by Logan May
‘Really? You don’t look like a spiritual kind of guy.’ She gave him a friendly, sideways look.
‘Trust me, I’m a believer.’ Come for a walk and I’ll show you a very spiritual Eddy hanging from a rope. You’ll love it.
‘Then you’re in the right place. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?’
Your phone number and I want to personally congratulate whoever sold you that tee-shirt. ‘Not really, just browsing for anything I don’t already have.’
‘My, a true believer.’ She leaned close and whispered, ‘To be honest, a lot of this stuff is just junk for the tourists.’
Lukas whispered back, ‘I know, but if you don’t tell anyone, then I won’t.’
‘That’s a deal.’ She shook his hand, holding on a fraction longer than necessary. ‘My name is Carrie.’
‘Lukas.’ He sensed the phone number had just gotten closer. ‘Hey, can I ask you something else?’
‘As long as I don’t have to answer, if I don’t want to.’
‘Do you have much to do with Windhall Holdings? The people who own this place?’
Carrie regarded him a moment. ‘So you’re really interested in the occult, but suddenly you’re asking me that?’
‘Really, I am. I’m working with Windhall on another thing and I noticed they’re the property owners here. Pure coincidence, but I’m curious what they’re like to deal with, that’s all.’ Lukas put on The Smile.
‘My, haven’t we practised that in the mirror for hours?’ Carrie said. ‘For what it’s worth, I’ll tell you that I pay them rent and they do next to nothing in return.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning maintenance, fixing stuff... there’s busted crap around here like plumbing and power outlets that are downright dangerous, but Windhall do nothing about it.’
‘That’s very good to know Carrie, thank you.’ Lukas gave her a small bow. ‘Hey, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having a drink sometime... maybe dinner?’ Lukas tried his lop-sided grin instead.
‘And go back to your place afterwards? So I can see your collection of spirit world artifacts?’
This was a problem. The only spiritual thing Lukas had in his apartment was a bottle of twenty-year old whiskey. Still, these bridges were best crossed when you came to them. ‘Well, only if you’d like to,’ he shrugged as if he didn’t care.
Carrie sighed at the attempt. ‘I suppose that depends on how much you spend in my shop. I have a special rewards program for big spenders who are honestly interested in the spiritual world.’
Was that a wink, or something in her eye?
‘Of course, that makes sense,’ Lukas said, trapped and looking around. ‘But you said yourself, most of this stuff is rubbish.’
With a funny smile Carrie said, ‘Maybe I’ve got something out the back which will interest you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Wait here a moment.’
‘Oh... okay.’
She disappeared through a curtain. A moment later he heard a soft scream and Carrie saying, ‘Oh my God!’
Lukas thought, Jesus, the ol’ damsel in distress move. That’s okay with me. He said loudly, ‘What’s wrong? Hang on, I’m coming.’
It wasn’t worth pulling the Glock. Carrying a gun might completely spoil his already tenuous reputation for being in touch with his inner self. Empty-handed, Lukas rushed through the curtain as threateningly as he could.
The back area was narrow and crowded with empty cartons, overflowing shelves and a tiny kitchen space with a refrigerator and kettle. Carrie stood frozen, her hands to her face in shock. On the wall in front of her an untidy, bloody mess had been pinned to the wall with a kitchen knife.
It was a small, headless chicken. Blood ran down the paintwork.
‘What the hell is that?’ Lukas said, moving closer to look.
‘It’s a curse,’ Carrie said quietly, her voice shaking.
‘It certainly was for the chicken. Is this what you were going to show me?’
‘Of course not. I was getting my phone to give you my number. I know you don’t give a damn about anything spiritual.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, but I’ll explain later,’ Lukas said, moving Carrie aside. ‘You’d better call the police.’
‘No, I won’t do that. Why bother?’
‘The police, Carrie. They use fingerprinting and things for catching criminals who stick dead chickens to walls, right?’
‘What kind of half-witted criminal leaves behind fingerprints these days?’
She had a point.
Lukas said, ‘Then tell me how someone could have done this. How did they sneak past you? They couldn’t have hidden in here, there’s hardly enough room to swing a cat around—’ Bad dead animal metaphor, he realised. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I—I go to the toilet a few times and I don’t come out the back all that often. I have to watch the shop. When I need the bathroom, Roger keeps an eye on things.’
‘Roger?’
‘In the bookshop opposite.’
Mr Happy with his nose permanently buried in a book. Genghis Khan on a horse could have gotten past him.
‘What about the guy with all the cat paintings? I’ve met him. He’s got some serious issues, don’t you think? Would he do something like this?’
She shook her head. ‘Stuart has a crush on me and goes to pieces, if I pay him any attention at all. He can hardly speak when I say good morning. He wouldn’t do anything like this. Especially to me.’
‘Do you have a cat, by the way?’
‘No, is that important?’
‘Kind of—all right, what about a plastic bag? Let’s get rid of this thing.’
Recovering, Carrie found a shopping bag and gave it to Lukas. He pulled the knife from the wall letting the chicken carcass drop into the bag, tossed the blade in after it and tied the top.
He said, ‘Are you sure you’ve got no idea who would do this or why?’
‘Not a clue,’ she shook her head. ‘Maybe it’s someone’s bizarre idea of a joke?’
‘Maybe, or maybe it’s about something else.’ Lukas was thinking of corpses hanging from rafters not too far away. ‘Look, if you’re not going to call the police, then I’m your next best thing.’ He gave Carrie a business card.
‘A private investigator,’ she read aloud, slightly dismayed.
‘A very private investigator. Your secrets are safe with me. I’m going to get rid of this thing,’ he lifted the shopping bag. ‘I’ll have a discreet walk around the rest of the markets, too. Will you be okay?’
‘Sure, I’ll stay out the front where anyone can see me.’
‘I’ll be back in a while.’
‘Do you still want my phone number?’
‘Name, rank, serial number and phone number,’ he said, giving her The Smile again.
‘Please don’t do that,’ she said, searching around for her mobile.
A few minutes later Lukas chose his moment to shove the dead chicken in a trash bin when no one was looking, slamming down the lid. Then he began strolling around the markets, watching the customers and vendors carefully.
The woman running the Sweet Heaven chocolate stall looked well capable of killing a tray of caramel creams in the blink of an eye, but not a chicken.
The guy selling stuffed toys didn’t have anything remotely resembling a chicken, real or otherwise, but still Lukas assumed he’d have to be an animal lover.
The husband and wife behind the counter of Sam And Ella’s Fish and Chip store also sold deep fried chicken—that was something. It could mean they had access to fresh produce with the feathers still attached. The smells of cooking oil, salt and vinegar had Lukas’ stomach churning again.
‘Do many customers get the joke?’ he asked the surly-looking proprietor.
‘What joke?’
‘The name...’ Lukas gestured at the chalkboard menu.
Scowling, the chef tapped his embroidered
apron. ‘My name is Sam, my missus’ name is Ella, and this is a fish and chip shop. What’s funny about that?’
Lukas tried to decide if he was kidding and took the easy way out. ‘Never mind, I’ll have a fish cake and a small serve of chips. Can I smoke here?’ It seemed likely with the air already choked by plumes of fat-laden vapour from the cooking vats.
‘Nope, outside only,’ Sam grunted. ‘It’s a health risk.’ He dumped Lukas’ fish cake into a morass of boiling, yellow oil.
Lukas used the cooking time to investigate the markets down the other side of the centre stalls. Again, he was greeted by faces of all types—hopeful, cheerful and indifferent, but no one seemed particularly guilty-looking and, more important, nobody appeared upset in a someone’s-pinned-a-dead-chicken-to-my-wall kind of way.
He took his wrapped fish cake and chips to the outside seating area. He was the only one braving the chill wind and Lukas didn’t like the look of the tables and chairs covered in grime and seagull shit. Besides, a nearby service area for the fish and chip shop was crowded with gas tanks, rubbish bins and a roaring extractor fan. Instead, he stood near the edge of the wharf in the comparative quiet and stared back across at the warehouse where Rewold’s body had been found.
Rewold’s death and the chicken impaled on Carrie’s wall couldn’t have been further apart in method and motive, yet Lukas had a gut feeling that something connected the two. The close proximity of the two wharves was one thing and the fact that Wharftown Markets had a Rewold company as a landlord was another, yet nothing else really added up and Lukas was listening to his instincts more than anything else. He munched on the fishcake and discovered the concept of “fish” in fishcake was up for interpretation, tossing it aside for a crowd of shrieking seagulls to fight over. The chips were only slightly better. More seagulls hovered overhead, waiting their chance.
‘Piss off, it’s mine,’ Lukas told them amiably, pulling out a cigarette with his fingertips so the grease on them wouldn’t ruin the smoke. ‘Maybe you’ll get lucky, if you hang around.’
Something heavy cannoned into Lukas’ back sending him stumbling forward. The low railing was never going to save him and with a yell of fear and outrage he flipped over the top rung and plummeted into the cold water below.
It wasn’t a long fall, but enough to punch the breath out of Lukas as he struggled, lost in a maelstrom of bubbles and murky grey. The shock of the freezing water hit hard, too. Spluttering, he managed to find the surface and broke through.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he howled at the wharf above him. ‘Help! Someone help me!’ Filthy sea water slopped into his mouth and Lukas spat it out, almost retching.
He was a strong swimmer, but Lukas knew the weight of his clothes could drag him down fast. On the other hand, keeping them on would protect his body from the million, razor-sharp barnacles on the pylons that could be his salvation. He looked up again, expecting to see a face peering down, either concerned or curious if he was drowning—and saw a large rubbish bin toppling off the wharf towards him.
‘Shit!’ Lukas tried to dodge. The bin caught the wooden edge and careened outwards, missing him. ‘You bastard! I’ll find you and kill you, you prick!’
Because the pylons were directly beneath the wharf, they could protect Lukas from any further missiles. With his strength ebbing fast he floundered across to the nearest and gingerly wrapped himself around it using his arms and legs, keeping his hands clear. The barnacles worked, grabbing at his clothes, and Lukas had a chance to get his breath. A shiver racked him as he saw the shore nearly a hundred metres away. There were no ladders or platforms he could see on the wharf any closer. Working his way back to the beach, pylon by pylon, was his only chance of surviving. It wouldn’t be easy.
Then he heard the putt-putting of a two stroke motor coming closer. Twisting to see, Lukas saw a small dinghy heading his way. It was piloted by an elderly, Indian man and the boat was filled with crab nets.
The man called in a strong accent, ‘If you want to kill yourself, you should jump from something a lot higher than that. They do dives like that in the Olympics, you know. It’s not going to hurt anyone.’
‘I’m not trying to kill myself,’ Lukas shouted, copping another mouthful of water from the dinghy’s wake. ‘Someone pushed me.’
‘Ah, I see. That makes more sense then.’ The man nodded, satisfied and losing interest.
‘Hey! Are you going to help me or not?’
The boatman scratched at his chin, looking at his crab nets. ‘I’ve got no room, but hang on—I’ve got an idea.’
‘Hang on? What the hell do you think I’m going to do?’
‘There’s no need to be like that, I’m only trying to help,’ the man said, fiddling with a rope that he eventually tossed to Lukas. ‘Hold that and I’ll tow you to the shore.’
The dinghy’s small motor strained with pulling Lukas towards the beach while he fought to stay on his back and endure the ignominy of being dragged to safety. People up on the wharf had begun to notice, pointing downwards and calling excitedly, taking photographs.
Lukas tried to wave in a way that assured them everything was under control. Nothing to worry about. This kind of thing happened to him every day. Lukas often got pushed off wharves in the hope he’d die in the chill, wintery Port Phillip Bay.
In his line of work, if it wasn’t the greasy fish and chips that killed you or the cigarettes, there was always an impromptu plunge into the freezing harbour to finish you off.
FOUR
Lukas slopped along the outside balcony towards his second floor flat, leaving a trail of drips. The sheepskin seat cover in his car had worked as a sponge for much of the water, but not all of it. He felt chilled to the bone, exhausted and more than a little pissed off. Some bastard had tried to drown him including dropping a bin filled with trash on his head. The pollution in the harbour could probably kill him, too. But really, what happened to good old-fashioned taking a pot-shot with a pistol or sneaking up behind someone with a knife? Shoving a man into the smelly ocean in the middle of a feed of fishcake and chips was stooping to the lowest of lows. Damn it, Lukas could have gotten a serious cramp swimming with a belly full of fries like that.
This wasn't his worst concern right at the moment. A monster lived in his building, a behemoth that was the stuff of childhood nightmares, and it was never wise to disturb it. Lukas tramped towards his door hoping he would get there unnoticed.
An apartment door creaked open after Lukas passed.
'Mr Boston? I hope you didn't use the elevator while in that condition? It would show scant regard for your fellow tenants don't you think?'
Lukas stopped at the shrill voice, allowed himself a long sigh, and turned around.
Irene was the Chairwoman of the Owners Standards Committee for Lukas' apartment block and although almost everybody including Lukas owned the flat they occupied, a strict code of standards was expected to discourage anti-social and unpleasant behaviour. These standards apparently didn't include being pompous, demanding, overweight and prying, at which Irene excelled. Lukas somehow managed to be perpetually disappointing for her, incurring the wrath of the committee. So far, Lukas chose to tolerate Irene's annoying crusade against him, mostly because shooting her was illegal. Right now the argument was moot—the ammunition in his Glock would be damp.
He explained patiently, ‘Irene, I've had an accident. I fell in the harbour and nearly drowned. I have to get dry and changed before I catch my death, so do you mind?
She looked down her nose at him. ‘Did you use the stairs or not?’
‘No, I used the damned elevator.’
‘Then I'll need to report the stains on the carpet to the committee, won't I? Where they came from and in particular who was responsible.’
‘It’s only water, Irene.’
Plus some diesel fuel, a patch of what tasted like used cooking oil and some greenish scum Lukas didn't really want to identify that closely. Green wasn't ever a g
ood colour, when it came to scum.
‘That's hardly the point, Mr Boston.’
‘If it needs replacing, I'll pay for it.’ As if I'm not paying enough for it now.
‘How much will you pay for the inconvenience to others, Mr Boston?’
Fuck it, the Glock just might work. He wasn't in the water that long.
‘I think I'm going to be sick, Irene. I swallowed a lot of sea water.’
‘Oh my God, not in front of me.’ Irene whirled around and vanished back through her door. She could move quickly for a woman of her size.
Lukas filed that one away as effective. He should learn to vomit on demand. Worked like a charm.
He fished his door keys from a sodden pocket, twisted the lock and plodded in uncaring what the dripping sea water might do to his own carpet.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
Lukas froze in the entrance.
An attractive blonde woman was sitting on his lounge. She wore one of Lukas’ bathrobes, had a bottle of his beer in front of her, a packet of his potato chips on the table and was watching Lukas’ television.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘It’s a bit early for you.’
‘We had an adjournment and I thought I’d surprise you. Aren’t you glad to see me?’
Lukas started dumping stuff on a divider. ‘Sure, but so much for our so-called discreet, personal arrangement. Anyone could have seen you arrive. There are some very influential people living in this apartment block, you know. People who will recognise you.’
Valerie Karen Roland—she demanded to be called Karen—was a defense attorney who’d made a drunken agreement with Lukas. The deal was to share sex, secrets and provide a sort of informal counseling for each other. This basically meant getting really smashed and talking shit all night, before crawling into the bedroom. Normally, with Lukas involved in catching criminals and Karen defending them, it wasn’t a good idea. However so far, a frank exchange of albeit alcoholic opinions had had its advantages. And there was the sex, of course. The downside was that Karen usually needed to arrive late at night and creep away before dawn so that nobody saw her. No one knew anything about it except for Irene, who complained about Karen’s loud sports car arriving and leaving at all hours of the night.