by Alex P. Berg
“It’s a club over on Flatley,” said Rodgers. “Real name is Undressed to the 9’s, but that’s too long, so everyone refers to it as the 9’s. I know where it is.”
Rodgers had been standing in the back, making himself invisible. We all turned to face at him.
“What?” he said. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m a married man. I only know about it because of a case we had back in the day. You remember which one I’m talking about, right Quinto?”
The big guy blinked. “I’m drawing a blank.”
“No, no, come on. You remember,” said Rodgers, chuckling nervously. “We even joked they should call it the 10’s instead, because all the girls were so pretty, but that wouldn’t have worked because of the idiom they based the place’s name on… Seriously, don’t leave me hanging.”
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Quinto shook his head and stuck out his lower lip, but he did it a little too convincingly.
“Oh, stop it,” said Rodgers. “You remember.”
I turned my attention to Steele, but she preempted the conversation before I could snag it. “Don’t act like you’re not going to enjoy this.”
“Me?” I said innocently. “I take no pleasure in ogling pretty ladies in the name of justice.”
Shay rose her eyebrows. “Sure you don’t…”
I wanted to make a witty remark, but the only one that came to mind was, ‘You know I only have eyes for you, babe.’ Unfortunately, that hit a little too close to home for comfort, so I shut my quip-maker and told Rodgers to lead the way.
9
Roughly one-half to two-thirds of all the brothels in New Welwic could be found along a mile-and-a-half long stretch of Flatley Street. You could argue for multiple reasons as to why that might be the case. Having all of them in close proximity made it easier for patrons to pick and choose the sorts of service providers and acts they were interested in, or mix and match between the services of multiple bordellos. Having the enterprises close together also made it much easier to collude on price—something the cynic in me always assumed occurred whenever there were at least three similar businesses on the same street corner—but I’m not sure that was the main draw in the case of the brothels. For this particular trade, the reason for their close proximity was, I think, a little more practical: ease of self-regulation.
Prostitution wasn’t illegal in the city of New Welwic, but it wasn’t precisely legal either. It sat in a sort of purgatorial gray area as far as the lawmakers were concerned. Nobody who ran for public office wanted to support it outright for fear of angering the religious nuts and conservatives, but most logical politicians—of which there were precious few, to be fair—realized it was completely impossible to rid the city of it. Prostitution was known as the oldest profession for a reason. And so it was tolerated, but not really regulated.
The end result, in practice, was that the businesses were taxed—which the bean counters loved—and sex workers weren’t prosecuted for performing whatever acts they decided to accept money for, but cops steered clear of the places like vegetarians at a barbeque joint. The brothels were expected to police themselves—and they did, with plenty of hired muscle, strict codes of conduct, rules posted on every window and door, and even dress codes in some locales.
Given that it was the middle of the afternoon, foot traffic on Flatley was light, but the hired peacekeepers were out in full force. Thugs patrolled the sidewalks and alleys in pairs, all of them smartly dressed in olive green jackets and black trousers. Most of them carried truncheons like me, but they did so in plain view as a deterrent to idiots who might not understand the way things worked in the district.
I nudged Quinto in the ribs as we walked. “You know, if we ever get tired of our detecting gig, I think I know where we can find work.”
Quinto raised an eyebrow at me. “Huh? I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?” I asked.
“I worked here, once upon a time,” said Quinto. “Had about a six month stint as a private head knocker with the green jackets before I joined the force.”
I knew Quinto had done private security in the past, but I hadn’t realized it had been for the bordellos. “How is it you didn’t know where the 9’s club was, then?”
The big guy smiled. “I knew. I was just screwing with Rodgers.”
“Knew it,” said his partner, glancing back at us.
Shay walked at Rodgers side. She glanced back, too. “You wouldn’t last a week, Daggers. You’d get too bored.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Though not for the reason you voiced.”
“No?” she said.
“Too much walking,” I said. “Those green jackets’ feet are probably one big callus.”
Quinto nodded. “Two, technically. But yeah. I found it was hardest on my back.”
After a little more walking, we arrived at the 9’s, a three story rectangular brick of a building that more than made up for its lack of architectural panache with aftermarket additions. Metallic overhangs protecting the windows had been bent and tucked to resemble dress ruffles. Red velvet drapes that hung in the windows had been bunched at the top and bottom but spread wide in the middle, as if in representation of a lady’s privates—an effect only furthered by being positioned directly underneath the skirt-like overhangs. In the middle of the building, above a set of golden double doors flanked by musclebound toughs, an eight foot sign lounged at a rakish angle, one depicting a cherry-red number nine slipping out of a babydoll, a discarded pair of panties draped over the top right-hand corner of the number. It was cute—if such a description could be used to describe the sign to a pleasure house.
The brute squad at the door stopped us before we could enter.
“Spread your arms,” said the bouncer as he prepared to pat us down.
“We’re cops,” I said. I showed him my badge.
He took a good look at it, to make sure it was real. “Alright. You know the rules. Don’t make any trouble.” He glanced at Quinto as he said that last part, probably in the hopes we’d follow his orders.
The bouncer opened the doors, and we stepped into a sea of ruby. Practically every surface was covered in the stuff. Chairs and sofas were upholstered with it, tables were painted with it, rugs were infused with it. The only deviations in color came in the form of ivory white columns—carved to display the most curvaceous elements of the female torso—and a spotless, sparkling white marble countertop that stretched across the lobby from left to right. Scantily-clad harlots drifted around the room, mostly human and elven but I spotted a few members of other species as well. Some tickled the chins of patrons, draped across their laps as they lounged in the overstuffed sofa chairs, but most milled around aimlessly, waiting for the mid-afternoon doldrums to be replaced with the evening rush.
A trio of girls, two humans and an elf, approached us. The lead cheerleader twirled her golden curls with a lazy finger. “Hi boys. Looking for a good time? And don’t worry, sweetie—” She placed a hand lightly on Shay’s forearm. “We’ll take care of you, too. Our man candy is second to none.”
I cleared my throat. “Um, thanks for the interest, but we’re with the police. We’re investigating a crime.”
The finger-twirling came to an abrupt halt. “Oh. Talk to Fanny at the bar. She runs the place.”
The two human girls flitted away, but the elf girl, who wore a sleek little number that paired nicely with her long, jet-black hair, lingered for a moment and wiggled her hips as she turned.
“If any of you change your mind…” She lifted an eyebrow and ran a tongue across her lips as she pointed to a far corner of the room.
“Alrighty then.” Shay clapped her hands as the elf girl undulated off. “Daggers, let’s talk to this Fanny lady, see if we can find Passion. Rodgers and Quinto, why don’t you two split up and canvass the rest of the girls and staff. See if you can learn anything about Gill we don’t already know.”
Rodgers looked at Quinto. “Want to flip a coin to
see who gets the girls and who gets the staff?”
I tried to keep my eyes from drifting off toward the elf girl’s rear. “Um…I could talk to the girls, too.”
Shay gave a tight-lipped smile. “I’m well aware of that. Come with me.”
Shay took my arm and led me to the bar, where a middle-aged woman wearing a low cut dress with copious amounts of ruching over the bust worked the marble. “Can I get you two anything?” she said as we approached.
“You Fanny?” I asked.
She nodded.
I showed my badge.
“So?” she said.
“We’re with homicide.”
“Crap.” Fanny knew as well as we did that even though brothels policed themselves, murders were our business no matter where they occurred. “So what happened? Someone get a little too frisky with one of the girls on the street, or did the hired muscle use too much vigor in teaching someone a lesson?”
“Neither, most likely,” said Shay. “We found someone tortured and murdered in their home, a Mr. Darryl Gill. We understand he came here frequently. Was sweet on one of your, uh…service providers, should we say. Passion Faust?”
Fanny sighed. “Damn. Yeah, I know Darryl. Knew him, I guess. Good guy. Good customer.” She sighed. “Hang out for a minute. I’ll get Passion.”
Fanny scurried off, leaving Shay and I to wallow in the splendor of the 9’s. I passed my eyes over the interior of the club, trying not to let my eyes linger on any one bulging bosom too long. Through my peripheral vision, I could tell Shay was watching me.
“I should’ve asked for a drink before Fanny left,” I said, hoping to distract my partner from my wandering eyes.
“We’re working, remember?” said Shay.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to find myself face to face with a really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking dark elf dude wearing nothing but a sequined G-string. He stood with one hand on his hips and his head tilted to the side, his golden blond hair—dyed, surely—draped across the side of his face. “Hello, there.”
“Um, thanks, but I’m not interested,” I said.
“I’m confused,” said the dark elf. “You asked to see me?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“I’m Passion Faust.”
10
“Wait, what?” I passed my eyes between Shay and Passion. “He’s a dude. You’re a dude.”
“In the flesh.” Passion held out his hands and gyrated in a manner I’m sure most women would find extremely seductive.
I looked at Shay—partly just to get my eyes off Passion and his nearly naked body. “Am I crazy? Gronk said Passion was a ‘she,’ right?”
“You must be mistaken,” said Passion. “There is only one Passion Faust.” He performed a double snap and point, bringing his fingers to point toward his crotch.
“I’m thinking Gill didn’t tell his manager the whole truth about his sexcapades,” said Shay. “Mr. Faust, you want to sit down so we can talk?”
“Preferably in a dark corner,” I said. “Somewhere you might get lost in the gloom.”
“Or not,” said Shay with a bit of a grin and a moony look in her eyes. “You know, whatever.”
“Follow me,” he said, bringing his hand out gracefully.
We settled for a mood-lit ring of sofa chairs in the back. Passion’s glistening caramel skin shone in the low light, but at least I couldn’t make out the bulge of his man parts against his sparkling thong anymore.
“So,” said Shay. “I don’t know what Fanny told you, but we’re investigating the murder of one of your clients. Darryl Gill?”
“Yes. Extremely sad,” said Passion, drawing an index finger and thumb across his smooth cheeks. “I liked Darryl very much. He was one of my favorite clients. Very gentle hands. Coarse, but tender.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night,” said Passion.
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes,” said Passion. “He came in at his usual time, around eight. We spent a passionate few hours together, and he left around eleven.”
“Did Darryl seem nervous or agitated at all?” asked Shay.
“Not especially,” said Passion, shifting in his seat. “He’d had a bit of a rough day—endured some verbal abuse from one of his work encounters—but nothing out of the ordinary. If he’d carried any tension in his shoulders, it was long gone by the time I was done with him.”
I suppressed a shudder. “Did Gill confide in you much?”
“Of course,” said Passion. “We were lovers, in every sense of the word.”
Except in the sense that didn’t involve payment, I thought to myself. “So did Gill mention to you any trouble he might’ve been in? Did he ever talk to you about anyone who he thought might be out to get him? Or hurt him?”
Passion shook his head. “We took part in some rather imaginative role-playing on occasion, some involving compromising situations, including, dare I say it, one involving naughty police officers—” He lifted a high-arching eyebrow. “—but no, he never mentioned anything like that to me.”
“Can you think of anything about Mr. Gill that might’ve seemed odd or unusual?” asked Shay. “Even small details may be helpful to us in solving his murder.”
Passion tapped his chin as he stared at the paneled ceiling. “Hmm. I’m not sure, detectives. Gill was a sweet man. Lonely, and a little misunderstood—he mentioned on several occasions how his heart wasn’t in his profession. It caused too much strife in his life. But apparently the money was good. He never lacked funds to pay me, that’s for certain.” Passion flicked his hand in the air. “And that’s about it, I suppose. I’m not sure what else to say.”
I sat there, rubbing my hands together and wondering if there was a reason Passion wasn’t making eye contact when Rodgers and Quinto returned.
“Hey guys,” said Rodgers. “Looks like we might’ve caught a break.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“One of the bouncers at the door was working last night,” said Quinto. “Said he noticed a creeper hanging outside the front. Bouncer said he knows the type. Dirt poor, loveless, sullen. Says some of them walk up and down the street, hoping to catch glimpses of naughty stuff through the windows. But this guy wasn’t walking. Just hung around the club.”
“The bouncer didn’t think anything of it,” said Rodgers, “until we mentioned Gill’s name. Then the bouncer remembered—the guy who was hanging out disappeared around the same time Gill left.”
I smiled. “Well…that’s an unlikely coincidence.”
“Did the bouncer get a good look at the guy’s face?” asked Steele.
Rodgers nodded. “Yup. We should be able to get a sketch.”
I clapped my hands and stood. “Excellent. Mr. Faust? Thanks for your time. I’d say it was a pleasure, but I don’t want to get charged.”
“Nonsense,” said Shay. “We appreciated your help, and all of your assistance—in its various forms.”
I glared at Shay. I couldn’t tell if she was being nice to the guy in order to make me uncomfortable or it she actually liked him. I don’t know why she would. What did he have that I didn’t, other than glistening, caramel skin, washboard abs, and a face that could be used to grate cheese?
“Come back any time to see me, detectives,” said Faust. “I do special group rates. I could service the two of you simultaneously, if you like. Whatever floats your boat.”
I shared a look with Shay, both of our cheeks warming in the wake of Faust’s comments. We skedaddled before the awkwardness reached a critical pressure.
11
The sun glinted off the massive seal of justice that hovered over the entrance to the 5th Street Precinct—a bas-relief carving that displayed a soaring eagle clutching a pair of scales between its blade-like talons. I kept my eyes trained on the seal as we walked along the street toward the precinct’s front doors, but not because I had any
particular interest in it. To be fair, the massive seal still gave me chills—despite my cavalier approach, I took my pursuit of justice seriously—but I’d walked under the seal so many times, I could describe every pock mark, scratch, and imperfection on its surface while drunk and blindfolded. I just needed somewhere to rest my eyes.
The walk back from the whorehouse hadn’t done much to alleviate the weirdness that lingered between us. I blamed Shay. If it had been me and the guys, I’m sure we would’ve traded off-color jokes about the ladies at the 9’s, remarking upon their various overflowing assets—which, specifically, depended on our own personal preferences—but we couldn’t very well do it in Steele’s company. It’d be uncouth. Besides, Shay’s presence reminded everyone of the real women in their lives: Allison for Rodgers, Cairny for Quinto, and, well…nobody for me, though I doubt I’d impress the young lady beside me by reminiscing about the rump on the elf floozy at the club.
As we reached our desks in the pit, I forced my mind back to the case at hand. “Does anyone want to go find Boatreng? We need to get a sketch of that creep hanging around the 9’s ASAP.”
Boatreng was our resident sketch artist. A short, squatty man with a shaved head and a crop of chin fuzz, he wasn’t exactly the friendliest chap in the department. I sometimes wondered if his surliness stemmed from the fact that his years of toil in art school had only netted him a low-paying job as a public servant.
“You’ve been delegating work all day,” said Quinto as he slumped into his chair. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because Boatreng hates me,” I said.
“He doesn’t hate you.” Steele draped her coat across the back of her chair before settling down into it. “He just harbors a high level of dislike for you because you treat him like something that’s stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
“What?” I said. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Really?” said Rodgers, joining me at my desk. “How long has he worked here?”