Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  Since Carl was on duty, she suspected the Big guy wanted to give her a few minutes alone to vent some more. He probably thought she was going to fall in his arms when he strolled into the suite. Damn infuriating.

  On her way to the elevator, she rerouted through the bar for some red wine to take to her suite. The bartender opened a French wine he knew she liked and gave her the bottle, no question asked. Perfect as always. Damn, she loved this living in a hotel deal. She rode the elevator alone for apparently parking spots were hard to come by tonight.

  She gulped a very unladylike mouthful of wine but what the hell, she was thirsty. Bold and smooth. She just might take the bottle into the shower.

  Getting Ready

  When Chris finally got to Patricia’s suite, the shower was running. Since she hadn’t left a trail of clothes, he figured she did not want company. He slowly breathed out. Shoes and jacket off, he rested, half-sitting on the bed, his back against the bed board, arms crossed behind his head, following by sounds her movements in the bathroom. The damn woman was softly humming. He closed his eyes and relaxed for a while. A long while.

  She walked out of the bathroom nearly forty-five minutes later, squeezed into jeans and a tight tank top. No bra. Her lips were red, her eyes rimmed with black high-liner and mascara, and her hair was curling all over. Spectacular.

  “How about I take you out tonight, Big guy?”

  “Looking like that?” He had no problem with it, especially if she took him out to bed afterwards. “OK, Sexy. Where shall we go, Dollface?”

  She smiled mischievously. “Let me grab my jacket and some shoes, and you’ll see. I’m driving.” She put on a pair of red fuck-me high heels and a curve-hugging leather jacket. Grabbing his coat, she patted the pockets for his keys.

  “Patricia, Princess, you seem a bit tired.” Not to mention drunk. “Maybe I should drive,” he suggested. “Or maybe we could stay in.” Not sure he wanted her out in public in that outfit. What he intended to do if they stayed in was, by now, painfully tenting his pants.

  She smiled as she took his arm. “No, no. I’m taking you out. We’ll call it an apology of sort. To make up for the car and things. My treat.”

  Her legs were unsteady as she sashayed to the elevator. Maybe she was more tired than she had realised. Those damn heels were a pain to walk in too. And perhaps the third of the wine bottle she had drunk in the shower didn’t help. She leaned on Christopher for the ride down, tucking her face into his shoulder.

  Chris felt her body heat through his shirtsleeve. Fuck, she smelled delicious. Soap. Perfume. Her. A hint of alcohol perhaps?

  “Did you like the wine?” The bartender enquired when they passed in front of the bar.

  “It was perfect, exactly what I needed. Thank you,” the damn woman replied without a blush.

  Had she drunk in the shower? Chris looked her over. She had a firm hold on his arm and held her body close to his. No way was he letting her drive.

  “But you’re a cop, you’ll make sure I stay between the lines, won’t you?”

  They ended up taking a cab. Her idea. “This is a surprise, Big guy,” she teased before whispering their destination to the cab driver. Better not to tell Christopher beforehand where they were going. Arguing in cabs was not her forte.

  She leaned her head back on the Big guy’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Within three blocks, she was asleep. She woke half an hour later at Christopher’s angry shaking. She looked up, startled. Ah yes. Showtime. Hum.

  The taxi had been warm; he was tired, and Patricia’s hair had been tickling his cheek, so he hadn’t paid much attention to the drive. Until now. Her payback for the restaurant, was it? He realised it too late, way too late. The cab had already stopped in the parking lot.

  He was fucking pissed, so he shook her none too gently. She was a sound sleeper; he shook harder. When her eyes popped open, she straightened and glanced around before looking at him.

  “They have happy hours until ten now. And they have a buffet. Don’t get too angry yet, Big guy. You might like the place.”

  No way in hell, Princess, I don’t do strip clubs. He stormed out. This trip was her crazy, stupid idea; he let her pay the fucking cab. Sometimes he didn’t have a fucking inkling of how her brain worked. Not a fucking clue! He entered the club without waiting to see if she was following. A day spent around creeps wasn’t enough for the damn woman, now she wanted an evening around lowlifes. You’re on, Pussycat.

  She had taken him to this dump; he intended to stay in this fucking hole and make himself comfortable. If he had found his earlier visit with the guys depressing, being here at night with her was infuriating. Only half a dozen tables were unoccupied. He took a seat at the one closest to the stage. Not front row but near. Let’s see what the fucking Princess does now.

  He knew the moment she walked into the club. Hard not to, what with the crowd shifting its attention toward her. She waltzed in with her head up, her chin defiant but her cheeks flaming. Anger? Embarrassment? Whatever. Tonight he intended not to give a shit.

  He motioned for the waiter and ordered two beers. No way was he letting her drink red wine in a place like this. He paid for the drinks and stared at the dancer. Patricia wasn’t looking at him; she wasn’t looking at the stripper either. From the look of it, she was staring at a point on the wall somewhere behind the stage over the dancer’s head.

  They sat for fifteen minutes, twenty, thirty, without saying a word. Twice, a new dancer took the stage.

  Between the Two

  Christopher’s anger gave her second thoughts. She had only wanted to demonstrate she wasn’t holding out on him. Or, at least, not on anything that could help the case. Finding herself alone in a strip club parking lot suddenly made her feel stupid. And alone. And tired. She was incredibly sick of men. Men, the other species. Or was she the alien? She sighed, thinking she should have stayed in the shower longer and finished the bottle. Should have crashed in bed lights out.

  Two guys stumbled out of their car and drunkenly looking her over brought her back to the here and now. She hurried to the stripper club’s door. Whistles and rude remarks followed her all the way to Christopher’s table. Of course, the damn infuriating man hadn’t picked one near the door!

  Chris casually glanced around, studying the place. He had taken a quick tour with the guys and briefly talked to the manager, the bartender and the day staff, but this time of night, the clientele was different, younger, rowdier. Quite a few of (underage) college kids. The regulars looked bored. Some day workers in dirty overalls stood near the bar nursing a beer. Bickers here and there laughed and ogled.

  He ordered two more beers. She hadn’t finished hers, but who cared? Not him. He was going to wait her out. You call it quits when you’ve had enough, Pussycat. For now, I’m enjoying the fucking show.

  Patricia didn’t like beer much. And she was hungry. She should have been too disgusted or scared for anything, but nooo, her damn stomach was growling. She didn’t dare walk to the buffet. When was the next intermission? Third dancer and not a minute of pause in between. Surely at some point, the women on stage mixed with the public, in a parody of a ‘meet the stars’ activity.

  If the crowd’s attention focused up close and personal on the strippers, she might be able to sneak to the buffet. Who was the idiot who had set it up along the back wall, near the toilets? All the way to the end of the world, the damn display of food was taunting her. The food was probably going to make her sick.

  She started to fidget on the seat. Damn wine. Did strippers clubs have ladies’ room? For the life of her, she couldn’t recall any women’s toilets on her long-ago visit.

  The infuriating Big guy seemed to be enjoying himself. Infuriatingly too much so. From the corner of her eye, she caught glimpses of the girl dancing. Not that she considered what the girl was doing dancing. Exercising? Twirling? Scissoring? Hard to tell for one second to the next. Only the girl’s string remained. String was the perfect description for
the red cords cutting into the woman’s fleshy hips and between her thigh. The dancer had a pleasant face, harsh and unsmiling but pretty, long hair, long, muscular legs, fleshy thighs, small waist, big breasts, dark oversized nipples. Typical.

  She had trouble breathing. The place was too busy, too loud, too smelly. A knot formed in her belly. Her lungs burned. The back of her neck sweat. She took her jacket off, lowered her head and, rolling her shoulders, willed herself to relax. She tried to block out the music, voices, cheers, images of the dancer. Of Christopher contemplating a naked woman that wasn’t her.

  Chris was concentrating on keeping his eyes on the stage while focusing on her with his peripheral vision. He didn’t react fast enough when the damn woman decided to take her jacket off. Fuck me! If she wants to show off in a place like this, the hell with her. He stared back at the dancer.

  The stripper had breasts twice the size of hers. With the top Patricia had on, he hoped the clientele was more into quantity than quality. His knuckles were white from holding the beer. His jaws were clamped so tight he wasn’t drinking anymore. Another ten minutes passed. The dancer changed again. A black woman with even bigger tits.

  Patricia stopped looking at the table top. She timed it so that at the dancer’s grand final, she slipped off her chair and, eyes to the floor, scooted to the toilets. She expected the women’s toilets to be empty, but they weren’t. Two women, prostitutes her prejudiced mind whispered after taking in their stretchy tops, flashy bras, overflowing bosom, impossibly high stilettos and too-big hair.

  The women glared, she scowled back before retreating into a stall. Once her bladder was under control, her mind started working again, and she realised her outfit was identical to theirs albeit without the bra and the generous breasts.

  The girls came to stand right next to her, one on each side, as she washed her hands in the dirty sink.

  “What you doing, girly girl?” Hooker A, plump, busty and fake red-haired, asked.

  “I’m with my boyfriend.” Please, let Christopher be there when I come out.

  “Boyfriend. Right. I got me one of those too,” Hooker B, plump, busty and fake red-haired, brawled. Did boyfriend mean pimp in slang? Damn, she felt old.

  “What you want here?” A.

  “Nothing. We were just leaving.”

  “You better. This ain’t your turf.” B.

  “Sure thing. On my way now.” She ran out of the bathroom.

  Only to slam straight into some guy who wasn’t looking where he was going. “Sorry, Sir,” she apologised, as she retreated from him.

  A big piece of man. Ugly. Drunk. Tattooed. Today, after the punk, she found she had developed a dislike for tattooed guys. Tattoo grabbed her arm and jerked her closer. She kicked him. Reflex.

  “Enough with the grabbing already!” What was it, the fourth, fifth today?

  Tattoo threw her against the wall while his buddies got closer. She kicked again.

  Chris impatiently waited for her to return from the fucking toilet. Her fucking jacket too waited for her return, on the back of her fucking chair! He had had enough. As soon as the damn woman came out, he was going to grab her, by the arm or the neck he hadn’t decided yet, and throw her into a cab.

  But she had to run straight into some jerk’s beer gut. Fists had been keeping him company since he had stepped into this hellhole; it was more than the time he put them to good use.

  He stomped to the back, and without wasting a beat, grabbing the jerk by the shoulder and swung him into the wall. The guy hit the buffet head first (it slowed down his fall somewhat) before crashing to the floor. Chris put in a bonus knee-kick. Fuck that felt good. He caught the jerk’s buddy swinging one at him, ducked, felt the fist grazed his ear and retaliated by throwing a punch. Square under the chin. Buddy’s head snapped backward. Into the wall, no buffet table to cushion the blow. Buddy to the floor. No time for celebration, a third jerk wanted some attention. He grabbed Third by the collar and jabbed him in the ribs. The guy fell to his knees.

  With the three out of his way, Chris saw no point in sticking around. His hand clawed around Patricia’s arm, and he dragged her to the door, snatching her jacket on the way. A three-minute fight. The doorman tried to stop him, but Chris flashed the badge and kept on walking, fingers digging into her flesh.

  “Christopher, slow down.” She squeezed his arm to loosen his grip, but he was on an adrenaline rush and wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t slow down. Couldn’t. “Christopher, damn it, stop it, I’m wearing heels,” she panted.

  She managed to drop one shoe, and then the other and half-walked, half-ran next to him for a block. Two blocks. “Christopher!”

  They passed by a cab station. He wrenched a cab door open, threw some money at the driver, growled Patricia’s address and pushed her inside, slamming the door behind her. “Get the fuck out of my sight, Patricia.”

  The taxi took off.

  He was too fucking mad to be with her. His anger was one of the very few things that scared him. Knowing it didn’t scare her scared him even more.

  He walked. Ran. It started to rain. He kept on running. He ran for an hour, more, in his dress shoes. When he got back to his place, much later, his shoes ruined.

  He dropped down on the couch soaking wet and fell asleep right away. Slept like a log until he crashed to the floor next to the coffee table. A two-hour nap. He stumbled to his bed, leaving a trail of wrinkled, damp clothes on the wooden floor on the way, and tried to go back to sleep. Nope, done for the night. Fuck this!

  He climbed into the shower and, the showerhead set to energising massage, stood under the hot water a long time. His hands pulsed, his feet throbbed, his temples pounded yet he felt numb. He washed and shampooed. Thought of her. Got angry. Fuck her. He turned the water to cold. Thought of her. Jerked off. Rinsed off, turned the water off and put on pants.

  MacLaren Goes Car-Shining

  Jeans, a sweatshirt, running shoes, and he was ready for another fucking day. He poured himself a double espresso and drank it standing up, staring at nothing. Then he called Ham.

  “Shit, Chris. It’s not even five-thirty yet. Can’t a guy sleep in on a Saturday?”

  Chris heard a female voice in the background. “Just pick me up when you’re done, Ham.”

  Ham showed up at six o’clock sharp. He must have booted out his bootie call right after hanging up. Chris had done nothing in the meantime, nothing except drank coffee.

  They went to pick Charles up and were at the car pound a good half hour before opening time. They sat in the car and waited. Lemieux’s alleged black car awaited, sleek from the rain, behind the wire fence. The fucking car had been waiting for weeks; it could stand waiting for another thirty minutes.

  He should have been all over that car already. Would have too had she not looked so lost at the precinct yesterday. He had figured a quiet evening was what she needed, him all over her for comfort, then, as soon as she fell asleep, he would have been all over that car. Would have done it too had she not been so damn … so fucking ... crazy. Brash. Spontaneous. Unpredictable. Herself.

  The owner showed up at seven, a short fat guy with greasy grey hair and a ridiculously small moustache bundled in overalls; its fabric might have been blue when he bought the pants, but it was now a dull, muddy-brown shade from decades of unwashed grim. The fat guy talked slow and moved even slower. It took him over twenty minutes to understand what they wanted. Another fifteen to agree he had no need for paperwork for a mere cursory search. Ham was doing the talking and losing his calm fast. Chris just stood there looking at the car. Charles stood there, just not helping.

  They finally got to the car, Charles saying, “OK, let’s see if we can find a spare key hidden under that piece of junk.”

  “Roger rookie trying to impress the boss,” Ham mumbled under his breath.

  Charles palmed under the car, beginning at the front bumper, to the right headlights, to the front tire wing, to the− Ham looked at Chris. Chris returned the lo
ok with a nod. − driver door, to the back passenger door.

  Ham pulled a wire string for his coat and picked the passenger front door’s lock while Charles was probing the rear of the car, caressing the left wing by then.

  “Hey, kiddo, the door’s unlocked. Stop looking.”

  They put on gloves and began their search. Spacious interior, black leather seats that went on forever and plenty of leg room front and back. Nothing in the pockets and side compartments. The glove compartment contained Lemieux’s driver licence, nothing else.

  “Want me to call the plate in?” Charles asked.

  “Don’t ask, jerk, just do it,” Ham retorted impatiently.

  The plate turned out to be a fake; the car was not registered.

  Because of the rain, they kept the trunk for last. Charles pulled the release lever while Chris stood in the rain and, when the trunk door popped open, made sure it stayed down so that the rain wouldn’t drench its content (if any).

  He threw a quick peek inside. Cardboard boxes filled the trunk almost to the top. He counted four rows of boxes. He groped at one, opening the cover. Clothes, neatly folded, jeans and sweatpants. He blind-searched another, t-shirts, folded. A third. Toiletries, shampoo bottles, shaving cream. Not wonder they hadn’t found Lemieux’s address, the jerk had been living in his fucking car.

  Chris made a dozen calls to locate a judge friendly enough to complete the requisite paperwork. Once the car was towed to the South District’s garage, they spent the rest of the day going through the trunk’s content. Nothing of any value. Plenty of personal items yet nothing unique to Lemieux. No letters, address books, computers, pictures, books. Nothing insightful as to what the guy was doing. If Lemieux rented a locker or a bank safety box somewhere, they didn’t find the key. The only thing they did find, buried under some of the boxes, were two match folders. One from the motel where he was killed.