Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “Maybe tonight ain’t a good night,” she said.

  I shrugged. “Well?”

  She pressed a button on her side of the glass with one of her phony nails. I heard a quieter buzz in the door directly to my left. I pulled it open with a loud clank of the latch, stepped through into an even darker hall, and let it close behind me. The buzz died.

  The dime store geisha came back through the curtain to join me in the hall. She was done looking at me and didn’t even bother speaking. She started off and knew I’d probably be smart enough to follow. We went down, around a corner into a familiar room at the back.

  She picked up a towel from a stack on some shelves in the corner and dropped it onto the padded massage table in the center of the room. I continued, apparently, not to exist for her, because she left without a glance or word. I undressed, draping my clothes haphazardly on the single chair, picked up the towel and tied that around my waist, then mounted the table and lay with my face wedged in the big hole at the end, staring at the dirty tile floor.

  A while later, the door opened and closed again, and I heard someone moving around. Cabinet doors opened and closed; a match was lit and applied to an incense stick. The music, which sounded to me like a drunken halfwit plucking randomly at two strings, was turned up a notch. But nothing was said. It was the sort of establishment that made note of the peccadilloes of its regular clientele, and I had long since settled a preference for no talking.

  Warm hands bathed in oil pressed firmly down just below my left shoulder blade. The hands were thin, with long, willowy fingers but plenty of muscle in the arms behind them. Another well-established preference was that I was no delicate flower and didn’t want to be treated as such. Fingers dug into my flesh, pulling and stretching and squeezing.

  Twenty minutes passed on my belly, then I was nudged gently over. I was relaxed enough by then that I managed to keep my eyes closed as the hands worked up my chest and out along each arm. They massaged my neck and my temples and the tight spots behind my ears.

  Then came a pause filled with nothing but a few unhurried footsteps after which I felt the hands close around my right ankle. They worked slowly up the length of my legs, gliding back and forth from one limb to the other, sinking deeper into my muscles once they reached my thighs. A fingertip drew a slow circle around the spot I knew was the bruise Hector Papalia had been kind enough to give me. But otherwise that area was conscientiously avoided. The fingers dug their way down the interior of my thighs, flirting with the edge of my towel. I allowed my legs to be spread further apart. Simultaneously, I felt myself offering a silent request for more.

  The knot in my towel was eased open and the flaps dropped to either side. One long hand slid all the way up between my thighs as the other moved over onto my belly and slipped softly down from there. Lips enveloped my flesh and a staggering sigh escaped my lungs. For several long minutes, me and that dirty Jap worked together toward a common goal, and I enjoyed the fact that my fellow soldiers had driven the bastards off the islands and shot them out of the air, and generally showed them what was what. It made me proud and angry and crazed. And it all seemed to find its center between my legs, there on that table in that dark room with the exotic incense assaulting my nostrils and that horrible distorted non-music accosting my ears, while a goddamned murdering Nip bent over me, bobbing its defeated black-haired head up and down.

  And then everything stopped, and I wondered why. I hadn’t finished. Lifting my head, I blinked into the glistering shadows.

  “You okay, mister?”

  He was the same handsome young man I sometimes saw out my window, working in the alley behind the parlor. Short, probably not quite twenty, skinny but well-muscled, with the same sharp angular features you saw in all those pathetic photographs of Jap soldiers during the war. Only he had been too young to fight, and he didn’t have any trace of an accent. He might have been from anywhere around there—the Western Addition, Daly City, even Sacramento. The closest he’d ever been to Tokyo or Okinawa was looking at pictures of his grandparents in a scrap book.

  My head went back, and the ceiling swam dreamily in my tears until I squeezed my eyes shut again. Jack was dying inside me, once again refusing to take me with him. I rubbed the moisture from the side of my face with the back of my hand, sick to my stomach at the display. I put my other hand on the back of the kid’s neck and steered his mouth once more to its task. I lifted my hips, pushing down on him until I heard him grunt. I let go, but he didn’t run away. He stuck with it, and so did I. My body melted away atop that table, dissolved to nothing but a ruined, weeping wreck, forcing myself to see it through to the end.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nothing woke me the next morning, so I slept until ten-thirty. Of course, the reason no one disturbed me is that they didn’t know where the hell I was. Coming out of my stupor, it took me several minutes to suss it myself.

  I’d made my way back to the room at the Lena Dorne. I could not immediately recollect it, but there I was, tangled up in sheets and a yellow blanket atop the bed closest to the door. The other bed was undisturbed, except for the slight tousling that had happened when I’d knelt on George Kelly’s back. I jerked my head up for a quick survey of the premises, half afraid he might still be there, possibly beaten to a pulp in the corner, but then decided my mood the previous evening had been such that I’d have happily consented to letting him beat me to a bloody pulp. Either way, I was alone, and the more wakeful I got, the more I seemed to remember finding the room abandoned when I staggered back there.

  I got up and availed myself of the amenities, such as they were, including the shower. Then I climbed back into my slightly sour suit from the previous day and examined my form in the mirror. I was looking as used up as George Kelly must have felt. Mostly I needed a shave, but that would require tools just then unattainable. I looked down at the available supplies, saw an empty bottle of Old Crow, two glasses and two room keys—Kelly’s and the spare I’d clearly gone down for when no one had answered my knock the night before. The only thing of even proximate utility was one of the glasses which appeared to have a few drops of the Old Crow drying down at the bottom, but I decided trying to drink that at eleven o’clock in the morning would be even sadder than sitting half-naked trying to smoke a broken cigarette in the middle of the night.

  I needed to say goodbye to the Lena Dorne, that was the main thing. Part of me thought I ought to burn the place down, but there was no telling where and how fast the fire might spread, so I denied myself that pleasure. I went down and out the back, through the alley and up to the third floor of the Rooker Building.

  I stepped out of the elevator and headed down the hall, pausing because a young, husky man in a police uniform hovered outside my door. He looked at me and I at him as I closed the distance between us. I guessed he was probably older than twenty seeing as he was employed by the cops, but not much. He stood perhaps six-six, and weighed close to an eighth of a ton. His fresh beardless face was big and round, with a knot of tiny features in the center of it: a small, cupie-doll mouth, a tiny snub nose, two beady eyes so close together if I’d known him as a kid I would have dubbed him Polyphemus. Of course, he never would have got the reference.

  Once again, my stopping before the door stenciled Declan Colette, Private Investigations, struck him as telling, as did my digging out a key. He sidestepped to stand directly in front of the door and twisted his little features into a look of surprise.

  “Are you Declan Colette?”

  I confessed, actually using that word.

  “Not to me you don’t.” He reached out an enormous meathook and settled it on my left shoulder. “I’m here to take you to Inspector Ackerman. Come along.”

  I glanced down at his hand then up at his head. In addition to a Cyclops, he had the look of one of those boys who is an expert at following instructions. I asked him if I couldn’t go in and change my shirt, maybe grab a quick shave. I offered as an excuse that I had been u
p all night on a stake-out.

  “You look fine to me,” he said. “And the inspector’s been waiting. Let’s go.” He actually turned me that time, and I had about as much chance of resisting as the ant has of moving that rubber tree plant.

  “How about you let me answer my phone?” It was ringing loud enough for us both to hear, but just in case his tiny ears weren’t up to the task, I pointed out, “It’s ringing.”

  We were walking by then, and he kept us at a fair pace. “It ain’t been doing nothing but the last hour. Maybe you ought to hire a receptionist.”

  Once we were in the elevator, he let go of my shoulder and pushed the button. As he stood watching the floor display count down, I straightened my jacket and frowned up at him. I was in a mood to hit things again, rather than be hit, but he was still a cop, and, besides, I would have had to hit him three times just to get his attention. Also, he probably hadn’t come on his own which meant when we reached the lobby he would have reinforcements, and I decided it would look more dignified to exit under my own steam.

  Out on the sidewalk, my escort led me north past both the Oriental Palace and the Lena Dorne, toward another uniformed fellow enjoying the sun as he leaned on a patrol car. This second cop was older, about half the mass of the first and a born skeptic. He studied me as we approached, idly scratching the side of his big honk, then croaked, “Where’d you get this guy?”

  “This is the guy,” Poly told him.

  “Oh, yeah? I didn’t see him go in.”

  Poly made a noise like that proved something, waited while his partner stepped aside, then helped me into the back of the patrol car. He hadn’t cuffed me, but was just polite and well-trained, rather like his namesake who had kindly invited Odysseus and his men into the cave for supper.

  When the cops were settled in the front seat, Poly, on the passenger side, pointed a finger at his partner’s cigarette. “Nah-uh.”

  Partner, who had probably twenty years on Poly and had made very little progress on his cigarette, offered a noise of his own but rolled down his window and tossed the smoke into the street. He then ignited the engine and steered us into traffic. Once we were well underway, he tossed me a glance in the rearview mirror.

  “So, was he up there this whole time? Ackerman ain’t gonna like that.”

  Poly had pulled from his breast pocket a notepad and pencil, both so small they looked like toys in his huge hands, and was utilizing the latter to make notations in the former. “He come off the elevator.” He checked his watch and made another notation.

  “Well, he didn’t go in the front.” Partner glanced over at the notepad and pencil. “What the hell? I tell you, Stuey, you’ll make detective when the old man says so. You ain’t doing yourself no favors acting like such a fussbudget.”

  Poly, or Stuey if I stick to facts, was reading over his notes with the tip of his pencil touching his tongue. He said, “Suspect came off elevator at eleven-thirteen. Confessed to being one Declan Colette. Placed in vehicle for transport at eleven-twenty-one.”

  “’Cept he ain’t a suspect, is he? He’s wanted for questioning. And what do you mean he confessed? Confessed to being what?”

  Stuey crossed out a word, then scribbled something else. “Thanks, Dan,” he said, “you’re right. He’s not a suspect.” He kept studying his notes. “When I asked him if he was Colette, he told me he confessed he was. I figure he was attempting levity.”

  That nearly had me choking I was fighting so hard not to laugh.

  Partner, or Dan, was not amused. “You figure, do you?” He shook his head. “Damn, it’s hot. So, where were you, buddy? Hiding out on another floor?” He looked at me in the mirror again.

  These two had the makings of quite the comedy routine, which is why I had remained so uncharacteristically mute up until then, but I said, “I came down from the roof. I flew in on wax wings, Icarus-like, only, as you say, it’s damned hot.”

  “What is that? More levity?” Dan remained unamused. His window still down, he spat into the street, then sat scowling over the steering wheel as we rode alone in silence.

  It was indeed hot. And my keepers hadn’t seen fit to lower either of the rear windows. I sat back and loosened my tie, admiring the view and trying to figure a destination.We weren’t headed toward the Hall of Justice. We’d gone north on Pierce but quickly turned east and then south. We dropped below Market and eventually wound up headed southeast on Sixth. I couldn’t suss it and dug my smokes out of my pocket.

  “Not unless you’re wanting a sermon,” Dan told me, watching from the mirror again. He tossed his head in the general direction of the big guy next to him. “This one don’t abide such low behavior.”

  Stuey, having put away his junior detective tools, sat with his arm resting comfortably out the window. He didn’t turn or otherwise acknowledge either Dan or myself, but said, “Do what you want outside. No smoking in the car.”

  By that time, I had a butt between my teeth and matches in my hand. I cussed, not loudly, but Dan shook his head.

  “And watch your language, son.”

  I put the matches away but left the cigarette bouncing in my mouth as I spoke. “What, are you two some sort of new junior vice men?”

  “It ain’t me,” Dan said, adding, “Balls,” just to prove it.

  Stuey shook his big head slowly, a prim pucker on his lips, pretending to enjoy the passing scenery.

  I addressed the short, bristly hairs on the back of his neck. “What is it son, religion? Or do you still live with your momma and worry what you might have to tell her when she asks about your day?”

  That got me nothing from Stuey, but Dan was finally smiling. He told me, “You can’t rile him. Don’t waste your time.”

  “Fine. Balls yourself.” I tried to sound disgusted. The unlighted cigarette continued to dance on my lips. I decided to leave it there just to spite them. “Where are you taking me anyhow? I been damned agreeable up ‘til now, never asked for papers nor nothing, but that’s gonna change quick if I ain’t even allowed to smoke.”

  Dan was still grinning; I’d definitely brightened his day. “Almost there. You can stand him another few minutes. I got him all day.”

  I muttered my response to myself, mainly because I didn’t have one but wanted them to think I did. We were moving south alongside the bay, the cool air finally billowing through Dan’s window and waking me up. The sweat that had beaded on my forehead began to dry up, and I dabbed at it with my tie.

  South of the basin, we turned into an open lot overrun by city agents. Another uniform waved us in, but we parked almost immediately and Stuey climbed out and opened a door for me. I joined him on the packed dirt and did a quick scan, finding a fair mix of flatfoots, dicks, and scientists working over what appeared to be nothing more than a waste of waterfront real estate at first glance, but clearly was a scene. Stuey found something specific he wanted and took hold of my upper arm to guide me toward it.

  About twenty feet along, another fellow ran up beside us, following with a grim, excited expression. It was Gig Barton, my reporter friend I’d supplied the clams to in exchange for dope on the O’Malley clan. He had a notepad and a pen ready to take down my statement. “Ah, Colette, why did you do it? Was it on account of the money? Or a crime of passion?”

  Stuey might not even have noticed Gig, but I gave up a small appreciative grin. We kept walking east across the lot, toward the water’s edge. That took us through a line of official vehicles onto more open ground, and I saw a single car parked very near the bay, a Ford sedan. Gig was held back at the line of cars, and I told Stuey, “You should have let me answer that guy. If he prints that, its libel. I’ll sue.”

  Stuey wasn’t biting, of course. Dan’s assessment of his partner’s susceptibility to being riled was proving damned solid. He was focused on our destination, a weary looking man in a gray suit discussing something serious with another fellow in a lab coat. They stood a few feet back of the Ford’s rear fender, while activity
went on all around them. Clearly, the car was the focal point. The front passenger door was open, and a handful of men seemed to be taking turns climbing in and out.

  The weary guy was Inspector Ackerman, who stood holding his chin contemplatively, mainly listening. His hat hung way back on his head, allowing the sun to glint angrily off his high forehead. He saw us coming with about three yards remaining and said something to dismiss the lab rat before stepping up to meet us.

  “Declan Colette,” Stuey said, pulling back his shoulders.

  Ackerman didn’t speak. He looked me straight in the eye, leaning forward very slightly like he was trying to push me over with his stare. It didn’t mean anything, of course, and certainly didn’t rattle me. It was just a little ploy he’d picked up somewhere along the line, probably in an old book on interrogation tactics. I’d been questioned by him enough that I was not only used to it, but expected it.

  “Where did you find him?”

  The big copper released me and fumbled to get out his notepad. “He showed up at his office, sir. If you’ll give me…” He paused to flip a few pages through his book. “Yes. Target arrived at his office at—”

  Ackerman interrupted with a dismissive wave. “Never mind all that. The point is you brought him. Thanks, Stewart.”

  That was like Ackerman, to know a uniform’s name and manage to brush him off without being completely dismissive of his efforts. It probably accounted for the fact that he was so highly regarded among the rank and file. That and the fact that he was good at his job. Myself, I had mixed feelings. He was a cop and wore his rather glum disposition like it went with his badge, but he knew his way around a murder. And wasn’t above thanking you when he thought you’d helped him out.

  Once Stuey was on his way, Ackerman frowned at my cigarette. “You need a light?”

  I’d nearly forgotten the thing was there. The butt was not much better than mush, and I tossed it aside, digging out my pack for another.