Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  The Gates Entertainment Brokers Inc. was open until 8:00 PM, officially, and much later for special customers. It was barely 6:00. He had plenty of time to walk down to the corner, provided none of the local kids were out there, and make his call. There were two in particular that enjoyed harassing him every time he left his home, one boy and one girl

  The thought of them stole Christian’s good mood. They taunted him regularly, called "Scarecrow," and "Buzzard." He'd been used to such names when he was a child, but now they stung more sharply. He should be the adult, the one in charge, not the butt of their adolescent jokes. He should be able to stop them. The feelings of rage and impotence brought a wave of nausea that was slow in passing.

  The girl would have made a fine model. She dressed like a twenty-dollar whore, dark stockings, darker boots, short black skirts and long, silver chains. Her hair stood straight up in the middle and was short down one side. Her makeup invariably clashed with both her complexion and her outfit in a brilliant splash of color that reminded Christian of a peacock's plumage.

  The boy, though, was pure arrogance. Young, strong, and sneering, he was the one to look out for. Once he'd caught Christian staring too long at the girl, not understanding that it was an artist's scrutiny. That was when the catcalls had begun.

  "Why don't you take a fucking picture, old man?" He'd shouted.

  Christian had blinked and looked up at the boy stupidly, because taking a picture was exactly what he'd wanted to do. He'd wanted the girl to pull back her gauzy blouse, expose her pale breasts in contrast to the night-black of her clothing, lean her head back so the hair on the side that was not cut dangled over her shoulder at an angle and bared her throat to unseen demons of the night. He'd wanted to take that picture, had seen it clearly – and he’d stared too long.

  Christian had broken his own cardinal rule of not being noticed, and it cost him a chunk of his private world. There was the stretch between his door and the grocery that was no longer safe or private. He had only the mental image of another lost masterpiece in payment, and it left a bad taste in the back of his throat. It was such a waste, the girl, the photo that would never happen, and the privacy.

  He'd been meaning to add the girl’s face to one of the masks in his collection for some time, but things had come up. It was something to think about, still, something to dream about. Any other day that would have been enough, but now it was a problem.

  Gulping the last of his beer, he checked to make sure he had plenty of change in his pocket and stepped to the front window. He pulled the drapes aside and glanced down the street. There was nobody in sight, so he unchained and bolted the door and stepped out, carefully latching the door behind him and doing the same with the security gate out front. The fence was low, but any protection was better than no protection. His mother had taught him that long ago; she’d been talking about her diaphragm, but the wisdom still lurked in the words.

  The streetlights were caught in that moment of indecision between dusk and daylight, flickering on and off erratically. The street was deserted and quiet, but Christian’s nerves would not be still. He hurried his steps. He wanted to be in the phone booth and out, then into the store as quickly as possible. He was suddenly in the mood for something stronger than beer, and they had a pretty good wine selection for a corner market.

  It took three rings to get an answer; a very feminine, strikingly attractive voice slid seductively onto the line. "Gates Entertainment Brokers," she said, "how may we help you?"

  Christian hesitated for a moment, and then answered. "I'd like to speak to Hiram, please," he said quietly. His words were followed by a silence, a muffled, hurried question, and then "Mr. Gates is busy just now. Is there something I can do for you?"

  "I'm afraid not," Christian snapped. "Tell Hiram that it’s Christian Greve on the phone, and that I have a business proposition. Tell him now, please."

  There was a quick shuffle on the other end; another woman's voice tittering inanely, and then a loud, metallic clatter. Moments later, Gate's brusque, polished voice was on the line. "Gates here, what can I do you out of, Christian my boy?"

  "I need to talk to you," Christian said, almost too quickly, trying unsuccessfully to hide his growing excitement. "Can we meet tonight?"

  "Tonight's no good, I'm afraid," Gates said, obviously not at all excited about the proposition of meeting with Christian. "How about my office, tomorrow?"

  "No," Christian replied, surprising himself. "I need to see you, tonight. It will be worth your while. I have an idea, but I need to explain it face to face. It could be very, very big."

  Now it was Gate's turn for silence. "Well, I suppose a quick drink at Sid's wouldn't hurt. Say, an hour?"

  "Fine," Christian breathed, almost in relief. "I'll be there. I'll be in one of the booths in the back."

  "Right." The phone clicked off, and Christian turned away. He was about to say forget the wine, but he saw the two youngsters slipping from an alley down the street, and they had not yet spotted him. He stepped from the phone booth and into the small store as quickly as possible, watching them carefully. They stopped on the corner, where they always did, looked around and laughed about something. The girl had on the usual dark hose and boots, but her blouse was bright scarlet, and her hair was done in a wash of yellow and orange that played brilliantly in the light of the street lamps.

  Christian's breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful, perfect and graceful, and draped back over the boy's arm. She was nearly in the pose he'd dreamed of, her eyes tilted toward where he watched from his vantage point just inside the door of the little store.

  "Trouble with those kids again, Mr. Greve?" came a brittle, crackling voice from over his shoulder.

  Christian whirled, coming face to face with the gnarled, gnomish little man who ran the place, and managing somehow to nod. Without a word, he spun toward the freezers lining the wall and selected a bottle of burgundy at random.

  "That be all?" the little man asked him, eyeing him strangely.

  "Yes," Christian mumbled. His mind was still flashing the image of the girl, her colored hair flickering in the dim light, the abandon in her eyes. If only he could bend her to his vision, hold her in place and focus the camera for that one instant, that perfect masterpiece. If only she were his to fashion and recreate.

  He paid for the wine, waved vaguely in the direction of the old man and slipped out onto the street with his eyes lowered. He moved as quickly as his shaky legs would carry him, concentrating on the sidewalk, praying they wouldn't look up, wouldn't notice him. His prayers, as always were ignored.

  "Hey, Buzzard," the boy’s voice carried across the street to him. "Look at me, old man."

  Hating himself, Christian raised his eyes as he passed, doing as he was bid, his shoulders shaking in sudden fear. The boy had his arms draped loosely over the girl’s shoulders, her hair sliding over them both like a silken drape on the one side where it was long enough.

  "You like what you see, Scarecrow?" the boy leered. "She likes you, said she'd like to do you, old man, do you real slow."

  They both burst into laughter then, and Christian forced his gaze down and away, his blood boiling up and reddening his face, flushing crimson through his ears. He heard their mocking laughter, even after he'd fumbled his way through the security gate and the front door of his apartment. He fell back against the locked door heavily and gasped for breath.

  Damn them! He thought.

  He tried to shake free of the fear that clutched at his heart by concentrating on the vision of the girl he'd glimpsed from the store, stolen while she was unaware. It was precious, a treasure to be captured and added to his world.

  As his heartbeat slowed, he staggered away from the door and into the kitchen, popped the cork on the bottle of wine and poured himself a small glass. He didn't want to drink too much before he met Gates down at "Big Sid's." He would have to drive, and he seldom did so after dark. It wouldn't do to have an accident.

&
nbsp; He sat and sipped the wine, and the moon rose into the sky outside his window to rule the night. The street was bare again, his two antagonists having disappeared into the shadows that had coughed them up earlier, and his mind drifted forward. He wanted to be certain he worded his proposition correctly. He needed to bring his vision to light in a manner that would excite Gates. It was important that he have the other man's support.

  He retrieved his briefcase and rummaged through it quickly, drawing out one of the finished prints of the girl Dorinda. He took this to the table and placed it in front of him. The wine had brought a flush of heat, and the strobed image of the girl on the street impressed itself over the image on the photograph. Christian closed his eyes and slid his hand slowly into his pocket.

  He pulled out a small ball of white polymer clay. It was warm and pliant, soft to the touch. His fingers trembled as he rolled it flat on the tabletop, then back into a ball, flattened it a second time and began to shape. His fingers moved quickly, pressing into the white surface of the clay with surety and precision. He closed his eyes for a moment; let his memory paint Dorinda against the inside of his eyelids. He did not stop working when his eyes closed. He thought of the girl’s tragic expression and deep, lost eyes. In his mind he reached out and tenderly traced the lines of her face, pressing into her pale skin, smoothing lines from the corners of her eyes and etching in others.

  It seemed like a very long time had passed, but when he opened his eyes and gazed at the tiny face on the table, he found it had been only fifteen minutes. He still had time.

  Rising, he flipped the switches on his oven quickly and set the heat. As it warmed he placed the tiny mask onto a bit of foil and an old plate. When the oven had heated, he slid the plate inside on the upper shelf and set the timer for fifteen minutes. The polymer would set as smooth as porcelain in a very short amount of time.

  Christian checked his watch. He was very close to downtown, so the drive to Big Sid’s was only a matter of a few minutes. He didn’t want to be late, Gates might not wait for him, but he knew he would need something to convince the man. Gates didn’t share Christian’s vision, but he could be shown.

  When the mask was set he placed it back on the table and opened the drawer that held his paints. He didn’t want much. Dorinda’s face was pale, and the haunting quality of her eyes, a child’s eyes grown into daddy’s play-toy’s eyes with the not-so subtle slashes of makeup would be easy to duplicate.

  He worked quickly, using a very fine brush, highlighting the sharp edges of the girl’s smile, etching her cheeks and deepening the dark slash that was her lips, made up in garish cherry red. He never once glanced at the photograph once he’d started, and when he was finished, he sat back, staring at what he had created intently. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close. He had changed her to into the girl he held in his mind, or a very close facsimile of that girl. It was enough. He poured another glass of wine and sipped slowly, alternating his gaze between his watch, and the mask on the table until he was certain it was dry enough to be moved.

  When his glass was empty, Christian rose, grabbed a light jacket from beside his door and placed a worn felt hat on his head. He carefully wrapped the mask in waxed paper, and then tissue. Then he tucked it into his pocket, along with the print of Dorinda’s face.

  When all the lights were off, all the windows were locked, and the wine bottle was corked and tucked away in the refrigerator, he stepped to the door. He was as ready as he would ever be, and without a backward glance, he stepped into the night.

  TWO

  Hiram Gates was a man of few principles, but they were strong principles, and he lived by them exclusively and to the letter. One such was that, no matter how much fun you were having, an opportunity to make more money took precedence. The fun would fade; the money would make more fun possible. It was sad, he knew, but true. Money might not buy happiness, but it improved the odds.

  That was why, though he'd been happily implanted on the soft leather divan in his office conducting business, he'd taken Christian Greve's call. He'd been interviewing a prospective model named Cherie, a young woman with impressive physical attributes who showed real promise. She had every quality necessary for success in Hiram’s organization, sex appeal, a decided lack of mental faculties, and better than any of the above, a growing Cocaine dependency.

  The physical beauty was the foundation on which his business and his life were constructed. There were a lot of beautiful women, though, especially in San Valencez, California, so close to the demons of Hollywood and the dance halls of Las Vegas, tucked away just beneath the lights and glamour of San Francisco, and near enough to the silicon valley for a girl to have the chance to take up the last resort occupation of showpiece in some well-to-do computer geek's social life.

  Hiram could get beauty; it was the other two qualities he most desired. The brains were optional, as long as the chemical dependency accompanied them. It wasn't something he was proud of, but pride wasn't a factor in his business. He was a practical man, and chemical leashes kept his protégés in line. He had no problem with that, and neither, in most cases, did they. It was just the way things worked. A smart girl could still get hooked, and once she did she might prove more valuable for her ingenuity than a dozen busty imbeciles.

  Greve, the photographer, was an odd bird, and difficult to get an angle on, but he paid up front, and he paid well. The two of them had not had a lot of dealings in the past, but those they had were inevitably simple for Gates, and profitable, two circumstances he supported with all his questionably owned soul. Greve certainly didn't rank up with the big spenders Gates provided for, but neither was he difficult.

  There were far worse ways to make money than supplying models to a sexually deprived weirdo photographer, and Gates had tried each and every one of them at one time or another. When opportunity knocked, Hiram Gates swung wide the door. Greve was an opportunity, limited as he might be, and something in the man's voice this time told Hiram the door to that opportunity might have swung open a little wider. There were other needs, other concerns for a man Greve's age. Maybe he was coming around to the real world and wanted a hooker. Maybe he had come the rest of the way unhinged.

  Whatever it was, Hiram Gates was there for him. It was this thought he'd had in mind as he'd reluctantly cut short his interview, patting Cherie protectively on her nice little ass and talking a mile a minute of straight bullshit as her empty red-topped head bobbed up and down in agreement. He'd know he would hire her from the moment he'd seen her breasts pushing their way forcibly through the tight, sheer material of her blouse, but there was no sense in being too positive about it. Let her think she had to earn his trust. Better that she thought she needed to kiss up a bit to get the job. That was the beauty of being in charge.

  She'd bounced out, smiling and promising to meet with him again the next day to firm things up. Hiram had a few ideas about just what would be firming up, and in what manner the firming would take place. There were some interesting places that Cocaine could be applied, some equally interesting ways it could be absorbed into a willing young bloodstream. These thoughts brought a smile to his face as he draped his floor-length trench coat about his shoulders and headed for the door.

  In the lobby, Madeline, his assistant, waved to him from the desk with a wink and a flashy smile. She wasn't the youngest of the women who worked for him, but there was a certain something about her that made every inch of him tingle. She had that effect on customers as well; that was why he'd hired her. She could sell a Catholic monk tickets to a live sex show with a single wink. Good business.

  Madeline had been with him longer than any other associate in his long and less-than-illustrious business career. She’d worked for him in many fields, first as a private show dancer, then as a model, then as a secretary and finally as his personal assistant. She knew more about the intricate workings of his business dealings these days than he did. Hiram had the eye for a scam, the polish to pull it off, but it was Madd
y who brought the loose ends together and made the projects lucrative. She didn't necessarily approve of his methods, the drugs in particular, but neither did she complain about them. In any case, the business was in good hands, and he didn't think twice about going out.

  Hiram let the door slide shut behind him and headed toward the parking lot. He'd driven his BMW, and he saw the chrome of the grill winking at him from a hundred yards. He kept it well oiled, well polished, and ready for action. Just like everything in his life. This once, though, he felt the odd urge to walk to Sid's. It wasn't far, and it was a nice, cool evening.

  The streets near Fiftieth and Union, just off Broadway, glowed with neon and rocked with amplified sound. Bars of every sort, clubs for every taste, restaurants and diners, arcades and peep shows, all of them stood side by side and primed for business. Their business, and Hiram’s business, was the same – entertainment.

  The downtown streets formed a world of their own that was wholly concealed in daylight. What remained when the sun peeked around the corners of the buildings and illumined the grimy alley walls was well concealed, brushed up under the edges of things, or hidden around corners. If you looked carefully you could sometimes see the hint of it on a street corner, or catch a flash of it in tired eyes that had been open too long and caught out at the wrong hour, but the night and the day only met twice every twenty-four hours, and once the time-card was punched, the scenery and soundtrack of the world rolled from opposite to opposite like clockwork.

  In the night world there was perversion, pleasure, and every version of the proverbial "edge" that money could buy available to those who looked, and you didn't have to look far. During the day, the streets were dingy, empty, and lifeless, but at night they danced, and they sang, and Hiram knew the words and music of the darkness by heart. His was a familiar face.