Murderland

by Garrett Cook

  I dial his number just to see if there’s something to my hunch. If he picks up, I’ll tell him it’s a wrong number, and dismiss the face as a similar one. If he doesn’t, I’ll begin to look into the possibility that maybe this guy was one of the victims and had his I.D replaced with another one. This detective work is nerve wracking. One ring. He’s dead. No, don’t think that. Nobody answers their phone on the first ring. Don’t be stupid. Two rings. It’s getting more likely. Most people answer their phone on the second or third ring. Then, it rings a third, fourth and fifth time. The answering machine kicks on.

  “This is Rob Henslowe. Leave a message after the beep. Robin, if you hear this, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I have a problem, but I want to get help. I want to make this work. I want to at least hear your voice again and know that you know I’m sorry.”

  I hang up at the beep. It looks to me like a young gay teacher had an affair with a student, solicited sex from a male prostitute, ruined his marriage and then got himself killed by Walter Hausmann. I don’t know any man in existence that could be picked up by Walter Hausmann, no matter how desperate he was. Hausmann would need some sort of bait. Some sort of really good bait. Like a young actor/gigolo who needed to disappear. That was Hausmann’s angle, that’s how Hausmann picked this guy up. Then, he went and killed the kid, too and switched their I.Ds to buy time and leave the cops as confused as Jeremy was. Both halves of the I.D got skinned. And, he went and did this seven times. In one night. The only other possibility seems really stupid.

  When Gilbert shows up, I go back to work and hand him the file. He looks really stressed. “I’m gonna need you to go to Henslowe’s house and serve him the papers.”

  I don’t let him see my eyes light up. “What do I need to serve him the papers for?”

  He sighs. “Greg is sick and I haven’t been able to get in touch with this guy since Friday. He’s probably depressed over everything that happened. Too depressed to talk to his future ex-wife’s lawyer.” Friday again. This guy’s probably dead. Bull’s-eye, Nancy Drew. If he isn’t there when I go to the door, I can convince his wife to file a missing persons report and start a fire under their asses and neaten up whatever mess Jeremy is likely to make. Not that the mess would be unwarranted, but it will still be a mess.

  So, I, a young paralegal, am subbing for the lowly process server and serving a man his divorce papers. Gilbert’s really surprised that I don’t bitch about it, because he knows it’s in my character to bitch about stuff like this. But, he mistakes it for sympathy for his stress. Good for him. I don’t recall ever having sympathy for Gilbert and I don’t think I’m going to start anytime soon. I take the papers, and I get in the car and head to this guy’s place.

  That old chestnut, the overflowing mailbox gives him away. He hasn’t gotten his mail for three mail days now. Nobody’s looking, so I snoop a little, just to nudge it back into the box. Bills. Credit card offers. Gay porn magazine. I don’t think anybody has ever been depressed enough to not go outside and pick up their gay porn magazine. I knock on his door just to make him official. I stand there and wait and act shocked for the sake of acting shocked. “Hello?”

  I knock again, just so I can go back to work a few seconds late or maybe even squeeze in a minute or two. “Hello? Mr. Henslowe, I’m from the law offices of Gilbert Katz…I’d like to take a moment to…”

  Sure, there’s any number of places a recently outed man whose marriage is completely on the rocks and has a penchant for male prostitutes would go, but I’m not altogether out of line thinking he’s dead either. It seems to me a whole lot more likely than the thought that he’s killed himself. Not that I dismiss the thought that he might have been a suicide and Walter Hausmann could have stolen the body and the I.D and skinned it. I’m sort of curious as to why the fact that Walter Hausmann is the leading purveyor of fake I.Ds automatically makes him the mastermind behind this and not just a possible pawn. Regardless, I look through some windows to make sure he’s not hanging in his kitchen or bedroom. He isn’t. But then, if the skinner took the body it would naturally not be in his house. This is a tough one, but not going to find anything else out here.

  I return to work and tell Gilbert the bad news. He tells me to call the man’s wife/widow and tell her that she might want to call the police and report him missing. This is not easy for me. In fact, it hurts like a bastard. The man you’ve decided to divorce is most likely dead. It will save on court costs and eliminate the awkwardness of fighting over possessions. I don’t know what to do when she starts crying.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, I really am. I know this week has been absolute hell for you,” I tell her.

  “You don’t know anything. How can you know what it feels like to find out somebody you love has some kind of deviant secret life?” I can only bite my tongue about that one. I took my revelation in surprising stride, after beating him up a little, that is. I do know what it must have been like for her, but not when it comes to somebody you love clearly not being satisfied by you. Being a wife for five years to somebody who actually doesn’t even want a wife I must admit is a kind of shame I can’t identify with. No matter what he did, Jeremy loves and wants me. Jeremy is with me, no matter how badly he fucks up.

  “You’re right,” I tell her, “I can’t. All I know is your husband hasn’t been at his house for awhile, I’m not sure that he’s…”

  She sobs loudly, and then her voice is sharp like a dagger. “Dead? With the kind of company he must have kept? I’m surprised he didn’t end up dead beforehand. Those people, people who sell themselves, they’re dangerous. If they’re not those pimps sure are…”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” is all I can muster before she hangs up on me. Her diatribe gives me an idea, though, one which might help me get a handle on what’s actually going on.. Jeremy should have thought about the fact that these boys have to have a pimp. Some kind of synchronicity happens. Some kind of scary synchronicity. A red limo parks across the street. It’s as if he heard me thinking the word pimp and he had to come running like Scatman Crothers. He doesn’t get out. Reiko doesn’t get out. They just sit there and wait for me. I would oblige them, but there are two hours left in my workday. Two hours that slowly drip away every little drop of time like a child squirting the dregs of a ketchup bottle onto their fries.

  I step outside and Reiko pulls up to me.

  “Get in.”

  “Get in? That’s not very geisha of you.”

  She gives me a look that smacks me with an invisible shovel.

  “Cassandra-kun, please get in.”

  I sit down in the back where Jones is chugging bleach.

  “Want some? Powerful shit.”

  “No. That’s more of a New Year’s thing for me.”

  Jones shrugs with surprise like I refused a brownie or a cold beer.

  “Suit yourself.”

  He caps the bleach and sets it at his feet.

  “You know, Miss Flynn, it’s considered rude to keep a pimp waiting.”

  “I’m sorry. I had some work to finish. I couldn’t exactly tell them I had to meet with the pimp who arms my boyfriend for his crusade against Reap.”

  “And yet I am said pimp and deserve the respect that that very pimp does.”

  I muster my best “I’m sorry.” I need this guy. For weapons and information both. I realize that bruising the ego of a short, white pimp from Connecticut is not difficult.

  “I accept your apology. It is suitably apologetic for my tastes, which are exquisite.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. What brings you to town?”

  “I need to see Jeremy. You’ll do, though.”

  “Why didn’t you just call him?”

  “Because I prefer not to make phone calls. Maybe it’s just a precaution natural for the King of the Connecticut Underworld; maybe it’s because of hangin’ around the old man so much. Maybe I get scared of the telephone sometimes. I get a feelin’ he doesn’t keep his phone on too often, n
either. I needed him, but you’ll do.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Shit will go down,” he says.

  “I know that.”

  “You do not know the extent of shit which is going to go down. The Old Man has been having bad dreams.”

  Surely he must be joking. Driving up from Connecticut to tell me an insane doom prophet was having dreams of prophetic doom?

  “We don’t have time for hoodoo. There are real problems here.”

  Jones takes another swig of bleach.

  “I’m afraid you do have time for hoodoo. When the General has bad dreams, bad things tend to happen. Lately, the old man’s been dreamin’ about snakes, lots of snakes and he says something’s comin’ and everything’s gonna change. If you ignore it, than it’s gonna change into somethin’ much worse. You tell Jeremy that the General’s been havin’ bad dreams too and he needs to watch out because something’s comin’ and it’s gonna leave us all flat on our asses if we ain’t prepared. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I squeak. I don’t know why I suddenly start squeaking or why this madman’s dreams suddenly bother me.

  “So you’ll tell him?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him.” I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth. Don’t know if I want to show Jeremy that I think Lud is anything more than crazy. I might tell him. I’ll consider telling him. I’ll think about it. But if I don’t, nothing will happen. I’ll think about telling him. For now, there are problems in the real world. Unlike Lud’s nightmares.

  “Could you tell me something?”

  “Mr. Jones can tell you plenty, Miss Flynn. On that I can assure you.”

  “I need a male prostitute.”

  “In spite of my sartorial acumen, I am not, Miss Flynn, a connoisseur of sodomies.”

  “This is important, Jones.”

  He sighs, and then pops a handful of Ecstasy.

  “In this town, that would be Meghan Burkett. Blue Diamond Grill. But she’s a pretty tough customer.”

  “You know her?”

  “Quite well. She’d eat you alive. I think perhaps…”

  Reiko interrupts.

  “I don’t mean to question your judgment but are you sure…”

  “Reiko, you should know by now that it is not a ho’s duty to question her big pimp daddy, particularly when he is Inscrutability Jones. We’ll see her together. But please, make sure Jeremy gets the message.”

  “Yes,” I lie. It strikes me now as too important to tell him, like it might be a real dispatch from a world he should be able to live without.

  Reiko mumbles to herself the whole way to the Blue Diamond Grill. She parks the limo around the back in the most inconspicuous manner one can park a red limo. It’s not that inconspicuous at all. It’s a goddamn red limo after all. The three of us get out and Reiko walks up to me and whispers “are you packing?” I shake my head.

  “Fuck.”

  The Blue Diamond Grill has a certain divish charm. There are two western saloon doors and it has a nice beer-and-onion rings smell. I miss steakhouses. One of the big drawbacks of dating a vegetarian. But there’s another piece of meat that immediately draws my attention away from taking in the smell. The maitre d’ is a big, muscular gentleman clad only in a cowboy hat and a leather thong. There’s more oil on him than on the onion rings. He glares at Jones and Reiko.

  “You should leave,” he warns them.

  “We’re here to see your employer.”

  “I believe you’ve received ample warning.”

  “We want to see Meghan.”

  He places his face in his palm.

  “Come on, man, we don’t need any fucking trouble here.”

  “Ain’t gonna be no trouble. Just show us into the dining room so we can meet with your boss. I know she eats her dinner early.”

  “She does.”

  The muscley, half-naked maitre d’ leads us into the dining room. Several other cowboys are eating there and each of them glares at Jones and Reiko, in fact it looks like nobody BUT greasy half-naked cowboys and a couple guys dressed as Zorro eat here. The dining room is full of mumbling and quiet exchanges as we’re lead to a table where the wartiest most disgusting woman I’ve ever seen with the worst crewcut I’ve ever seen is eating the juiciest looking steak I’ve ever seen. The steak looks delicious enough that I’m still hungry after looking at her greasy, spotty wrinkled face.

  “Ms. Burkett, it’s been…” Jones begins before he’s cut off.

  “Is this restaurant in Connecticut, Mr. Jones?”

  “We’re here…”

  She reaches under the table for a pistol and with speed that’s quite surprising for a fat, greasy toad like her; she shoves it into Jones’ face.

  “I would like you to answer my question.”

  “No,” Jones replies, “this is not Connecticut.”

  “And what did the Pimpkings vote three years ago?”

  “I’m here to…”

  “Mr. Jones, answer my question or I’ll put a hole in your head. That is, if it isn’t already hollow, which by coming here, you convince me it is.”

  “The Pimpkings said to stay in Connecticut and off of their turf.”

  “Am I not one of the seven Pimpkings, Mr. Jones?”

  “You are.”

  It might be a cliché to say that Reiko moves like greased lightning. It would also be an understatement. In the blink of an eye, she has shoved Jones out of the way and stepped on top of the table, pressing her katana to Meghan’s throat. I can’t help but let my mind drift to the incredible things this woman must be capable of when plying her other trade for Jones. But, I leave behind thoughts of sexual acrobatics, when it occurs to me that it would best to fall back and duck under a table, which Jones is already doing. Good thing, because a room full of oily cowboy gigolos and a couple of guys dressed like Zorro jump to their feet. Apparently, there is an unwritten social contract that everyone even remotely close to Jeremy has signed up for a life of harassment by costumed idiots. Then again, everyone in this society has signed up for a life of harassment by costumed idiots.

  Reiko drops from the table right when the bullets start flying. A Zorro lunges at her with his rapier. She lops his arm off, picks it up in her other hand and smacks him in the face with it. Not one of the cowboys gets in a shot on her. She dodges, she weaves and she deflects flying bullets with the Zorro’s severed arm. She comes in close, trading in the Zorro’s bullet ridden arm for a fresh cowboy arm. His pistol drops as it is severed. I look at the cowboy’s gun on the floor and consider picking it up. Then I remember the dozen other greased up gun-toting hooligans. Maybe I’m better off just watching this one. And it’s well worth watching. Reiko leaps, flips and slashes her way across the room. I thank my interest in Reap for the mental endurance to witness this bloodbath without being sick.

  When all the cowboys are disposed of, Reiko returns to her place on top of Meaghan’s table. Jones rises to his feet.

  “My martial arts killing machine, has done her business, Miss Burkett. You might be a Pimpking, but your life is at stake. We came here, violating the edicts of the Pimpkings, so the young lady here can ask you a question.”

  I walk over several dead cowboys so I can get close enough to look her in the eye. It’s a shame that I do, because that face does not reward me for the effort.

  “I need to know about Nathaniel Gilman and Bobby Greer.”

  “Gilman was one of mine. Greer was a friend of his. Greer wasn’t really one of mine, but he didn’t turn down a job when I could get him one. I got him “discovered” for a couple of his extra roles. Thursday night, that little fucker and five others like him quit on me. Said they got a real good audition, said some guy with network connections was gonna make ‘em famous. Also said the heat was getting to be too much. Little fuckers talk a lot, I’ll tell ya. Say they’re all goin’ away. I call Greer, tryin’ to offer him a permanent position, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s gone too. No more actors. Of course, it’s
hard for me not to hire actors. Every kid in his twenties who’s willing to take a load in his mouth thinks he’s an actor. Then again, most of ‘em aren’t even gay, so I guess you could say that’s pretty good acting.”

  “I’d say so.” Another prospect strikes me and I rattle off the names from the wallet. She responds to each one of the names with a nod.

  “What, you psychic? Where do you get all those names? Guess it doesn’t matter cause they all disappeared anyway. Then, they went and had the nerve to take a few of my clients with them. Pisses me off cause one of these guys, Ambrose, got a shitload of dough from his daddy and likes to do parties. Brings four or five people with him each time. I think he skipped the country with one of those goddamn little ingrates. Little shits vanish on me, then cause they disappear and somebody needs to know somethin’, my place is wrecked in a ninja fight. No fuckin’ justice anywhere, I’ll tell ya.””

  It does not take me long to divide fifteen by seven and come out with two apiece with a remainder of one. Henslowe, Ambrose a few of his friends and a bunch of other Johns that might have had reason to disappear or off themselves went with them. It doesn’t seem likely that they’re all going to Jamaica for some big pleasure cruise. While I appreciate her grumbling, I’m certain it will resolve itself.

  I get in the red limo.

  “Well,” says Jones, “if you keep your part of our agreement, I believe we’re done for now. Anywhere you need to go?”

  “Nearest payphone.”

  The nearest payphone is surprisingly close.

  “Have a nice day, Miss Flynn. Inscrutability Jones is always glad to help out a fine lady and carve out a little bit of revenge on the Pimpkings.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “But remember…”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  The red limo drives off. I feel sort of guilty, but in spite of all he’s done for me, I’m certain I won’t tell Jeremy.

  “I’ve got it. I’ve got a clear picture of all of this.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy answers, “Walter Hausmann killed all these male prostitute actors and a bunch of Johns.”