by Mark Lingane
Contents
Copyright
Free Book
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
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19
20
21
22
23
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25
26
27
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29
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31
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42
Free Book
Other Novels
About the Author
First published in Australia by Insync Holdings Pty Ltd
PO Box 526, The Gap, Queensland, Australia 4061
ABN: 74 087 648 600
Copyright © Mark Lingane 2014
The right of Mark Lingane to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Creativindie Covers
Cataloguing-in-Publication (CiP) entry:
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
Sucker
Lingane, Mark
ISBN: 978-1508455981 (pbk)
ASIN: B00TJ9D802
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For those who like to believe.
1
The phone rang, all innocent and coy. If I finish my drink before it stops I'll answer it.
It was a bad bet. The glass had little more than ice and a bucket load of regret. I knocked back the last drops of the sickly sweet juice that burned as much coming up as it did going down.
Click.
"Yeah?"
"My man's taken off with my money." The woman sounded as bored with life as life was with her.
"You sure?"
"It's money, sugar. You notice that kind of thing."
Mina Camilla was her name. It sounded like a Spanish cabaret act.
"Meet me at the Stylus," Mina said.
I sat back and stared at the shadows of the ceiling fan flicking fast and slow. Mina sounded like lo-fi trouble, but the rent monster sniffed around this time of night looking for its bones, and the Stylus has the band. I liked the band. She could buy me a few drinks, and I could tell her I was too busy.
Wonderboy was playing the double bass. There were stories and rumors about his talent, but he was a natural on it. Always had been.
"Welcome to the Stylus. Stool, table or booth, sir?" The young girl bounced nervously, with her chest half hanging out of her top, selling the view to keep her job. Eyes on the prize.
"Booth."
Ten came and went, as did its neighbor. I was a couple of bottles into the Southern amber when Mina walked in. Her blond curls bounced as she strutted, hardcore, across the checkered dance floor. She was wearing a short red cocktail dress, and was every part the cat's particulars. She sat down on a stool by the deep mahogany bar and looked around. She saw me and beckoned with a curling finger.
She whispered my name like a disgraced angel, but it was her curves that got me over there.
"You always this conspicuous?" I asked.
"Hello, Van. You always so smooth with the ladies?" She swiveled to face me, and leaned back against the bar, putting her assets out for evaluation. "I sit where men can see my legs. It gets me my drinks."
I checked out her outfit. The place was upmarket, but she floated away on a zeppelin with the concept. Her bedroom eyes were framed by curls, half of which were tied up with a hairpin in the shape of a broken heart.
"You dress for cocktails," I said.
"You dress like a hobo. You like cocktails?"
I shrugged. "I like free."
She clicked her fingers at Jackson, the bartender, and ordered a martini.
"You wear red," I said. It wasn't a question or observation, but an exploration.
"It doesn't show the blood."
"Your blood?"
"Depends how I feel at the end of the night."
Jackson gave me a relaxed nod. I reciprocated. The claustrophobia of the night closed in around me as the dancers jumped and twirled precariously close. Moonlight beckoned outside with empty streets, hot and wet. I wasn't one for politics, but this place could bring the wolf out in anyone.
"Two fingers, Jackson."
Jackson nodded as he flipped a glass and poured a double shot. He'd clipped his black curly hair short again, now shaving it on the sides. It offset the bizarre contrast of his bebop glasses, horn-rimmed into a past decade. The girls went crazy for him when he was slick. His dark skin glistened in the overheated air.
I sat on the small round stood and placed my hands on the bar. She grabbed one and turned it over in her own.
"My, what big strong hands you have."
"I'm not your grandma," I replied.
"With hands like that I'm not crawling into bed with anything but the big bad wolf."
I sighed and pulled my fingers from her clutches. "What's the chase?"
She knocked back the martini in one go and shook the empty at Jackson. "My no good, SOB lover emptied my drawers, and took off with some skinny blond thing. I found them together in my bed."
"I take it he wasn't your husband."
"Do I strike you as the marrying type?"
"What does he look like?"
"He looks like a loser. Wears a bad attitude that he tries to sell as rebellion."
"Distinguishing features?"
"Fat, lazy backside. Penchant for excessive beer."
"Babe, that's every man."
"He's not like you." Her voice softened and she played at coy, like a major-league pro.
"What did he take?"
"Some money. Some family heirlooms. My dignity."
'You sure he took it?"
"I didn't give it away."
"You know the blond?"
"You've seen one skinny blond thing, you've seen them all. They could be rotting in hell together for all I care, holed up in Disappointment Motel. Let me tell you, honey, he didn't live up to any of his promises once he peeled out of his clothes."
"Any idea where he is?"
"You do the detecting and I'll pay for good service."
I gave Jackson a nod and slid the empty tumbler across the polished wood. He hit me up again, not worrying too much about the optic's accuracy. He glanced at Mina and slipped me a smile. I looked down into the glass. The vision reflected the mistakes of my past. I swirled the drink and knocked it back. Jackson stayed close.
She had turned around to face the bar. Now she looked over her shoulder at the booth, noting the empty bottles. "You drink a lot, Van," she said.
"I've seen a lot."
She looked into my face. "You're not old enough."
I looked into my glass. "I made a deal."
Those big blue eyes swept over me, holding me, and I knew it was going to go sideways. So I gave Jackson another nod, and told him to tell Shady that tonight his drumming sounded like bombing to the soft ear. He needed to wind back the weed.
I thanked Mina for the drinks and said no thanks to the chase. My stretcher was calling me back to the office. I blew her off before I got too entangled. The drinks were good, the band, as always, was good, but the streets called.
On the way back, some late-night birds came flapping in over the home route, highlighting how quiet the streets were. The slow oscillations filled the silence with an eerie counterpoint.
Night fell on me like a gorilla.
The morning shouted my name, and sleep loosened its grip on me. I was on the way out the door when I tripped over a pretty little lady lying dead across my doorway, wearing nothing but some upmarket lingerie.
Some skinny blond thing.
2
Chief Inspector Rami Watcher had wandered a few years back. He up and left his pregnant wife for three months for a lady with legs that could crush a man's will to live but leave him smiling. He crawled back again, but now his wife hunted him by phone incessantly, checking up hour after hour. He didn't blame her. He'd broken her heart so badly he thought he deserved an eternity of damnation. But then he decided to take it out on me.
Just as well our history ran back to the Dark Ages. Occasionally I caught a glimpse of the cross around Watcher's neck when its silver surface caught the light. He had gotten it in the war; the company chaplain gave it to him after a bullet passed through Watcher's shoulder while they were talking. A couple of inches lower could have done us all a favor. I always thought his credence unusual considering how impiously he acted these days.
Watcher kicked my desk absentmindedly as he responded to the domestic inquisition.
"I'm not at the office because I'm at a crime scene ... No, I'm not in a bar... The music? The suspect's spinning an album ... I'll call when I'm back at the office ... Yeah, yeah, you too."
A young slowhand, a uniformed officer, was watching him closely. Her nameplate read L. Mallory. Her uniform was a little too tight, by design, and buttoned up to the collar proud. Her hair was pulled back into a squirrel that hinted at her being something different when the lights went down. Another skinny blond thing.
Watcher hung up the phone, my phone, and shouted at his milling staff like the military man he once was. Several loafers from forensics were crawling over my office, in between the slowhands, looking for clues. I could see in their eyes that they thought I did it. They'd be looking for something to pin on me. Like always.
"You notice anything about her?" Watcher asked me.
"She had good skin." I leaned back in the chair and flicked some bad habits into his face.
"Either you're the worst detective ever, or you're not telling me everything."
"It's a crime scene."
"So?"
"Not my jurisdiction."
"I've often found in the past, my friend, that this small legal distinction has not impeded your interference."
"I've learned," I replied.
They tried to teach me the hard way, at the end of a bunch of brass knuckles requisitioned from the evidence store, but the pain didn't do much anymore. Watcher wasn't buying my denial, but he was right. Normally I wouldn't give two hoots from a half-dead owl over something like the law, but this felt wrong.
"The great metal spike through her chest doesn't pique your interest?"
I shrugged. "Looks like just another piercing."
He should have asked if I'd put it there. What the cops hadn't seen yet were the five tiny burn marks in a ring in the center of her chest. I knew that small detail would get lost in the filing, somewhere between boredom and delegation.
He pulled out a clipboard and sat on the edge of my desk. "Where were you last night?"
"Attaining psychosis at the Stylus."
"All night?"
"Ask the bartender."
"Yeah, we might do that." He licked the end of the pen he pulled out from behind his ear and made a note, scratching noisily across the paper. The questions continued without him lifting his eyes. "What time did you get in?"
"Midnight."
"You were here alone until you found her?" He raised an accusatory eyebrow at me.
It didn't look good. Alibi was a five-letter word that had moved out without leaving a forwarding address.
"Is this the story you want me to write down? This is your only chance to get it right." He gave me a steely stare, although to me it looked rusted.
I nodded.
He sighed, either in exasperation or indifference. He got up and looked around the room, poking into anything of value. I watched him and his light fingers carefully, as did L. Mallory. Notably, he ignored the medals in the little display case the military had handed me after stupidity had triumphed over common sense and preservation. They had called it bravery; I hadn't felt brave at the time.
Watcher stepped out into the corridor, bent down, and wiped his fingers over the dirt on the floorboards. Finally it sank into his skull.
It had rained last night. The streets were muddy. There was only one set of footprints leading up to my floor. Mine. I watched the mental cogs ticking over as he knelt down beside the girl and scraped his hand over the muddy footprints.
He stood up and motioned to a couple of loose leaves standing nearby. "Take him down to the cells. I don't like the smell of this place."
They bundled me up and led me off to the tank. L. Mallory watched Watcher carefully until she could no longer keep a straight eye on him.
The tank walls shared a heritage with the other government buildings of the era. The great downtown factories that had churned out the diesel airships during the war were quiet now, but the tank continued to thrive. The effervescent pre-war ideology had led to an ingrained level of disobedience. It was all part of the social evolution that sold the place to hell in a hand-basket. The amalgamation of assorted rough bricks filled expansive spaces that failed to relent for anything as luxurious as a window. Oddly enough, it was the cells below that had the glass, tiny as they were; the subterranean levels filled up with poisonous diesel fumes that had to escape.
Like most of the buildings in the city, the tank had great diesel-powered monstrosities thundering away, powering the place and making the floors shake. They set up a harmonic wave in the hanging bulbs that cast crazy shadows over the place. Freaky.
L. Mallory sat up straight, just like the ergonomic poster next to her desk illustrated. She placed a set of oversized eyeglasses on her pretty face, using both hands, and then started to read the microfiche. I was surprised to find parts of my body ringing alarm bells.
"You have a record." The youngster flicked through the file, her eyes widening.
This could go either way, I thought. I crossed my fingers.
"You were in the war. You have a war record. It says you were decorated."
"Like a Christmas tree."
"But since you've been back you've been ... interesting. You sure are no angel."
"Saint."
"Huh?" She raised her eyes from the information in front of her.
"I'm no saint."
"You say tomato, I say tomato, let's call the whole thing stupid."
"There's a difference."
She gave me a look that left no doubt about her indifference to the precision of the debate.
"You've been incarcerated fourteen times, most of the time due to ignoring the law. This town doesn't need a shadowed vigilante flapping around. We have enough trouble in the shape of wannabe rebels."
"Sometimes the chase goes bad."
"You're an interesting dichotomy, Mr. Avram." She hesitated and picked up a pencil. "You got a license?"
"Yeah." I fished out the little piece of paper from my
wallet and handed it over. Stained with blood and diesel, it had seen better days.
She made a crack about moths escaping from the concertinaed leather, turned the card over, and diligently took down the details. She looked up at me for a moment, and then continued.
"You're three years older than me." She looked at me with an unsettling, fleeting smile. There was an unbelievable chasm between her youthful appearance and the documented evidence. It looked like she had done her own deal. There was a market for that kind of appearance down on the terrace.
"You still in good shape?" she said. "You look like you're in good shape." Her voice lightened up as she relaxed a little.
"A shape's a shape."
Her face registered ambivalence. "You married?"
"No."
"Then who is Lilly?"
Before I could answer, her attention was snapped away as Watcher strode noisily into the tank. He extended an accusatory finger at the two of us.
"That's enough," he shouted. "Throw him in the overnight."
"Cuffs?" L. Mallory scrambled to her feet. Her hands swept down over her uniform, smoothing out the creases and highlighting her dangerous curves.
Watcher paused and rubbed the small silver cross thoughtfully between his fingers. "No."
"What's the charge?"
"Watcher," shouted the sergeant on the front desk, "your wife's on your office phone."
Watcher's head cracked around to face the desk sergeant, displaying a combination of anger and impotence. He returned his attention to L. Mallory. "Forget it. Doesn't matter."
We both watched him disappear into his corner office and pick up the phone. The transformation from the tall, occasionally eager man he normally was to the cowering, hunched shadow whimpering in the shadows was spectacular. L. Mallory and I exchanged glances. I kind of wished it had been phone numbers.
"Do you live at your office," she asked, "or do you have a home?"
