The White Flamingo

by James A. Newman

  “This morning, Vern. Think.”

  Vern drank the rest of his beer in two long hits. Waves of relief flooded his face. Tensions eased and then tightened. Facial muscles twisted into an ugly stoat grimace. He threw the empty can onto the sands where it landed next to a broken coconut shell and an abandoned flip-flop. It was the right, so the Detective guessed it was a flop. Fun City beach was full of them. Flops.

  “Vern. The woman on the table was real. It was no hallucination. It happened. I saw it myself. Who would do something like that?”

  “I tell you who – Jack the fucking Ripper.” The old man stared out to sea. “Thinking,” he said. He remained silent for a long time. “Francis, ya bastard, I think better after the fifth or the sixth. I had a case in London…”

  “Who’s Francis?”

  “The vampire.”

  “There’re no vampires, Vern. This work was done by a real person, somebody who drinks in the bars.”

  Hale sat on the pier. He had five cans left. He opened one and drank from it. The second one he gave to Vern. Vern cracked it open and drank long and deep. Killed half the can, quarter of a litre, in one long bite. “She used to laugh at me. She would flash her tits at me. I’m glad the whore is dead,” Vern said. “Deserved it if you ask me. Thought she was better than me she did. Harlot, ‘king slag.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I woke up. You know what it’s like. The fear. The voices. The day is one long insult. A storm. I need to get the first drink down while I can still move, cos’ if I wait too long, the voices make it too difficult to think, to move. I hear voices, see? Always have. I walked in the bar, I didn’t look at the pool table, I headed to the jug. Voices everywhere. The juice. I see things too, see? Slim collects the slops every night. Pours them in the jug. I drink it down and then feel better. I never feel good, you know. Just different shades of shit. Fifty shades of shit, hahahahaha. Lost my wife. Fucking blood suckers. There’s a conference inside my head, you know? All these different voices shouting and screaming to be heard above each other. The first pint quietens them down.” Vern necked the rest of the can. Hale passed him another and he opened it. “Quietens them down a little and then… a stop watch, a clock ticking. The only real escape is sleep. The voices never stop. Sleep. That and oblivion. Yes. I saw her face first. I thought she was sleeping on the table. Some whores do, see? Then I thought she was playing a joke. Perhaps it was Halloween. Claret everywhere. They all knew I came in the bar in the morning. They knew about the case back in London. Left the squad, I did, compassionate leave. They had thought up the joke together to make me frightened. Then I thought that it was the booze, see. That there was nothing on the table. It was all inside my head, see? The mind plays tricks. Tries to make you see things. I poured a glass of rum and drank it. Jim was there. She was still there. She wasn’t going anywhere. I heard a toilet flush and Jim was there. He said that there had been a murder. He said she was a whore, but I knew it, I recognized her. I wasn’t sorry that she was dead. I was glad. I was confused. Happy if the truth be told.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I drank the beer.”

  “After that?”

  “Jim gave me a shot and I drank it.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ve been here ever since. I sat on the road for a while, up there,” Vern gestured with his head toward the beach road. “The tourists give me enough to get by. A German gave me a purple note, I hit the seven, the beach, drank, slept, and then you came. That’s it. That’s all there ever is. This. The truth is, I like it, see? There’s no mortgage here, no car to run, no job, this is real. You see? Real. I thought about the monastery, but there’s no drinking there. I tried going without the bottle, but it sent me mad. What hope do you have here sober?”

  “Thanks, Vern. Joe, let’s leave,” Hale said.

  They stood. Hale handed Vern two bills. He looked at them and put them in his pocket.

  “Vern,” The Detective said, crouching eye level. “There’s a meeting. AA. If I take you, will you just promise to sit and listen? You were the first one on the scene. Maybe when the fog clears, you can remember it.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Vern, you give me seventy-two hours sobriety and I’ll give you whatever you need.”

  “Including booze?”

  “Yeah. If that’s what you want, I’ll buy you beer every-day. You just have to give me seventy-two hours.”

  “Who says I got that long?”

  “Nobody.”

  TWENTY

  BEACH ROAD.

  “Sad story,” the Detective said.

  “The part about ex-Old Bill is true. He had a case that scrambled up his noodle.” Hale’s forefinger raised to his temple where it made a circular motion.

  “I believe it.”

  “What about Bell?” Hale asked.

  “I believe the kid, Sebastian. Tammy was called by someone an hour or two before she died. Whoever made that call, most likely killed her.”

  “The boy isn’t right.”

  “I agree. But he didn’t kill her or Lucky. The answer to this puzzle is inside Tammy’s mobile. If the police have the telephone, then they have the killer. Whoever sent that last message. Of course, the killer should have removed the telephone, taken it to pieces, and thrown it far away at sea. But you never know,” Joe looked out towards the harbour, a fishing boat, blue and green, returning to port.

  “Perhaps there is a record, somewhere. I knew some geezer got caught out cheating on his missus. She got in touch with the phone company and they threw her a list of numbers called and received by her fella’s phone. One of the numbers he had called was the girl he was shafting. Phillipino chick used to sing at the Hard Rock hotel. He’d deleted the history and everything. The bitch still caught him with his pants down. An injustice if you ask me. Shame we don’t know anyone that had her number.”

  “Maybe. One thing is certain. The killer will strike again and the next time he strikes, there’ll be two killed in quick succession,” Dylan said as he gazed across the beach.

  “Okay, Sherlock, just how do you know that?”

  “I’ll tell you. But first, I need a drink. A real drink. One that comes in a glass and not in a can.” The Detective smiled. “Maybe even an umbrella and one of those twizzle sticks.”

  The train was leaving the station.

  The joint had a sea-view and about thirty tables evenly spaced atop wooden decking. A few tables were occupied with drunken tourists and hopeful hookers. A man with long curly hair and a roman nose sat at a table staring out to sea. The sky a dull pink, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The Detective thought about the train wreck. The cigarette. The whore. And now the glass.

  He ordered a Bloody Mary.

  The glass.

  How good it looked.

  Umbrella.

  Cocktail stick.

  “Good to be back,” he said.

  “Good to have you back.”

  He hit it down in one. He ordered another. Another glass. They sat down at a table looking at the sunset. The Detective smiled. The bitter taste of the tomato, the reassuring bite of the vodka. He was on the train and pulling away from the station, he felt better than he had in years. Since the last train.

  The last wreck.

  Bloody Mary.

  The Detective tapped a finger on Hale’s wrist. Hale spun as if he had been bitten by a snake. “Didn’t know that you actually touched people. This is almost friendship.” Hale waved a hand towards the bar. “Two more drinks for the Detective. I think he may be human after all. A pulse has been found!”

  “Shut it, Hale. I’m going to start with a history lesson. Your job is to listen. I know you find it difficult, but listen good. London. 1888. Whitechapel. A port town slum. Much like Fun City but without the fun. Hookers on every corner. Horny sailors purchasing their diabolical wares. It was not a nice place and not a nice time to be there. Infant mortality. Workhouses
. Life expectancy of a short and brutal kind. It is commonly known that the Whitechapel murders were five in number. The killer killed the third and fourth victims on the same night. Do you know who the Whitechapel killer was?”

  The sky darkened as a gaggle of four street transvestites called out to passing tourists. The tourists hurried on, heads down, hands in pockets.

  “Jack the Ripper?” Hale said.

  “Precisely.” The new drinks arrived and the Detective set about his. He picked up the glass gracefully, put it to his lips, and drank. “This is a copycat killing. A copycat killing in the tropics. I shouldn’t be drinking. I made a promise.”

  “You keep making promises.”

  “I keep breaking them.”

  “The way I see it, promises are made to be broken.”

  “I seem to think better when I drink. At least at first,” Joe took a bite and gazed out across the sea.

  “What’s the connection, Sherlock? That they were prostitutes? That two have been killed? That you think that there may be more killed? Come on, Mr Detective, this is the 21st century.”

  “It was the mutilations, Hale. I’ve seen some of those old photographs and what Jack did and what this bastard did, has, how shall I say, the hallmarks of the same handiwork. The diagram on the body carved with a knife clinched it.”

  “Motive?”

  “Well, Jack had no motive. Just speculation. Some say he was a rich whoremonger who went east to get what he couldn’t get west.”

  “Like our friend here,” Hale smiled.

  “His sport was what he enjoyed. Sport being the old word for whoring. The excitement. Some say that he was crippled from syphilis and he took his illness out on the whores that gave it to him. Fewer still, speculate that Jack was a black magic occultist who murdered the women on the specific points of a map and took body parts to make satanic candles. Once all murders had taken place and the candles made, he became immortal. Whatever his intensions, we know that they were unhealthy, and I get the same feeling about our little friend out here.”

  “You don’t think, Sherlock, that your imagination is running away with you on this one?”

  “It’s not a thought, Hale. More of an impulse, instinct. An idea with wings. To understand something intellectually is one thing. To understand it spiritually is another. I need a map of Fun City and I need a pen. I need these things soon, Hale. Get them for me,” The Detective said. “In the meantime, I am going to visit Mrs Bell.”

  “You like her don’t you?” Hale said.

  “I like her money. If it’s real. We have to eat.”

  “And drink.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  TAYLOR MADE the walk to the harbour. The sun hurt his eyes and the traffic noise was overwhelming. He took quick, unsteady steps, stopping once at a small shop where he bought a can of beer and drank it. His mood improved and his anxiety level decreased as he walked further, making it to a beachfront bar, where he ordered two beers, sat, drank, and watched the tourists walk past. Their eyes, some of them, were accusing and predatory. Some of them were dull and underwater like. Some were full of the joys of love. An eastern European couple ate ice creams and whispered romantic words to each other as they sat on the beach, not a care in the world, not a murderer in sight. As he watched a lone swimmer far away from the shore, his mind drifted back to the last night they had spent together.

  The restaurant was dimly lit with Chinese lanterns. Dancing dragons decorated the four walls. They were celebrating the publication of Taylor’s first short story, a story about a boy who disappeared while playing chequers. The boy had magical powers; he was special. Taylor had studied all he could on telekinetic phenomenon, condensing the material into the story idea. The story had come to him in a dream and fully formed. Taylor had dedicated the piece to Jimmy.

  “So, now you are a big shot writer,” Faith joked, “do you still have time to talk with me?”

  “The magazine paid twenty-five dollars. Don’t think I’ll give up the day job.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said picking up a spring roll and biting a piece from it.

  “It’s a start,” he said.

  “Malcolm, do you love me?” Her eyes widened.

  Taylor remembers what he said. It was: “Love is a madness, a psychotic condition that can make a human being capable of anything, and not usually anything good.”

  “Oh,” she replied, heartbroken.

  “It’s true…” he had stumbled on like a bull in a china shop.

  Why couldn’t he have simply said ‘yes’ or ‘of course I do’, or anything but that spill about madness. She was already mad, he loved her, and he loved her madness. If she wasn’t mad, then she wouldn’t have been with him. Madly in love. Why couldn’t he have just said ‘yes?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  A WAITRESS awoke him from the daydream. “One more drink, sir?”

  “Sure,” why not. Taylor noticed a drunken homeless man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and tatty shorts speaking with two foreigners. He watched as they gave the derelict man cans of beer and listened to him speak, and then the two of them wandered off towards the bar. The drunk sat drinking the beer in the distance, watching the tourists walk along the beach road. Taylor had heard that he had once been a London police officer. That he had come to Fun City to drink himself to death. Well, a man had his choices to do anything, and normally those choices, left unchecked, led to darkness and descent.

  The two men took a table two away from Taylor’s and ordered cocktails. The main speaker was a man who Taylor took to be Joe Dylan, private detective. Taylor listened to the conversation, mentally making notes and comparing the story with his own. Either they were both crazy, or they were both reading from the same hymn sheet. He watched the detective stand and put a bill on the table, while the other man sat and ordered another drink, then watching the sun disappear behind the coastline.

  His thoughts turned to Faith, to Jimmy, and then to the long walk home.

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE HOUSE stood on a hill overlooking the beach, the town, and the harbour. Electric lights, both neon and orange, twinkled in the night skyline below. The Detective walked along the crushed shell driveway. A pond with a wall built around it. There may have been fish, but it was too dark to see. He guessed that there were at least fifteen rooms inside that house, and perhaps as many fish inside the pond. Most of the rooms were probably furnished with the kind of furnishings that were made in Sweden and sold to the upwardly mobile. Maybe a few paintings, sculptures, and figurines that appreciate in the buyer’s mind, rather than the actual market. These fixtures and fittings the rich clung to with one hand, while mocking the ground below with the other, like a proud gibbon at the top of the tree in all its glorious, posturing, cock-swinging, ass-scratching magnificence.

  Constructed from cheap local block, the house on the hill was pained a brilliant white. He walked along the U-shaped driveway to the front and peeked at the backyard beyond. A kidney shaped swimming pool and a pair of sun loungers. A few plants and a coconut palm.

  Two plastic flamingos and a concrete giraffe.

  He walked up to the entrance and rang a bell. A dog barked and a light switched on inside. He waited ten barks. The front door opened. She was prettier in the dark. Most women were, and most men certainly were. Yet, there was something in the way that she held the door ajar. Something suggestive, provocative even. Hell, he didn’t know what it was. Perhaps it was the booze inside his body and the booze inside her glass that made stepping into the cougar’s den like floating into an adolescent’s wet dream.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Dylan. Please step inside,” she smiled warmly. A cocker spaniel sat beside her and looked at Joe with its head slanted. The dog looked like it wanted something that the Detective wasn’t prepared to give.

  To hell with the dog.

  Marble floor tiles and white walls. He followed her through the hallway and into the living room. Floor to ceiling windows with a view over
the beach. Neon lights flickered from the main walking street. A few boats lit up far away from shore. Gambling ships, perhaps, after hours floating gin palaces. The pier looked good. Safe, even. The room was sparsely furnished with two sofas placed far away enough from each other to allow for social gatherings, tense enough to be aborted early. A flat screen television hung from the wall as a piece of decoration rather than a functional utility. With a view like that, television seemed both crude and surplus. A risqué surrealist painting by a modern American artist hung to one side of the wall-mounted television. He recalled an invite to a show that the artist had held in the capital. The price tag was a cool ten thousand. He had shared a glass of Chilean red with the ambassador of Bhutan. Spoke with the defence secretary. The Detective guessed that she had it on a long-term lease. The house that was. There was a bookshelf with a few crime novels by local authors, and bestsellers by writers who had never put a foot in Fun City. A pot plant close to exhaustion, thirst, and hunger, withered next to a wooden carving of an elephant. The room had probably been designed by a limp-wristed interior designer who chartered his creative mind by the hour. No matter who put it together, wealth filled every nook and cranny of the room with the typical haze of neglect and abandon, characteristic of the insecure rich.

  “Nice place,” the Detective said.

  “It does one well from time to time, to have a view. Do you like it, really? We are only here for a few weeks every year. I have a business here, but it more or less looks after itself nowadays. The rest of the portfolio’s in London.”

  “The view is fantastic, Mrs Bell. I have only ever lived street level. A nice view for me is a streetlight. Close up, a streetlight is a work of art.”

  “Sounds like you’ve lived in the gutter, Mr. Dylan.”

  “I’m staring at the stars.”

  “Somebody famous said that.”

  “Oscar Wilde.”