One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ Sit tight, I suppose.’

  Myrna slid down her seat, reclined it and closed her eyes.

  Jimmy watched all the occupants of the limo, with the exception of the driver, get out and go into what was probably once a shop with a couple of floors above which could have been storerooms, offices or apartments. The shop at ground floor, with a massive plate-glass window white-washed from the inside, seemed to be derelict.

  Jimmy reported there was definitely a light on at both ground-floor and first-floor level.

  To Kruger it sounded like it could be some kind of illegal gambling joint, but he had heard lots of things about Bussola from his time as a cop and never was there a whisper of gambling. Everything else imaginable in the criminal line, but not gambling.

  Still, you never could tell. Money was money to people like Bussola and where it came from was immaterial.

  ‘ Update,’ Kruger snapped into his radio. It had been a good thirty seconds since Jimmy had finished speaking and Kruger was getting crabby.

  ‘ Very little going on… hang fire, the limo’s pulling away without our man. He could be settled here for a while.’

  ‘ Is there much other traffic?’

  ‘ Naw — quiet as a grave.’

  ‘ Pedestrians?’

  ‘ Nope.’

  ‘ Anything else?’ Kruger said desperately.

  ‘ An all-night drugstore at the end of the block.’

  ‘ Dale — did you receive that?’ Kruger asked the other Armstrong brother.

  ‘ Affirmative.’

  ‘ Go check the place over, will ya? See if you can find out anything — discreetly, of course. Treat yourself to a packet of Jiffs while you’re in there. Put ‘em down to expenses.’

  ‘ Roger. I need to renew my supply… the last ones I bought have gone right past their “best before” date.’

  Kruger and Myrna chuckled.

  A few seconds later, Dale’s car cruised slowly past. Kruger settled back to wait for an update.

  Five minutes later Dale was back on the air.

  ‘ The guy from the drugstore thinks it’s a telephone sales place now. Used to be a barber shop. Closed down about eighteen months ago. Guy didn’t have anything else to say voluntarily. I got the impression he knows who owns the place and he ain’t too happy about divulging. And I’ve walked past and tried the front door. Locked.’

  ‘ Idiot,’ Kruger said to Myrna before replying over the radio to Dale. ‘Received and understood. Now you pull outta there and don’t try any more stunts.’

  Dale acknowledged.

  Kruger was puzzled. ‘Telephone sales?’ he said with disbelief. He looked thoughtfully at Myrna. ‘Telephone sales at this time-a day?’

  She shrugged… and something dawned on Kruger. He sat bolt upright and thumped the dash triumphantly. ‘Not tele-sales — tele-sex! Let’s check it out. I’m intrigued.’

  Tracey was hot stuff. She was one of the favourites on the sex-line. This was because of her northern English accent, now so familiar to millions of Americans through the medium of the sit-corn F rasier and the character of Daphne, whose dubious vowels are supposed to originate in Manchester.

  Tracey was in constant demand from a stream of men who happily jerked themselves off with the assistance of her voice, a telephone and whatever aids they had available.

  She had just finished a particularly horrible call with one of her regulars who purported to be a Texan billionaire. He was on the line every night and if he was calling from Houston, as he claimed, it would be costing him a fortune… which, of course, was the whole idea, with Bussola and the phone company splitting the revenue.

  Easy money. Big profits.

  ‘ Keep ‘ em on the line!’ one poster proclaimed on the wall in front of Tracey.

  ‘ Premature ejaculations we don’t need!’ said another.

  And Tracey kept the Texan on the line. Right from the moment she allowed him to rip her clothes off, unpack the whip and vibrator and gently eased the latter up her ass. Thirty-five minutes later, as decreed by the customer, Tracey changed her mind about sex and entered the ‘rape’ phase where the Texan beat up on her — and still managed to make her come at the same time as he did. Except that he really did come all over his belly and she faked a multiple orgasm whilst at the same time chewing on a slice of pepperoni pizza.

  She slammed the phone down, closed her eyes wearily and sniffed up through her cocaine-damaged nostrils.

  A line of lights flashed on her little switchboard, demanding her attention. She frowned and ignored them, leaning back in her telephonist’s chair and glancing down the row of booths. There were a dozen in all, each one soundproofed from its neighbours, around the walls of the former barbershop which still smelled of hairspray.

  Each booth was occupied by an experienced sex-telephonist busy handling calls. Leaning a little further back, Tracey could hear some of the things going on. Grunts, panting, screams of pain and passion, loving whispers, sexual demands. The noises were like the combination of a zoo and a blue-movie soundtrack.

  The telephonists — two male, the remainder female — came from a range of backgrounds, each with their own personal reason for being there, not least of which for all of them was that they were paid tax-free. There were single mothers, supermarket cashiers, a former prostitute with a tongue of silk, and a couple of out-of-work actors trying to make ends meet whilst ‘resting’.

  And they were all good at sextalk: chat which could make the customer — always a man — ejaculate whilst imagining a vivid sexy scenario. They could ad lib at will, immediately adopting the role required by the caller, always giving their best shot.

  ‘ Answer yer fuckin’ lines,’ Tracey’s earphones informed her.

  She looked over her shoulder and shot a sneering glance at the supervisor who was sitting behind a large switchboard on a small raised dais at the back of the room. From there, the supervisor could dip into all the workers’ calls, keeping a check by listening in… and also being able to tell when a telephonist wasn’t working.

  And work they did. This was no easy option. It was draining, emotional toil. Twelve-hour stints. Continuous, consecutive calls. Constantly talking and listening to the weirdest fantasies imaginable and having the ability and imagination to match them. It was beginning to take its toll on Tracey that night as she suddenly found she needed the lift which only one thing could give her.

  Bitch, she thought. She gave the supervisor a one-digit salute, ensuring she didn’t see it, of course. She ripped the headset off and stood up. ‘I need a piss,’ she announced and picked up her purse.

  At that moment the front door opened.

  Bussola, his two meat-head bodyguards and the other guy came in. They walked straight inside, completely ignoring the telephonists, went through a door at the back, down a short corridor and up the stairs beyond.

  One of the bodyguards stayed at the door and sat down in a plastic chair.

  Tracey watched the entrance of the men, completely astounded. She shook her head, hardly able to believe who had just walked through the door.

  Two people she thought she would never see again.

  Bussola and the man accompanying him.

  Charlie Gilbert.

  Charlie Fucking Gilbert.

  The man she had once trusted. The man who had promised her the earth. Her guts coiled with the hatred she harboured for him.

  Because look where she had ended up. At the age of nineteen she was working on a sex-chatline, verbally masturbating guys over the telephone wires.

  Tracey walked numbly towards the seated bodyguard. He looked tiredly at her and stood up as she approached the door through which his boss had just gone.

  ‘ Where ya goin’, girl?’

  ‘ I need to pee,’ she said truthfully. ‘The toilet’s through there.’ It was — down along the ground-floor hallway, last door on the right.

  The bodyguard raised his big square chin and dark bushy eyebrows in a kind of ackn
owledgement and nodded slightly. His eyes bore down the length of his broken nose. ‘How much d’ya cost, babe?’

  ‘ I’m too fuckin’ expensive for you, ya greasy dago,’ she responded, and tried to push past him. He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly towards him, raising her up onto tiptoe so that her belly was at his groin level. He was already hard. She could feel it through her clothes.

  ‘ Don’t push your luck, babe. If I want you, I have you.’ His breath was enhanced by garlic.

  Tracey uttered a short laugh of contempt, even though she was fully aware that she was very close to annoying him. Her eyes traversed slowly down to his hand, the big fat fingers squeezing like a vice around her bicep. ‘Let go.’

  He eased his grip slowly. His mouth was open and his nostrils were dilating. Long hairs grew out of them. His ears also sprouted a bushy forest. He had blackheads on his nose and around his mouth. Specks of perspiration were dotted all over his face.

  All these things Tracey saw as she regained her proper footing.

  All these things made her cringe and find him utterly repulsive.

  She edged past, through the door.

  ‘ And don’t go upstairs,’ he told her. ‘Or else.’

  Kruger looked down at the object he held between his left forefinger and thumb.

  It resembled a doll’s eye with a sty in one corner of it and was surrounded by a rubber sucker rather like the tip of a kid’s arrow, though it was half the diameter. In his right hand was a palm-sized portable TV which he flicked on. The tiny screen, four centimetres square, was fuzzy for a few moments then gradually cleared and came into focus, giving him a dear, monochrome, slug’s-eye view of the underside of his chin and his nostrils, transmitted from the lens he was holding in his fingers.

  He pointed the lens towards a shop doorway and saw that image reproduced on the screen. Kruger was impressed. He could see why this was one of his top selling lines. It was like having an extra eye on the end of your fingers.

  He was standing at the rear of the comms van which was parked in a quiet street. Myrna and Dale stood next to him. Kelly was in the van, the back doors being open. She peered over Kruger’s shoulder, looking at the tiny TV.

  ‘ Excellent,’ she said. ‘The lens has a powerful night intensifier built into it which self-focuses and adjusts to the available light. There’s a mike fitted in the lens too which can give pretty good results, even through glass.’

  Kruger nodded approvingly. He was not sure if there would be any call to use the surveillance kit tonight, but decided to take it along just in case. ‘Are you receiving okay?’ he asked Kelly.

  She turned into the van, switched on a monitor, made a couple of minor adjustments and the screen blinked into life. She saw exactly what Kruger saw on the mini screen. ‘Yep — no probs.’

  Kruger looked at Myrna and Dale.

  Like himself, they had changed into more appropriate clothing for the little foray ahead, having ditched their party gear for all black — jeans, T-shirts, jackets and sneakers which had been kept ready in the van for such an eventuality. ‘We play it by ear — literally,’ Kruger said. ‘We don’t know what the hell’s going on there. They could just be playing cards. We’ll leave Jimmy watching the front. Myself and Myrna will go to the rear of the property to see if there is any way of getting a view inside. Dale, you be our lookout, okay?’

  Both nodded.

  Myrna was now raring to go, having got her second wind.

  ‘ Anybody any further suggestions?’ Kruger asked.

  They shook their heads.

  ‘ Let’s go then — and take care.’ He picked a set of aluminium extending ladders which were part of the van’s equipment store and hauled them over his shoulder.

  Tracey took her time in the restroom. Her mind was in complete turmoil. She had never expected to see either of the two men again, particularly Gilbert. He had conned and tricked her, and used and ultimately abused her, then discarded her into the clutches of people who did it all over again. It was only through her strength of character that she had risen from the gutter to her present position — on the kerb of the sidewalk. But at least it was upwards.

  She finished peeing and washed her hands carefully, soaping them thoroughly whilst she continued to think about Charlie Gilbert in particular.

  She looked up from her hands and caught sight of her reflection in the cracked, dirty mirror above the washstand. She closed her eyes quickly, not wishing to see the ragged reflection of someone who had been a drug abuser from the age of thirteen. The skin sagging off the bone, sunken eyes, dried-up, wrinkled lips.

  The reflection of a drug addict who had not yet died, but would do so, in the not-too-distant future. She opened her eyes and sneered at herself, briefly able to see the discoloured gums in her mouth.

  She sniffed and blew her leaking nose on a paper towel. Above her was the sound of clumping feet moving about.

  Her watery eyes rose towards the ceiling.

  The alleyway behind the shops was pitch black. Briefly Kruger regretted not taking Kelly up on her offer of night-vision goggles. However, he took his time, allowed his eyes to adjust and used the night-eye in his fingers to assist himself and Myrna as they walked down the alley, monitoring their progress on the tiny TV screen.

  She stayed at his shoulder, a cool hand gripping his bicep.

  The extension ladders hung off his other shoulder.

  He led the way without incident to the rear of Bussola’s place.

  The building was pretty much as Kruger expected it to be, making him glad he’d brought the steps. This was a high-crime neighbourhood and the rear of the disused shop was boarded up with sheet steel, riveted for the rest of time — or until demolition — into the brickwork.

  Fortunately, the first-floor windows were just that — windows. There were two, quite large, both with drapes drawn across and lights on behind, indicating occupation. Running below the windows was a metallic catwalk which formed part of the fire escape. The folding ladders which were an intrinsic part of the escape were secured at that level, out of reach from below.

  Kruger swung the set of ladders off his shoulders and gently leaned them against the shop wall. He gazed upwards at the underside of the fire escape. Slowly, quietly, he eased out the ladder extension.

  The rubber tips of the ladders rested on the outer edge of the fire escape.

  ‘ Hold ‘em tight,’ he whispered to Myrna. He slid the night-eye and TV into his pocket and started to climb, rung by careful rung. When he was almost at the top, he hoisted himself onto the fire escape and dropped silently onto the catwalk.

  He reached through the rails and held the top of the ladders as Myrna ascended.

  She came up nimbly, leapt over the rail and landed next to Kruger, crouching down without a sound. Kruger relayed their progress to the team via the radio, whispering his message.

  The two of them shuffled along the catwalk on all fours towards the first window. They stopped underneath it and listened. No noise emanated from inside; nothing seemed to be going on. Kruger took a chance. He eased himself up and tried to see in by way of a minute crack down the edge of the drapes. He saw nothing. He sidled along to the centre of the window and peered in through the small aperture where the drapes hadn’t quite met.

  Instinctively he dropped back down.

  ‘ One of Bussola’s bodyguards,’ he whispered to Myrna. ‘He’s sitting reading. I couldn’t see anything else.’

  Myrna helped herself to a quick look, confirming Kruger’s observation. The guy was reading a hard-core porn magazine.

  Kruger pointed to the next window, some ten feet along the catwalk. Myrna nodded. Again on hands and knees they set off. Myrna stayed right up Kruger’s ass and almost kissed it when he suddenly stopped in front of her and rose to listen at the next window.

  This time he could clearly hear voices.

  He could not see into the room, but there was a crack of light where the drapes met carelessly in the
middle and the possibility of a view. This time, instead of chancing a look for himself, he reached up, using his hand rather like a periscope, and pointed the night eye into the room.

  What he saw on the TV screen nearly made him fall off the fire escape.

  Although the most common method of using cocaine is by snorting, it is alleged that the subsequent rush is not quite as intense as that produced by mainlining. But Tracey knew that if the purity of the drug was high enough, the buzz was just as good.

  The coke she used that night was first class.

  She opened her purse, unzipped the small inside pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill she had already prepared. It was rolled up tight as a straw, both ends expertly folded over after the required’ amount of the finely grained white powder had been sifted inside the tube.

  With extreme caution, Tracey unfolded one end of the note and inserted this end into her left nostril. She closed the other nostril with her thumb to bring about better suction.

  She tilted her head back and snorted.

  Immediately her nostril froze up, showing just how pure the stuff was. Before the real buzz hit her, she quickly shoved the note up her other nostril and sniffed up the remainder of the coke from the tube, instantly freezing that one too.

  She gritted her teeth as tiny particles of the drug were taken down her passages to her throat; other particles of it were transported by the small capillaries in the mucus membrane and delivered speedily and efficiently to her brain.

  The rush slammed into her seconds later. Like an express train smashing into her cranium.

  She staggered, dropped the twenty-dollar bill and grabbed the wash-stand to steady herself.

  Her eyes rose to her reflection. She no longer saw the scrawny, drug-abused female; instead there was a transformation. She was beautiful again. Full of confidence and sass, raring to confront Charlie Gilbert and Mario Bussola. The two men who had promised so much and given so little.

  Kruger angled the TV screen in the palm of his hand to enable Myrna to see the picture properly.

  She stared down at the tiny set. Horrified, her face creased into a mask of anger. She looked quickly at Kruger. ‘The bastards,’ she uttered. ‘What are we going to do?’