by Lex H Jones
“How very modern of you.”
“Never understood why some straight guys don’t like ‘em, you know? Just cuts down the field for the rest of us and seeing as how gay guys are almost always pretty boys, it just makes things even easier!”
“It occurs to me that you don’t sound too upset about Danny’s death,” Carl remarked.
“What can I say? I didn’t like the guy,” Pauly shrugged. “That’s not a crime is it, Detective?”
“Not last time I checked,” Carl replied. “Why didn’t you like him?”
“He was a tool. Thought he was too good for this place. Always talking about how he was going places, and would leave us all in his dust, that kind of thing. Never did it of course, he wasn’t any more talented then your average drag act. Still, he thought he was better than me, better than this club, and delighted in telling everybody that.”
“Then why not just fire him?”
“Tool or otherwise, he was a money maker. Like I said, he had a reputation for going off with guys at the first meet. We’d get a lot of guys in here hoping to be his next ‘drone’. I won’t miss the guy, but I’ll miss the line of idiots throwing money to get near him.”
“Which brings us back to why I’m here. Let me see the tapes.”
“Not going to happen, sorry. I have to respect the privacy of my clientele.”
“Then why have the camera in the first place?”
“Security.”
“The security of your pension fund, you mean?” asked Carl.
“I have no idea what you’re...”
“Cut the crap, Pauly,” Carl snapped, walking over to the seated midget and staring down at him. “You keep those tapes to blackmail people who aren’t quite as ‘out’ as they might be. I know it, you know it, so let’s not dance around the fucking bush, alright?”
“Okay, I make a little from extortion. So do you, you’re a cop. You gotta be on the take.”
“Show me the tapes, Pauly,” Carl growled, refusing to acknowledge the insult he’d just been dealt. That a cop’s reputation was worth so little in the City grated on him, and Pauly wore his patience down to nothing just by mentioning it.
“I get paid a lot of money to get those tapes out from where they’re kept, Detective. I don’t really see you offering to pay up, so they’re staying where they are.”
“This is the last time I’m gonna ask you nicely, Pauly.”
“Then I’ll say this one more time, in the event that you didn’t hear me all the way up there,” Pauly replied, leaning forward in his chair so he was looking directly into Carl’s face as he stared at him. “Not. Going. To. Happen.”
Carl didn’t say another word but grabbed hold of Big Pauly by his left ankle, then proceeded to drag him from his chair and across the office towards the large window. Pauly struggled and cried out, but it was more than useless. A normal sized man would have been ill-equipped to break Carl’s grip when he was pissed off and not only was Pauly far from normal-sized, but Carl was very pissed off. He lifted Pauly from the ground with one hand and opened the large window with the other, at which point he dangled the flailing midget outside, leaving him staring down at the street far below.
“You’re a goddamn psycho!” He screamed, his voice sounding high pitched and almost comical.
“And you’re a moron if you think wiggling around like that is actually a smart move right now.”
“Let me go!”
“Again, not a smart thing to suggest,” Carl remarked casually.
“You’re not gonna let me drop, you tall streak of piss!”
“Maybe not intentionally,” Carl agreed. “Hey, did you know I used to box? Not professionally, of course, but just to keep in shape. Station had its own gym in those days, of course. Not quite sure where the money came from, but still. Had me a trainer and everything, I developed quite a right hook.”
“What the fuck does this have to do with anything?” Pauly screamed, desperately twisting and turning in Carl’s grip, trying in vain to find something on the wall in front of him that he might cling on to.
“I’m telling a story. Don’t interrupt, it’s rude. So anyway, only thing was my trainer always told me I used to overdo it on the right. Relied on it too much, both for defence and attack. Messed up some of the muscles in my arm something fierce. Nothing to worry about, of course, but I had to stop with the heavy weight lifting. You know why?”
“Alright, why?” Pauly screamed.
“’Cause now and again, if I was holding something heavy, my arm would just seize up and I couldn’t keep my grip on it. Kinda dangerous when you’re holding a barbell or something.”
“Jesus Christ, let me up!” Pauly cried, his panic suddenly increased by Carl’s revelation.
“Are you going to share your toys with me?”
“Yes, you can watch the tape, just let me in!”
“Thank you,” Carl smiled, dragging Pauly back in and letting him drop somewhat gracelessly back into his leather chair.
“Christ in Hades, you this friendly with all your witnesses?” asked Pauly, straightening his suit in an effort to regain some dignity.
“Depends how cooperative they are. So... videotapes?”
“You know how much money you’re losing me here?”
Pauly walked over to a large black filing cabinet and input a code into the key pad which was affixed to a drawer at the bottom. Carl wondered if the entire thing had been custom made, as such a security device would usually be placed at the top of the cabinet. It wasn’t as though a custom filing cabinet would break the bank of a man like Pauly, of course. He could afford a dozen of them in a week and still put away enough money to buy half the buildings on the other side of the City. The value of someone’s life in the City was frequently judged by their bank balance, and in Pauly’s case he was high up on the list. None of that mattered to Carl, of course. To him, Pauly was just one more person who knew something he wanted to learn. One more piece of the puzzle, even if it was just a small one.
“Tell you what,” Carl suggested. “Show me the tape without giving me further reason to hang your little ass out that window, and I’ll let you keep it for your collection.”
“You’re not going to arrest me for admitting to blackmail?” Pauly asked, turning from the open drawer through which he was currently searching.
“The paperwork for blackmail cases is hassle I don’t need, Pauly. The way I see it, you’re a businessman, right? And a smart one at that. You ain’t gonna be blackmailing any guys that don’t have money to spend. And in this City, the guys with money like that aren’t the guys I care about protecting.”
“So I’m not going to have to bribe a load of cops to keep this quiet?”
“Nope.”
“I like you, Detective. I’m almost willing to forget the whole window thing. And, you know, the fact that you’re a goddamn prick.”
“You’re making me blush, Pauly.”
“Here’s the tape,” said Pauly, closing the drawer and handing the black tape to Carl.
“You got a TV in here?”
Big Pauly set up the small portable TV at the back of his office and pushed the videotape into the VCR that was connected to it. It loaded up immediately, revealing a surprisingly high-quality picture of the street outside the club. The date and time in the bottom-left corner of the black-and-white image showed that it had been taken two nights previously. Carl nodded at Pauly to confirm that they were viewing the correct tape, and then Pauly proceeded to fast-forward the tape until the time showed 9 p.m.
“That’s about the time Danny left for the night,” Pauly explained, tapping the screen where the clock was. “He was the early slot—we get into the more raunchy performers later on, that’s how it works.”
“Picture’s pretty good,” Carl remarked.
“I know, the camera’s state of the art. Just can’t figure out how to hook the damn thing up to record on CD rather than tape.”
“And hiring a te
chnician would mean there was one more person you needed to bribe,” Carl smirked.
“Hey, it ain’t easy making money on this side of the Styx, you know.”
“Tell that to the people on my side who can’t afford a loaf of bread, Pauly. Sure you’d have a long discussion about how tough things are.”
“My heart bleeds. Wait, here we go...”
Pauly paused the tape at the point where a slender white guy left the club with another white male of much larger frame. The man was tall and broad, his denim jacket stretched across his shoulders. Carl narrowed his eyes as he estimated the man’s measurements, deciding that they must be just slightly less than his own stature. The man’s face, however—the most relevant part of the picture—was obscured. This wasn’t due to the angle of the camera or the usual hindrances faced with surveillance equipment, but rather the fact that the man’s face was covered with a dark-coloured opera mask, not unlike those worn at Masked Balls.
“What the hell’s he wearing?”
“I’d say it’s an Opera Mask, Detective.”
“I can see that, Tiny, what I mean is why is he wearing it?”
“What am I? A guru on queer fashion? They wear all kinds of things. Some guys come in wearing fireman’s helmets or dressed as sailors. This guy obviously has his taste set in a more classic period.”
“Or he’s deliberately hiding his face.”
“Always gotta be something suspicious with guys like you, hasn’t it?” Pauly sighed.
“If he was wearing a full Period costume then I’d buy your theory, but the fact that he’s wearing a denim jacket with that mask puts it to bed. Gay guys tend to be kind of particular about their fashion, right?”
“You can’t use a stereotype to reinforce your theory!” Pauly objected.
“True, but no one in their right mind can think that combination looks good. He’s wearing that mask for a reason, but Delane obviously didn’t pick up on it.”
“He wasn’t the smartest kid when it came to things like that. Thought he was in control of every situation, always the guy on top.”
“Not this time,” Carl said with a soft exhalation. “That guy would only hide his face if he knew the camera was there, which means it’s likely to be someone you’ve blackmailed before.”
“I remember the guys I’ve gotten money from before and even with the mask I can see that’s not any of them.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, if someone I messed with is pissed at me, you don’t think I’d let you know exactly who it was?”
“Fair point,” Carl nodded. “So maybe he didn’t know the camera was there, but just didn’t want to be seen at all.”
“Newbie, gotta be,” Pauly nodded. “Insecure about his sexuality, didn’t want to risk being recognised. We got a lot like that, but they usually just change their hair or something. Wearing a mask is extreme, but smart, I guess.”
“All of which means this little trip here was damn useless,” Carl said with a frustrated sigh, standing up and banging his hand against the side of the black filing cabinet.
“You need a partner,” Pauly suggested.
“What?”
“All that stuff you just went through out loud, it wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t have me here to bounce it off. You need someone to talk with for stuff like this.”
“I work better alone.”
“You might think that, but clearly it ain’t true.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to take your suggestions regarding police work under advisement, Pauly,” Carl nodded, irritated at the fact that Pauly was right. Police work was easier when you had someone to discuss ideas with. Unfortunately, Carl had precious few people he could trust with his cases anymore, so that left talking out of the question. Just him and his thoughts, for better or worse.
“So now you’re gonna leave me in peace?” Pauly asked, his tone filled with fragile hope.
“You don’t have anything else that I need, so I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you do all night,” Carl assured him.
Pauly smiled and opened his desk drawer, taking out a small dark-brown box and opening it so that it was facing Carl. Inside were two-dozen perfectly-rolled cigars of the finest quality.
“Just to show there are no hard feelings,” Pauly smiled.
“Cubans?”
“The very best. Hundred bucks a piece.”
“Legal?” Carl enquired.
“Not in the slightest.”
“Which is exactly how much I care right about now,” Carl shrugged, taking a cigar and letting Pauly light it for him with his solid gold lighter. He took a satisfied puff and then asked, “What’s with the making nice now? Considering how our conversation started this evening?”
“Bygones,” Pauly smiled, placing a cigar in the corner of his own mouth. “The way I see it, you’re probably one of the few cops left in the city who’s not in someone’s pocket. Plus you’re a crazy bastard and strong as a goddamn ox. Ass-wipe or otherwise, I’d rather have you as a friend than an enemy.”
“Words to live by,” Carl agreed as he took his leave of Pauly’s office, the cigar providing some warmth as he ventured back out into the arctic cold.
Chapter Nineteen;
The Witch Is Dead
C arl felt sick. The black, nauseating bile that he always experienced when he spent too long on the West side had started to build to a crescendo in his stomach. It was like water put on to boil, and now it had started to bubble towards the top of the pan. He wanted to go home, to get away from the lights and the noise and the goddamn feeling of dirty underneath his skin. But he couldn’t, not yet. Glass, high as a kite or otherwise, had a point when Carl spoke to him. If Judge White’s pills had been switched, the obvious culprit was his wife, Fei Ling. Carl hadn’t gotten the impression she was lying, but there was no question that she was a manipulative bitch. She’d probably pulled the wool over the eyes of men smarter than Carl in her time. That didn’t stop the Detective from cursing himself for being such an idiot, but still it provided some comfort.
The Diamond Heights apartment building reared up before him once again, mocking him with its decadence. A red carpet led to the door, on either side of which was a row of gold-painted bollards linked by dark velvet ropes. Stood at the door was a large doorman, different to the one Carl had seen before and not quite as well dressed. His jacket seemed a size too big, his tie was in an awkward knot, and his shoes didn’t match the smart black suit in any way imaginable. Carl assumed that the guy had received some form of bribe from one of the call girls that invariably arrived earlier in the evening and had taken himself temporarily off duty to enjoy it. His rushed appearance could be explained by the hurried way in which he redressed himself after getting his rocks off. Given the size of the guy, Carl felt sorry for the girl.
“Evening,” Carl remarked. “Brisk tonight, huh? They don’t give you a scarf?”
“What do you want?”
“Friendly,” Carl commented. “I’m here to see Mrs. White, top floor.”
“Mrs. White is busy. She has other guests this evening and is not to be disturbed.”
“She won’t mind, we’re old friends.”
“Then call her on the phone when you get home. She ain’t sucking your dick tonight. Now beat it.”
“Look...this has not been a good night for me. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I fucking hate everything in a five mile radius around me right now. The sooner you let me go talk to Mrs. White, the sooner I’m gone and we’re all happy.”
“Like I said, Mrs. White is not available this evening. You retarded or something? Go home.”
Carl didn’t ask again, but the right-hook to the doorman’s jaw seemed to settle the matter. He went down hard and smashed his temple against one of the gold-painted bollards, dragging the red velvet ropes down on top of him in an awkward pile. Two fingers to the left side of his neck confirmed to Carl that the guy was still alive, leaving him to enter the apartment building w
ithout further hassle. As he entered the lobby, however, he cursed under his breath at the sight of the reception desk. If the attendant had seen what had just occurred then they’d surely have called security, which would make things that much harder. Carl’s relief at seeing an empty reception desk didn’t last long, however, as a nagging feeling began to creep its way up his neck.
The desk shouldn’t be empty, not in a hotel like this. The arrogant, self-important pricks who lived here would expect to be greeted each and every time they entered. They couldn’t bear the thought of sitting on their asses before someone kissed them. The thought of carrying their own bags was enough to give most of them convulsions, for one thing. An empty desk was not an option, so why was it unattended now? As the thoughts on this matter ran through his head, a sound slowly began to reach Carl’s ears; it was the monotonous, droning sound of a phone that had been lifted from the receiver and left there. The kind of sound that remained lingering in the ears long after it had actually stopped.
Carl followed the sound to the reception desk, where he found the phone rested on its side. Slumped forwards on the desk was the receptionist, her blonde hair stuck together in clumps from the sticky red blood that had pooled against it. Walking around the side of the desk, Carl gently lifted the girl to an upright position, so that he could confirm what he already knew—there was a fresh bullet hole in her forehead, still dripping slightly. Her eyes were wide open, staring in horror at whoever was the last person she would ever see. With a gentle movement, Carl closed her eyelids and then rested the girl’s head back against the desk, sideways this time as though she were sleeping. He knew that he had just messed up a crime scene, but he didn’t really care. Let her have some dignity, it was the last gift anyone would give to her.
Instinctively, Carl drew his gun as he walked towards the elevator. Stairs were probably safer in this instance, less chance of exploding. He knew that of course, but he wasn’t about to exhaust himself before even coming across the killer. As the elevator doors opened before him, Carl raised his gun, gripping it tightly and pointing it inside the car. The only person he found there was the corpse of the doorman he had spoken to on his previous visit, his limp form slumped in the corner. His jacket, shirt and tie were removed, and he too had a bullet hole in his head. Carl held the elevator door open and glanced back at the “doorman” he had been knocked unconscious, assuring himself that the impostor was still in dreamland. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be coming after him in the immediate future, Carl entered the elevator and pressed for the top floor.