Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  As he walked the night world unfolded around him. Barkers stood on the corners; sounding like broken records as they tried to hard sell those just passing through on the particular pleasures of whichever establishment paid their rent. These men and women made Hiram jumpy. There was something about their eyes, something dead and chipped away from their smiles. They advertised pleasures that they seemed well beyond the ability to experience for themselves. This insight gave Hiram the impression that maybe whatever lay behind the doors they guarded was soul stealing in nature, not entertaining. He was in the business of entertaining, and he still knew how to be entertained.

  His business had not been built over night, either. It had been woven, one strand at a time, from the fabrics of the lives of those he'd met. Here a lonely bachelor, there a young woman without a roof over her head or a decent meal in sight. One thing led to another on the streets. Either you became an asset, or you became someone else's liability. Hiram was in the business of providing assets when openings presented themselves. One thing his business had not done was to lessen his hunger for pleasure or his love of all that was good in life. That was the fundamental difference between Hiram and those he passed.

  He held the reigns of a small army of young models, dancers, and massage experts, ran a high-rent brothel that was famous from coast to coast with traveling business men, and provided for the advertising needs of every less than reputable establishment in San Valencez. It was a lot to grasp, but the pressure kept him feeling young and alive, and he managed to stay just under the radar of the police and government bureaucrats, half of whom were part of his clientele.

  He didn't need to meet with Greve. He could easily blow the guy off and let him stew in his own juices until he came crawling into the office to do business on Hiram’s terms. Greve was, no matter how profitable, just one fish in an ocean where most of the nets were full, and nearly all of them belonged to Hiram Gates. The only thing in Greve's favor was that he was different.

  Things sometimes came too easily, especially when you assumed as much control as Hiram had. Very few things surprised him. Greve was full of surprises and from the tone of the freak’s voice this evening; this one might prove to be a doozy. You just never could tell about an oddball like Greve, and variety, after all . . .

  He reached the shadowed doorway of Big Sid's ten minutes early and slipped inside, drawn in by the moody strains of light blues. They washed over and through him and tugged at his heartstrings in syncopated recognition.

  Sid's housed the best blues band in the city, sporting a local star in the drummer, Leon. They called him the "Skin Master," for his mastery of rhythm, but Hiram knew through his own extensive connections that there was more than one reason for the nickname. Hiram appreciated the man's musical talent, and he ignored the string of women Leon ran on the side.

  That other part of Leon's life didn't really pose a competitive threat to Hiram’s business. Street was street, and Hiram’s girls never worked them. In any case, Leon was protected, so Hiram had always let it ride. The man was a genius on the drums.

  The band was Leon, Joey, the guitarist, a thin man who looked like the blues incarnate, and two others, a bass player named Murph with big, sad eyes and hair that dangled to his knees in back, and a sax player whose name Hiram had never heard. They had been playing Sid's for as long as Gates could remember.

  Sid was proud of them. He liked to tell the story of how a friend of his had discovered them in some dive called "The Mambo Club," down on the lower east side, and sent them around. Sid was a class act, and his bar was the top of the line for downtown San Valencez. There were more expensive places, sure, and there were more trendy clubs, but Sid's had the atmosphere.

  Sid and Hiram had met more than once. Their businesses necessarily crossed paths now and again, and Hiram had always done whatever possible to make Sid happy. In return, Sid had used some of Hiram’s models in his advertisements, and had sent customers Hiram’s way when their needs fell outside what his club offered. It was a profitable relationship built over a period of months and years.

  Hiram handed his jacket to a long-legged, pretty hostess in return for a ticket and a smile. She turned and disappeared into the coat-check room with a wiggle of her ass and a toss of her hair. Her perfume lingered in his nostrils, and Hiram smiled, pushing further into the club.

  He crossed to the bar, waved at Terri, the bartender, and pointed at the bottle of Johnny Walker above her head. She smiled back at him, reached for the bottle and a glass, and he leaned against the bar to survey the crowd. The wave would have been sufficient; Terri knew well enough what he would drink. He'd known her almost as long as he'd known Sid. She'd refused every dancing and modeling offer he'd made her with a smile and a shrug. It was a long-standing joke between the two of them, though Hiram was only half-kidding. She was gorgeous.

  He checked the back of the club first, but the booths were empty. Normally no one would sit there unless they had business to discuss. You had a very limited view of the dance floor from the booths, and the music was muffled by a partition Sid had installed, enhancing the pseudo-privacy of that corner of the club. It was another plus for Sid's – most places you couldn't even hear yourself think.

  Hiram was sipping his second scotch and eyeing the tight skirt of a young woman on the dance floor appreciatively when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Turning, he came face to face with Christian Greve, who peered up at him expectantly. The man looked extremely uncomfortable in the presence of so much sweaty, gyrating humanity.

  Gates grinned, gestured toward the back of the club, and ordered two more glasses of scotch. He didn't know what Greve drank, but if the freak didn’t want the whiskey it would not go to waste. Hiram was in a good mood. An extra glass of Johnnie Walker would put him in a better one.

  He followed the slight, bent figure of his companion around the edge of the dance floor and flashed a smile at the girl in the skirt in passing. She smiled back over her boyfriend’s shoulder.

  They slid into the furthest corner booth and faced one another in the dim, flashing light. Gates pushed one of the two drinks across to Greve with a flourish. Then he sat back for a moment and let his eyes wander over his companion in search of clues. He liked to try and find an edge when he was entering into a negotiation, even a slight, unimportant negotiation.

  Finally, Hiram spread his hands wide on the table, smiled, and asked, “So, Christian, why the secrecy? What's this big surprise you have for me that you couldn’t bring to me in my office?"

  Christian eyed the scotch, blinked at it curiously, and hesitated. Hiram wondered if he would drink it, ignore it, or if there was another option. Greve’s gaze flickered about the room, testing the distance between their booth and the other patrons of the club, before answering. The man was as nervous as a trapped bird.

  His eyes never stopped their searching, but after a moment he spoke in clipped, hushed tones. He didn't look to see what sort of effect his words were having. He spoke as though he were lost in his new inspiration, or mesmerized by it.

  Gates listened, fascinated and repelled at the same time, as Greve explained about the girls he’d photographed that day, little Chastity and her mindless mother, Dorinda and the battered remnant of her mother, the girl on the street corner with her hood boyfriend and the rainbow hair. Greve had a high-pitched, defensive tone to his voice that grated on Hiram’s senses, but the story was almost hypnotic.

  My god, Hiram thought. This is the man people take their children to for baby photos – the man who shoots bridal portraits and bat mitzvah’s every weekend. This is what he sees.

  Finally Christian got to the point. He lowered his eyes to the tabletop, where his fingers drummed distantly on the Formica surface in back beat rhythm to the music from the jukebox. He said that he had seen the answer in Dorinda’s face. He knew how to create the perfection he needed and transfer it to his photographs. He needed more control. He needed to mold them, do their makeup, and pose them like doll
s. Their life shining from within was insignificant in the light he would splash across their beauty from without. He had wanted to brush his fingers over the girl Dorinda’s face. He had wanted to pose her like trailer-slut Barbie, but her mother had been there, and fear of Daddy would have prevented it.

  He talked about sleep, and death, and how they enhanced natural beauty under the proper light, and with careful makeup. He talked about porcelain dolls and paint.

  Christian's gaze danced along the far wall, not really seeing the club at all

  Hiram raised his arm and slammed it on the table top between them. Their drinks jumped a full inch in the air, and people on the dance floor flinched, flashing the two of them confused stares and irritated glances as the echo of the pounding crack faded into the music.

  The sound took Christian completely by surprise, stopped his thoughts cold, and made him bolt halfway out of his seat. He snapped his gaze back to meet the glare of Gates' eyes, which flashed brightly.

  "You are out of your fucking mind, Greve," Hiram spat through clenched teeth. "What kind of man do you take me for? What in the hell made you think I'd have anything to do with something as perverted as this? Are you talking about dead models, Christian, or just Coked up helpless ones? I can’t decide whether to call the police and turn you in or take you out myself. I only hope my relatives all take their kids to some other studio than yours, and that you haven’t been dreaming about re-modeling their faces.

  You thought there was something that could interest me here?”

  "Money." was the one word answer. "I am willing to put everything I've saved into this, Mr. Gates. It's my one big shot, my one chance to get noticed. If you won't help me, there's someone somewhere in this city that will."

  Gates stared at Greve in silence. He was thinking – oh yeah, he was actually thinking about what the freak was saying, but Jesus. And was it possible? Could it be done without bringing all holy legal hell down on both of their heads? Would it be worth it if it could? A picture was a picture, wasn’t it? Couldn’t a model be sexy without the photographer groping her and painting her like a plastic doll?

  "You don't know what you're asking," He said at last, leaning a little closer so he could see every flickering motion of the Greve’s eyes. "Hell, I don’t know what the fuck you’re asking, or if you’re really asking anything. You don’t make much sense – but you know that, don’t you Christian?

  You saw my advertisement in a newspaper and suddenly I seemed like the perfect partner in some kind of kinky art show in your mind? You know I'm not a strict adherent to the law, but there are boundaries I won't cross. This is way out of line, Greve. Crazy. Am I getting through to you?

  "I certainly hope that I am, because you have never seemed like a bad guy. A little odd, obviously not your run-of-the-mill family man, but not bad for all that. I'd hate to have to send you postcards in San Quentin. And what do you suppose the boys in there would do if they heard your story about photographing little girls?"

  Christian was looking down at his hands and shaking. He obviously wanted to try again, but couldn’t figure out how to change the words so they’d make a difference. Finally he looked up again and met Hiram’s gaze.

  "You may change your mind, Mr. Gates," he said, trying to keep his hands steady on the table. "If you do, you know the number to my studio. I'm there every day. This is very important to me. If you won't help me, there are others in this city that will."

  Gates noticed the repetition, and he almost smiled. There were others in the city that’d be more than happy to help out a fellow freak, but Christian didn’t know any of them. If he did, he’d have gotten up and walked away the minute Hiram called him crazy.

  Now Gates was shaking too, though he wasn’t sure if it was out of indignation, anger, or plain indecision. He downed his scotch in a single gulp and rose shakily to his feet. His good mood had evaporated. He stared Christian in the face, and he began to speak, slowly and forcefully.

  "If you want to take pictures of beautiful models in their lacy underwear, I'm your man, Christian. If you want something kinkier, men who dress as women, women who will twist on the end of your nose until you choke, I can do that. You can even take their picture while they spin. If you want to take pictures of young girls, old women, animals – all three together, I can make all of that happen. I have connections.

  “But what you are talking about leans way to the left, Greve. It’s skewed, like a TV with one broken leg. The models that work for me are just that – I don’t own them, and I can’t sell them to you, and I can’t kill them so they sit still, or drug them half to death so you can do their makeup. That’s insane, and I don't think we'll be doing business."

  Hiram had worked up a good head of steam, and the anger only continued to build. The hell of it was, the man had nearly gotten to him. The images Greve’s wandering description had conjured lingered and twisted in Hiram’s brain. He wanted to see them almost as badly as he wanted to bash the freak’s head in, but instead he stood by the booth and seethed.

  Greve stood and reached into his pocket. For a wild second, Hiram thought he was pulling a weapon, that the idiot had snapped and was going to shoot Hiram, himself, or both as some odd tribute to his art. Instead, what Greve laid first laid on the table was a photograph.

  Hiram stopped speaking, leaned closer, and stared. The girl was young, way too young to be a model. She had deep, hollow eyes accented with too much makeup. Her hair was teased, and she wore a short skirt that would have been more fitting on one of Hiram’s dancers. It was a compelling shot, but not remarkable.

  He glanced up at Greve, a question in his eye, and the freak put something else on the table. It was wrapped in tissue.

  “Take the photograph,” Mr. Gates, Christian said softly. “Take this as well. Don’t open it here.”

  Hiram glared at the object, and at the photo. For a moment he was still too angry to focus on it, and all he wanted was to tell the freak to fuck off and get out into the fresh air. Then he reached out, grabbed the photo, tucked it into his breast pocket, and slid the wrapped object into his pants pocket.

  Then, without a word, he spun on his heel, pushed away from the table and headed back toward the center of the club. He got his coat from the girl at the counter, who smiled at him again. He took the coat without meeting her gaze and got out without once looking back.

  THREE

  As Christian watched Gates leave, frustration seeped up to overwhelm his thoughts. He hovered between the visions he’d been trying to share, and the shock of Gates’ violent reaction. It was encouraging that the man had taken the photo, and the mask, but would it be enough?

  He reached out and grabbed the scotch that still sat untouched on the table in front of him. Christian never drank anything stronger than wine, but there was no wine, only the whiskey, and he needed the drink badly. He felt the unfamiliar fire of the warm liquor scorch down his throat, and he gasped.

  He couldn’t give up. Gates would come around, Christian was certain of it. He’d caught just enough glitter in Gate’s eyes to promise that their conversation wasn’t finished. He had to find a better way to express himself.

  It couldn't wait, though. No way could he wait, and call, and be rejected, and call again, until the man decided to help. Christian’s nerves were on edge, and the tension that fluttered in his chest would not settle on its own. Too much was at stake to just walk away.

  The best way to win Gates over would be to do something on his own, first. The proposition was more dangerous, infinitely more difficult to arrange, but there had to be a way. If he showed Gates what he was after and proved to him that he was right, the man would have no choice but to help him.

  A breath of sweet perfume cut through the stale smoke and sweat-fogged air to insinuate itself into his thoughts. He glanced up from his daydream and met the gaze of a very young, very pretty woman with bright white hair and the reddest lips he'd ever seen.

  The vision at that precise momen
t was exquisite – the lighting reflected from the mirrored wall behind him, the swirling smoke of a thousand cigarettes, and the twist of her smile. Perfect. Another trapped vision, another lost masterpiece to be filed away with the others. He was falling behind on his creations. He wished he’d put another lump of clay in his pocket, and suddenly the loss of the mask he’d given Gates sank in. It was gone, likely forever. That image had been lost twice.

  "Can I get you something sir?" the girl asked. Her words dragged him back to the moment, and he realized he’d been caught staring. She didn't seem to mind, and somehow the warmth of the whiskey he'd just finished gave him the courage, for once, to speak his mind.

  "Yes, I'd like another scotch, please.” He hesitated for just a moment, and then added, “I was just admiring your face. I'm an artist, you see, a photographer. You would make a lovely model."

  "Thank you," she said, smiling and swirling, letting the short length of her skirt flip up to show another couple of inches of thigh as she did so. Her hips gyrated pleasantly atop long legs that ended in a pair of black stiletto pumps with ties that wrapped about her calves. Yes, quite a pretty picture. The outfit should have seemed cheap, but the energy in her step and the twinkle in her eyes when she smiled didn’t allow it. She was very simply “cute”.

  As she walked away, Christian drifted. He drew the image of her face into inner focus, began with simple eyeliner and foundation, and then painted the mental picture to match his inner vision. He changed the color of her mascara, flared it on the ends in a sort of Egyptian motif, and deepened the red of her lips to contrast more completely with the flashy white brilliance of her hair. She could be so much more, so perfect. In his mind, she held her face very, very still as he worked.