by Mark Lingane
"What?"
Hugh let out a low laugh, followed by a tut-tut-tut.
I flicked aside the curtain. The dancing man was looking at me, staggering around, his fist clenching and unclenching. At least he was in time with the music. The in-between act was doing its best, and Danny and Wonderboy were giving them the occasional nod of approval while talking to Jackson and taking a drink.
"You want the truth, you come find me," Hugh was saying.
"Maybe I will."
"Take some advice, Mr. Dick. If you want to go on hanging around Mina and her friends, get something shiny and reflective. You might need it. It's a broken record playing down a path laid from the seeds of truth."
The phone went dead. I replaced the receiver and stood staring at it. The guy was annoying beyond rationality. I didn't know him beyond a few minutes of listening to his voice, but I harbored a desire to see his throat slit.
I made my way back to the bar. Jackson had an icepack ready for me. It stung as I placed it on my face. The others laughed. There was a tap on my shoulder. I swung round, reluctantly. It was L. Mallory. I lowered the icepack.
"Jiminy Cricket, what happened to you?" She brushed her hand over the bruises and I flinched. "Don't be a baby."
Wonderboy gave me a nod and turned back to Jackson.
"Are they your friends?" she said.
"No. They're the band."
"Are you going to introduce me?"
It seemed like a bad idea. "Band, this is L. Mallory."
Wonderboy sat back, grinning and enjoying the show. "Hi, L.," he said.
Danny activated sleaze mode. "What a beautiful name, Elle," he said, putting on his thick, exotic accent.
"It's Laura." She gave me a sideways look as she extended a hand toward Wonderboy.
Danny whipped in and wrenched it to his mouth, coating her knuckles with saliva-excessive kisses. She extracted her hand while continuing to smile, but her eyes told a different story as she surreptitiously wiped her hand on her dress.
"Let's go," I said. I grabbed her arm and pulled her over to one of the tall bar tables.
9
She was class. Most women would have dealt with Danny with far more repulsion and physical confutation, yet her language had remained civil.
I watched as she spun herself up onto the seat. Her heels clipped into the low rail circling the chair's legs. The emerald-green dress hugged her curves. She wasn't like Mina--an atomic bombshell that could flatten a continent--but she dazzled in a million other ways that meant a whole lot more.
She released the squirrel, and her locks twisted down around her shoulders. She had dark roots, meaning she wasn't a natural skinny blond thing. I liked that.
"Why are you here?"
"I asked around the tank to see if anyone knew where you hung out. This seemed the most common answer after all the rude ones. I thought I'd give you a try. Some people said you were worth knowing." Her hair fell over one eye, and she shook it away.
Jackson appeared with a couple of plated drinks. He slid them onto the tabletop and disappeared in a blink. We both took a sip and watched as the bands switched over. Wonderboy gave me a wave as he stepped up onto the stage.
"Laura." I tried out the name in my mouth. It came easy.
"That's me." She looked at me. She had large, deep-green eyes, full of sadness. They offset her lightly tanned complexion, but matched her get-up.
"It's a good name."
"It's just a name."
"Your father is Mallory."
"My father's always going to be Mallory, it being my name." She took a sip of her drink.
"Head of District Nine?"
She let out a long sigh and looked away, clutching her glass in both hands. "I was hoping you wouldn't know that."
"Why? He's a good man."
"Not everyone thinks so, especially the ones with something to hide."
"District Nine's tough."
"No, growing up with Commander Franklin Mallory as your father, and his three outstanding sons, is tough."
"Then why be a cop?"
"It's all I know. Everyone in the family is a cop. Didn't you follow in your parents' footsteps?"
I recalled broken memories of unknown motherhood, and a domineering father who commanded more than engaged. All I could offer him was disappointment.
"My feet went elsewhere."
I looked up at the band assembling on the stage. People were milling around on the dance floor. Something must have flashed across my face, because Laura leaned over and rested her hand on mine.
"Do you dance?"
"No. I drink."
"And no dancing after the drinking?"
"Not the kind you'd enjoy."
"I bet you do really, or did once. Come on, I'm not your biscuit. I think you do."
"I'm not a floor flusher. The only way you'll get me giving a knee is in your dreams."
A sad expression settled on her face. And in that moment she looked undeniably vulnerable.
"I don't like dreams," she said. "I had one more than ten years ago that scared the living daylights out of me. It still does. The most beautiful girl came into my bedroom. She had short, spiky blond hair, vivid blue eyes, and the most amazing figure. And she was so friendly, and full of joy and happiness. We were talking, and she was telling me about herself, when she leaned in close and reached out to me. Suddenly I felt a dog bite me. It hurt so much I woke up. I cried for a week. I was sure it had really happened but there was nothing there, no sign of a bite. The doctor said it was in my head. Even now, when it's a full moon and I hear some baleful dog howl into the night, I feel the teeth."
"Time heals all."
"Time heals some things."
I looked at her sad face. "Do you have friends?"
She shook her head. "But I have you now."
"I'm not reliable."
She looked away from me, toward the bar. "No one is. The only person you can rely on is yourself."
I sighed. I don't get that answer when I look in the mirror.
I looked around. Some old lady pushing the wrong side of a Cadillac was buying into Danny's technique de l'amour routine with change to spare. She was glowing from ear to ear. Wonderboy was shouting at him to get back on stage.
"An old friend of my father's is coming down from the north with his daughter, who's about my age and doesn't know about my past. Maybe we can be friends, talk on the phone for hours about boys."
I raised my eyebrow. "How old are you?"
She laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "I missed out on all that."
"Not every experience is great." I took a long slug of the whiskey and a moment of silence descended.
She played with her hair, something obviously digging away inside of her. She threw back the rest of her drink and spoke just as the band started up. She gave them a sideways glance as though silently castigating them for the bad timing.
"You said you'd loved and lost," she said. "What happened?"
I let the question rest for a moment, feeling the grip of the memory aching around my heart. I wondered how much to tell her. I had the feeling those big green eyes could look through any fabrication. After all, she was internal audit.
"Another man's wife chose me."
Her face registered surprise. "You must've been young."
"We all were."
"It's too loud in here. Can we go somewhere quiet?" She ran her finger around the rim of her empty glass.
"Where to?"
"How about your place?"
I gave her a low look. "What if a client comes?"
She gave me an unsettling smile and pulled me up by the jacket collar as she wheeled off her chair. "How often do you get a client?"
The answer was easy: never. Unless I wanted a piece of privacy and then there'd be a queue around the block.
As we made our way past the staggering, dancing man, he lunged at me. He gripped my collar and looked desperately into my face.
"They say you can make people forget," he said. "I have to forget my daughter and what they did when they came for her."
"Not me," I said, shaking my head. "Try Jackson."
I pried his hands off me and twisted him away. He collapsed to the floor in a ball of tears and wails, which faded into the background hum as the door swung shut behind us.
A few steps along the sidewalk and she had her arm entwined in mine. I heard the swooping of wings close by. I mentioned it to Laura, but she shrugged. To her, the night was still and quiet.
I'd barely unlocked my office door before she was accelerating through it. She sat down on the edge of my desk, with her hips twisted sideways, and stared at me, biting her lower lip.
"You've done this before."
"I never said I was a nun. In this city, even a lonely girl can find a few minutes of comfort if she's prepared to--"
"I don't want to know."
I woke up to the twittering of the birds hyped up on discarded coffee beans. I rolled over and watched the dance of disguise as L. Mallory, Laura, pulled her dress down over her head. Her hips swiveled and twisted as she peeled the tight number down, and I felt blood coursing through my veins. She made me feel full of life again.
"You leaving?"
"It's six. I've got to get home, shower and change for work."
"Stay for coffee?"
She leaned over and gave me a kiss, one that burned deep into the bonds tying back my grief, and for a moment I was freewheeling above the clouds. Then her lips were gone and I fell to earth with waxen wings dripping away.
Her hand wrapped around the door handle. Her eyes danced around the room as she pulled the door open. "This place feels strange. Eerie." She smiled and slipped away.
10
I pressed the buzzer on the enormous gate in front of Limbo's. Gayme was a decent 'burb, compared to the Basin anyway, where hardworking people lived who didn't have the imagination or backbone to be criminals.
It had taken me a while to get the day going. I was never a morning person, but it had been getting harder lately. Maybe it was something to do with all the violence.
A voice crackled through the deteriorating speaker.
"Here to see Jorgen."
After what seemed like forever and a day, the gate clicked open and I made my way through a rundown garden, parts of which were tending towards towering jungle needing a machete. The path twisted and turned on itself so many times you'd have to spend an eternity in there trying to get out if you were lost.
Eventually I found a series of cracked marble tiles, corrupted by weeds, that stepped up in front of the building. I followed the tiles through an elongated archway full of portraits with eyes that followed as I passed. A member of staff was putting up a new portrait. The face was half concealed and I didn't recognize it.
The foyer was black marble with gold inlay. A crazy chandelier hung above my head, threatening to fall and pull the roof down with it. Most of the lights were broken. The place had been sweet once, but now it looked like boredom had sunk its teeth in and then fallen asleep.
There was a lady of a certain age standing behind the desk. She was dressed for cocktails, with her hair done up beauty-queen style. A pair of gold-rimmed half-moon glasses were chained to her head. She was scratching a pen across an old ledger. There was a brass desk bell next to her.
I removed my hat and cleared my throat. After she reached the bottom of the page, scribbling what appeared to be a series of meaningless words, she looked up.
"Are you the phone lady?"
"If I answer it."
I flashed my badge.
She lowered her glasses and squinted at the small card. "What's that?"
"My badge."
"Badge for what?"
"Licensed investigator."
She raised her nose in the air and presented a face of disgust. "You need a badge for that? I thought the only requirements were a healthy disrespect for other people's privacy and a conscience that dissolved at the sight of a handful of sweaty candy."
I shrugged. She was allowed her opinion. I was sure her attitude would serve her well when the time came, as it would in a place like Limbo's, when she was looking down the wrong end of a homemade weapon wielded by an out-of-town thug with orders and no understanding.
"Is Jorgen in?"
"We don't have anyone by that name."
I gave her a flat look, the kind she'd get from a squashed lizard. "I spoke to him on the dangler yesterday."
"We've got no one by that name," she repeated through clenched teeth. Her hand moved beneath the desk.
I rolled out a couple of handshakes and placed them on the desk next to each other, all neat and symmetrical. I could see the greed in her eyes. Limbo's was a place where the candy talked, especially if it was sweaty. Considering the heat of the day, I hoped Jorgen was the same.
She lifted her hand and whipped it across the old marble. The handshakes were gone. "Are you sure you're not a cop?"
"I swear."
"You can have fifteen minutes before I send down the heavies. Your time's already started."
I gave her a dark look. "Where is he?"
She nodded vaguely in the direction of the east-wing exit. "Room nineteen sixty-nine. It's the California suite. Thirteen minutes."
The room numbers were random so I had to check every one. I had the feeling that if I backtracked they'd all be different. I put it down to the heat. The minutes ticked by as urgency grew. I found the room. I checked my time. I had barely eight minutes left. I dispensed with formalities and pushed open the door. In the end I didn't need the eight minutes.
The room was all Hollywood, dedicated to love of the self. It was plush and sumptuous, with mirrors on the ceiling and a bottle of champagne on ice by the bed. The ice bucket was frosted and looked like seven kinds of temptation in the midday heat.
Hugh Jorgen sat in the middle of the room in an oversized chair that had ambitions to become a throne. Behind the celebratory figure was a set of iconic relics from every faith, each given its own space in the expansive shelving.
Hugh had a fat cigar in his mouth, the smoke curling up around the solitary light. He looked pleased with himself, grinning like the Cheshire cat. A fat, diamond Rolex encircled his wrist, and his fingers were loaded with gold and jewels. He had sharp clothes, sharp hair, sharp shoes, twinkling eyes, and looked a million bucks.
So it was a surprise to see his throat slit.
"It's not how it looks," Mina cried. She dropped the red, eighteen-inch-long dagger from her hands, its end slicing through the rich carpet into the floorboards. "Please, believe me."
There was a sudden movement behind me and all went black.
All was dark. I felt the stretch across my shoulders. I opened my eyes. There was a dark, tiled floor several feet below me. My eyes closed.
I felt the stretch across my shoulders. I opened my eyes. There was a dark, tiled floor several feet below me. A couple of blurs, possibly people, shouted. I felt a blow to the side of my head. My eyes closed. All was dark.
All was dark. I felt the stretch across my shoulders. I opened my eyes. Time had loosened its grip on perspective, leaving me in a dizzying state of semi-awareness. The large room wheeled in front of me. The smell of blood filled my nose.
My clothes were gone, a situation made apparent by the cold chill of steel pressing into the back of my body. Ropes had been tied to my wrists and my arms stretched out on either side of me. I was standing on a small metal plate. I could feel small holes with my toes. I stretched and stood up on my toes, and the burning in my chest eased off. My calves started to cramp, then shake under the strain.
The room was deathly quiet. Light, such as there was, crept in via a sliver of a crack under a door to my left. It hinted at things in the room rather than illuminated them. There was something big and solid in the center of the room.
At the edge of hearing I could make out the slight wheezing of someone fighting for breath. It was
coming from the right. I stared into the darkness. Eventually the glow of a slight young woman's porcelain skin came into focus. She was hanging from a huge cross. Her wrists were tied and arms outstretched like mine, and her head hung down.
I called out to her, but there was no response. I could see that she didn't have long. My own breathing was a struggle against the pull of the muscles across my chest. My nose started to itch. Involuntarily, my arm tried to reach up. The rope held it in place, but I noted some flex. I worked at the ropes, wrenching and twisting my wrists until they burned.
I could hear the bonds begin to fray, which meant they were against a metal edge sharp enough for cutting. I continued, with my body crying out in agony until white spots wheeled across my eyes and red descended over my vision. The intense burning in my arm pushed through into numbness. My strength was draining, but I could feel the give in the rope.
I squeezed the fingers and thumb of my right hand together and gave an almighty pull. The hand came free. I swung down and forward. Sweat had run down my body, and my feet slipped off the plate. I hung from my left arm, still tethered to the rope that was holding me. The pressure on my shoulder was intense and I struggled to get back up onto the metal plate.
Once my feet were on the plate I was able to work away on the remaining rope. Within minutes I had it loose enough to pull free. I lowered myself into a sitting position and reached down with my legs until my toes touched the floor. As soon as they found the cool stone and I was standing free, relief flushed through me. I shook life back into my limbs. I made my way over to the door, my feet slipping on occasional wet spots. The door was locked.
I felt around the doorway until I found a light switch. It made a heavy clunk as I flicked it. A couple of lights in the far corners slowly brightened. They were at floor height, and sent shadows up the walls. The room was big enough to hold a hundred people. They were lined with pieces of livestock equipment, similar to what the Vinyl had on display. But these were worse.
The Vinyl equipment was about herding.
