye, we were given access to the elevator serving the penthouse. The place was as opulent as they come—glittering crystal chandeliers, shiny brass hardware, a thick red carpet with gold threads, and a thin black butler with white gloves. He showed us to the study, where Dennis couldn’t resist asking about the woodwork: Macassar ebony flooring and East Indian rosewood cabinetry. Like a high-priced call girl, it sounded expensive and looked nice, but you had to wonder if the pleasure was worth the price.

  Mr. Nye joined us in short order. He had the distinction of wealth—perfect grooming, elegant manners, and dapper styling. The man exuded class but not pretention. I don’t usually like rich people, but he was the sort who didn’t need to make others feel less significant so he could feel more important. He shook our hands warmly and said we’d come highly recommended by a dear friend, whose collection of mounted hunting trophies we’d saved from a beetle infestation. He explained that the housekeeper had found little piles of “fine sand” on his library shelves which he inspected and deemed suspicious—for good reason.

  The room had its own climate control system to dehumidify the air and provide an optimal temperature for the rare books, including volumes from the sixteenth century. Our inspection left no doubt that Mr. Nye had a colony of drugstore beetles enjoying the comfortable, indoor weather. I found some adults in a pendant fixture—one of those giant glass bowls which are perfect for trapping insects attracted to light. Using a magnifier, I showed him that the drugstore beetle had clubbed antennae and pitted wing covers, in contrast to its bothersome relative, the cigarette beetle, which had saw-toothed antennae and smooth wing covers. Mr. Nye took the time to look carefully at the insects and gushed at my entomological knowledge, which wasn’t as impressive as he seemed to believe. But he blanched at what this all meant for his beloved books.

  Instead of trying to find every book with any sign of beetle larvae, I told him that the surest tactic would be for us to put his entire collection into individual plastic bags, take them to a commercial freezer facility, stack them carefully to assure complete and even cooling over the course of at least three days, thaw them slowly, and leave them bagged to watch for activity by any survivors. Given the cost of his books, some of which undoubtedly exceeded my annual income, he said he’d hire a professional conservator and an armed guard to work with Dennis and Larry to assure proper handling and security of the books during transport and freezing. I offered to inspect and treat, if necessary, other areas of the suite where beetles might be hiding and he didn’t bat an eye. I could’ve named almost any price for the whole operation but gave him a fair estimate. Respect is a mutual deal.

  ~||~

  After a quick lunch with Dennis at my favorite hot dog cart in the Financial District—while we hunkered in something between a fog and a mist that the Irish would label, “a grand soft day”—we headed back to the shop. The guys had planned for a few hours of calibrating sprayers, cleaning equipment, and changing oil in the vans—while arguing about whose music played on the boom box. An ideal afternoon in their estimation, given the chance to work in warm, dry conditions.

  The rest of my day was shaping up to be less optimal. Carol told me that “some guy named Luis called but wouldn’t give his last name or a phone number, only saying to meet him at the store.” I took this to mean he’d found a way to get me into the crush show, but he understandably didn’t want to pass along the details in a phone message. Carol looked suspicious, and I told her the Linford investigation was coming to a head, to which she offered sage advice.

  “Goddammit Riley, be careful and remember you’re not as quick or brawny as you used to be.”

  “And you’re not as gentle with my ego as you used to be,” I said.

  “A little brutal honesty,” she said, “might keep you in one handsome piece for Nina to enjoy.”

  Having Nina enjoy me sounded like a great idea for this evening. But instead, I was planning a dive into deviancy with the coaching of Dr. Chen who, I desperately hoped, would give me some useful insight as to what I’d gotten myself into—and how the hell to get out, along with Petey.

  CHAPTER 31

  When I got to the Pleasure Palace, Luis was consulting with a customer who was trying to decide among various bondage devices. It was not a shopping challenge I’d ever face. I slipped down the adjacent aisle and pretended to be interested in assorted instruments of pleasure and pain which reminded me of giant fishing flies, as if designed to lure a horny human into latching onto one of them only to find himself punctured, pierced and played to exhaustion. I supposed if the quarry was lucky, the game ended with catch-and-release.

  The customer was explaining that she’d used bondage tape and a spreader bar with her lover to their mutual delight. I could almost guess what these involved. When Luis suggested a ball gag, she demurred and coyly murmured that they’d like to expand on the sensations provided by the Wartenberg wheel he used on her. I was stumped, Luis was not.

  He took her to my aisle, so I moved over to the shelves of vibrating gadgets and edible lubricants which I suppose a lusty couple might combine for an erotic version of the electric toothbrush. The consummate salesman proposed that she try a flogger or spanking paddle and then launched into the nuances of leather, rubber, nylon and rope floggers, along with the pros and cons of paddle designs. I was transfixed by the combination of technology and deviancy. A soft, naked body under flannel sheets on a chilly night sure
did the trick for me.

  The woman settled on Emmanuelle’s beginner flogger and a Singapore stinger paddle for $18.57 which seemed pricey given the ready availability of pain in this world. As she was leaving, Luis glanced around the shop, checked the concave mirrors in the corners of the store to assure that the aisles were empty, and flicked his head to the back.

  We retreated to the office, where the stale odor of Michelle’s cigarettes still hung in the air and the light fixture buzzed overhead. Luis was too agitated to sit, so he leaned on the desk. I settled into a hard, wooden chair that was uncomfortable enough to be put on the S&M aisle, but I wanted to ratchet down Luis’s anxiety by conveying nonchalance. The guy was wound tight as a top or a length of bondage tape if my imagination was correct.

  “Okay Riley, I got permission from Eunectes, actually Redbug, but it’s just as good. You can come to the performance tonight, but let’s arrive separately.” His leg was jackhammering and he kept crossing and uncrossing his arms.

  “Jesus Luis, would you relax? You’re about as smooth as a speed freak looking for a fix. Eunectes is going to know that something’s up if you don’t dial it back.”

  “Sorry, but if this goes wrong I don’t know what’ll happen,” he said.

  “Let’s just stick with the basics. When and where?”

  “Eleven o’clock. There’s a row of warehouses on Natoma and 6th.”

  That put the place in the South of Market neighborhood—the epicenter of the gay leather community, which had converted warehouses into sex clubs and bars. I’d heard that joints like the Caldron were nonstop orgies featuring thematic evenings. Initially, I’d figured this was an exaggeration, but based on my recent descent into decadence I was ready to believe most anything about my fellow man.