by Mark Henry
Ricardo smiled, dropped onto the lounge and settling into a casual slouch. “That’s funny.”
“What is?” Over my shoulder, Wendy had a needy looking snarl plastered on her mouth, like she’d bite into the guy if she got another chance.71
“Twilight is what it’s called, because it’s kind of light and ineffectual, perfect for the undecided and easily swayed. Pretty benign stuff, though, I’m not going to test a second dose, just in case it has an adverse reaction, so you better ask your questions quick.”
Mama eyed me curiously, a lazy finger stretching toward my cheek when I looked back at her. “Cheek,” she said poking.
I pulled away. “Now Mama. You didn’t kill Johnny did you?”
“What?”
“Did you kill Johnny?”
“Course not. Ask that bitch.”
“What?”
“The bitch he been fuckin’.”
“Who?”
Mama’s head lolled on her shoulders, drifting out of consciousness. “Hairy!” she barked and then she was gone.
I looked into the camera. “Hairy, ladies and gentlemen. I think we all know who she’s just fingered.”
Wendy giggled, followed shortly thereafter by the unfettered guffaws of Ricardo. He pointed at me and then to my cheek.
“Oh shit,” I said. “There’s a dent, isn’t there?”
As we arrived back at the Minions Mansion, a brawl of epically coiffed proportions spilled into the grand hall from, presumably, the bar, as so many brawls do. Of course, the nature of the melee was far more dangerous than a paltry busted bottle fight outside your local dive. I mean, it’s not like a flying Filipino vampire head shows up because some jerk insults your friend. Just doesn’t happen.
At the center of the dispute stood a haggard Hairy Sue, her usually stringy hair a matted ball atop her pale head. She spun around, fending off aerial attacks from the disgustingly tentacled Angie, her intestines spattering the floor like a maniacal, and decidedly monochrome, Jackson Pollock, and ground assaults from Absinthe, her jaw snapping with the conviction. The stripper held the ghoul at bay with a garbage can lid she wielded like a shield.
Maiko slunk in from the main hallway, her little badgers quarreling around her heels. She nodded to us and yawned.
“They’ve been at it ever since we found them.” Tanesha descended the stairs regally in skinny jeans and a purple peasant blouse, arms dripping in gold bangles.
“Found who?” I asked.
“You two better follow me and keep that camera rollin’—you’re not gonna wanna miss a second of this.”
“Well, that got my attention.”
As we were heading up the stairs, I glanced at Wendy just as she recoiled in horror from an image playing out between the girls below. I spun toward the scene, but nothing seemed overly frightening or shocking.
“What?” I asked her.
“Hairy Sue,” she said. “She sort of, well…” Wendy blew air into her cheeks and spread her arms as though she were growing. “Puffed up. Swelled.”
I looked back. Absinthe had joined Maiko, chatting quietly at her, since the Asian beauty was busy just then sneering. Angie was nowhere to be seen, presumably floating back to the empty husk of her body. Hairy Sue backed away toward the now-busted dais, holding a torn scrap of fabric over her breasts—surely more covering than she was used to five nights a week, so the need for modesty seemed a tad dramatic.
“What do you mean, swelled?” I asked as we passed into the hall toward Johnny’s suite, dry dead vines crunching beneath us.
“I mean she got big. Just puffed out everywhere. Like a monster.”
“Well, swelled sounds like an erection.”
“Ahem.” Tanesha stood in front of the scene of the crime, one hand on her hip, the other on the knob, lips pursed in frustration. “Are you two even remotely interested in this?”
I nodded, scolding Wendy with a stern finger.
Tanesha pushed open the door and stepped back.
At first glance, I thought Janice and Eunice were passed out drunk, splayed out on the oriental carpet like a pair of broken dolls—ones that split a bottle of expensive scotch and enjoyed sticking bows on their foreheads. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, I wondered if I’d ever seen the two of them sober. But their flat dry eyes and the blood crusting their mouths gave away the reality.
Dead.
Poisoned, by the look of their mouths and, from the battle waged downstairs, I guessed probably not from the alcohol. Or not just from the alcohol.
What the hell is going on? First Johnny gets burnt alive and now the sirens drink themselves into a literal oblivion. How could that be connected? It didn’t make any sense. Well, killing Johnny makes sense on purely practical level, of course. I mean, one less asshole in the world is a blessing no matter how you slice it. I’m sure Hairy Sue had good cause. But a pair of mute sirens with really bad pool hair?
“What kind of madman kills the disabled?” I said.
Tanesha clicked her tongue. “The girls are certain it was Sue.”
“I’m not convinced. You?”
“All I know, is you gotta be a crazy bitch to do your bad business in private. If I’m after you, people gonna know it. I’ll do you out in the open. Quick.” She swiped her claws through the air with a whistle.
“But you were brought up right,” I noted.
“Mmm-hmm. Someone here ain’t been, tho.72”
CHANNEL 15
Wednesday
12:00–1:00 A.M.
Interrorgations Unit
The team faces their toughest challenge yet. The murder of an entire werewolf pack appears to be associated with the Trixter mafia. Glennis opens up to Sgt. Carter about her true feelings and her absorbed twin.
“House meeting, bitches!” I screamed, stomping down the stairs like I was heading for the catwalk—I made a quick stop to change because confrontations are best done in green Alexander McQueen dresses.73
Maiko and Angie sat on the bottom riser, glowering at beer-swilling Absinthe, who didn’t get the memo about green and opted for a “Belgians do it better with Frites” muscle tee—whatever that means—and torn jeans. To give her credit, she had spiked her T.L.D. with some actual product this time.74 So kudos.
Wendy rushed past do get the shot from a better angle.
“So I’ve just seen the bodies and while I can’t lie and say I was fond of either of them, I’m fairly certain I didn’t kill them.”
Wendy coughed from behind the camera.
I nodded. “Wendy either. We’re kind of members of the clean plate club. So.” I spun around dramatically. “Why do you suspect Hairy Sue?” I scanned the room. “And where has she gotten off to, now?”
“She darted while you were making wit ze love…avec le caméra vidéo,” the Belgian ghoul slurred.
“She took her bags, too,” Angie added.
“Fleeing the scene of the crime, huh?” I paced the grand hall. “That doesn’t look good.”
Maiko stepped forward, her perfect black hair cascading off her shoulder in midnight waves, “It’s just like in Moriko Harikama’s Glass Tower Shoebox.”
“What the hell’s that?” Wendy asked.
“A movie, of course. In it, Hoku Yabukawa, the very handsome and muscular actor, plays a man who finds the body of a yakuza assassin and instead of reporting it to the authorities, he covers his presence at the scene and sneaks out. Only there’s a witness to his cowardice, the gorgeous Akiko who reports his actions not to the police, but to the mafia.”
“What does that have to do with Janice and Eunice?”
She shrugged, pointing to Angie. “Angie saw her leave Johnny’s room right before we found the twins.”
“It’s true. I saw her leaving that room. Rushing away is how I’d describe.” Angie crossed her arms. “Plus she doesn’t have mani/pedi. I can’t trust a person that doesn’t respect nail hygiene.”
All but Absinthe nodded. Angie’s
silent scrutiny swung to the Belgian’s hands and feet.
“I sink it’s just like zat Hercule Poirot movie, Murder on ze Orient Express.” It was just like a Belgian to toss the British author under the bus. “You all did it. Took turns stabbing ze bitches.”
“They were poisoned,” I interrupted, but then something dawned on me. I stalked to the center of the room. “The ribbons,” I said.
Wendy spun around me in a wide arc. “I’m going for arty drama. Keep going.”
“I’d seen that bottle of scotch before on Johnny’s bureau. He hadn’t even opened it and it was covered in ribbons. I contemplated taking it, myself. A gift! You know what this means?” I asked the remaining contestants.
Tanesha stepped forward. “That Johnny was the target, not those garble-voiced bitches. Their death was an accident!”
“That doesn’t clear Hairy Sue.” Angie snarled, head jarring to the side as though it could fly off at any second. And no one wanted to see that again, least of all me.
“No, it doesn’t. Nor any of you,” I said and winked for the camera, but my zeal was short lived.
“Or you,” Maiko added. “Or little friend. I don’t trust zombie.”
Angie silently nodded her agreement, eying Absinthe.
“Absinthe. Let’s go somewhere and talk. Get to the bottom of things. And before you start looking smug, Angie, know that you’re next.”
The nail tech mugged defiantly.
Absinthe’s room was blessedly free of Belgian paraphernalia, not that I’d know what that was exactly. She had added a rainbow triangle throw pillow to her bed, which, while being very festive and out, is never an attractive decorating accessory.75 Neither was the stuffed anteater perched on her bureau—Johnny’s gift-giving was pretty random.
The butch ghoul dumped herself onto the loveseat.
I took the chair opposite. “Okay. Let’s start with how you felt about our deceased host.”
“Did you say ‘diseased’ host?”
“That too—how’d you feel about Johnny Birch?”
“He was a pig. I hated ze way he treated ze women on his show. Like cattle. Like farm animal. But, zis was a paycheck, no?”
“So you didn’t come here to kill the bastard?” I figured it was best to get right to the agitation cycle, how else do you get someone to come clean? “Because, I heard you did?”
The ghoul didn’t flinch or even glance away. “No. It’s not true. I need ze money, zis is all.”
“Okay. Say I believe you, perhaps you’ve seen something here that could help in my investigation?”
“Well.” Absinthe leaned back on the couch, exposing two pits so fluffy with hair, you’d think she was smuggling rabbits under there. I nearly heaved.
Can we take a moment and discuss body hair?
I know quite a few razor-free lesbians, Europeans, and Seattle has its share of the hippie crowd. I’ve been known to be in the presence of men, as you know. But seriously, I can’t handle looking at a huge hairy armpit. Even Hairy Sue’s shocking pubic puff doesn’t compare. It’s about the dewy sweat that makes it glisten. It’s a body odor issue and though you may enjoy funk, don’t expect the rest of us to revel in your freedom to be natural.
I decided to keep the sermon inside and gulped. “Well?”
“Yes. I witness a blond man leaving ze house while I was outside smoking my Gitanes.”
“When was this?” I wished I’d thought to bring a notepad.
“It was after we all left ze bar. He came from around ze side of ze house where ze garden is.”
I thought back to the argument I heard from the balcony. Johnny and another man. Could this have been the same guy? It seems likely. The timing was right. “What did he look like exactly?”
“Well, it was dark, but I could tell he was tall and, how you say, willowy?”
“Willowy?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else you can think of?”
She shook her head. “I can zink of ozer zings.” Absinthe planted a determined eye up at the camera and Wendy. “Lots of ozer zings.”
Wendy dropped the camera to her side. “We’re done here.”
“I didn’t see anything. I was doing my nails,” Angie said.
“You were doing your nails for the past three days?” I asked.
“Look.” She pressed her pinkies together and lined up each of her intricately painted nails to reveal a completed image. Da Vinci’s The Last Supper rendered on a canvas of acrylic tips. The job was masterful, the dips and valleys across the nails had been corrected through clever perspective and Jesus’ eyes were tiny little crystals.
“Brilliant,” I said. Thinking that kind of detail was alibi enough, we left the Filipino vamp to apply another layer of clear coat. Never say I don’t promote the arts.
Wendy rapped her knuckles softly on Maiko’s door and immediately jumped to the side as though expecting a shotgun blast.
“Jesus, Wendy, this isn’t an episode of Cops.” I stepped up and hammered.
She shrugged, fiddling with the camera.
“You need to put that focus on automatic, I don’t trust your eye.”
“What? I have a great eye.”
My eyes trailed down to Wendy’s outfit. I could see her inspiration was firmly rooted in the 70s, but if you’re going to pay homage to that decade, do it with satin dancing pants, not super-short exercise shorts, knee-high striped sweat socks and high-heeled tennis shoes.
“That’s never gonna be a look again, girl,” I said.
When I got back to her mouth it was screwed up as tight as—you guessed it—a cat’s anus.76 Her eyes were giving off that tried and true purveyor of seething anger: Stank.
The beautiful Asian opened the door in a shimmery kimono, obsidian koi swam against a current of aubergine, filigreed as a Van Gogh sky, the only thing identifying her as anything other than human were the swirling trails of smoke that lagged behind the movement of her hands, her footsteps. Her dark hair piled up loosely and smoke curled from her blood-red lips, though she held no cigarette, cigar or joint. Her mouth was like a smoking gun, I thought, and made a mental note, with more than a little pride.
“Maiko,” I said.
“Yes? That’s my name, as you know.”
“We’re here to ask some questions.”
“I’m aware of that. You announced it downstairs.” Her tone was all business. She swept an arm toward her sitting area. She snapped her fingers and one of the creatures she called Tanuki shifted into a black teakettle, and the other lugged it away to the attached bath. A moment later, the sounds of water running drifted from the open door.
“I hope that’s not for us.”
“Of course not, I’m not an idiot. I can’t offer you a mutsuki.77”
I giggled a bit.
“I’ll tell you that I had nothing to do with Johnny Birch’s death. How could I? My intention was to win this competition, and I would have, and protected the wood nymph full-time. It doesn’t make sense that I’d be suspected.”
“What did you think of Mr. Birch?”
“I thought very little about him at all. He’s a job.” The tanuki kettle whistled from the bathroom, followed shortly thereafter by the other badger-like creature’s return carrying a small porcelain cup.
Wendy’s fearful gaze glazed with boredom.
“Arigato gozaimasu Tanukisan.” She sipped at her tea. “What I know is this. At about one in morning I hear doorbell ring. I go to the balcony, overlooking hall and see Hairy Sue accept an envelope, from whom I do not know. I could not see delivery person.”
Maiko took another sip and set the cup down on her bureau, next to another badger, this one stuffed. Without turning around to face us, she continued, “She then took envelope to Birch’s room.”
“So.” I stood, Wendy following suit. “That is totally helpful, Maiko. Do you remember anything else?”
“No. Nothing. Goodbye.” She bowed, excusing us and retreating to her bath.
“I guess we’re done here,” I said.
“I guess,” Wendy muttered. “Kind of a bitch.”
Maiko coughed loudly.
Back in our suite, I made a clandestine phone call.
“H & C Gentleman’s Club.” The voice was uncharacteristically gracious.
“This is Detective Marshall,” I growled, having been dreading the call from the moment it came to me. The only two people I knew having actual history with the stripper were her employer and the bouncer at the club. Too bad Gil’s phone was off. He never could remember to charge the battery.
“Ah, Amanda. Lovely to hear from you, your calls are so dear to me.” She paused and then added, “Also infrequent.”
A chill ran through me. I dropped the fake accent. “Mother, I need to know some things about Hairy Sue.”
“Darling. I can’t very well reveal personal information about one of my employees. What kind of a person do you think I am?”
“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question and get to the gist of this, okay?”
“Fine with me.”
“Johnny Birch has been murdered and there’s reason to believe Hairy Sue may have been the culprit or at least knows who did it.”
“Hmm. That is upsetting. She’s one of my best girls, you know?”
“I do. That’s why I’ve opted to leave the reapers out of this little situation.”
“Why, that is kind of you.” There was an underlying tension in Ethel’s voice. I was certain she was holding something back. Not about her dancer, but about me. Gil must have confided in her. Damn it.
“I’m trying to be civil here, for the sake of finding out who killed this guy. You’re going to help me, right?”
“Of course, I’ll help my only daughter.”
We were both silent a moment. Her response was loaded with what sounded like regret, which if you’re not familiar with it, sounds a bit like drifting into a memory. Either way, it’s not good and you know it. Particularly in regard to our relationship.