Pornopsychedelica

by Chris Johnson

  'Right,' said Martin. 'Not much light in here.'

  'More off the top,' Paul instructed.

  'Okay. Okay.' Snipping here and there. 'I make short for you.'

  'Yeah. Yeah. Just don't cut off my fucking ear.'

  Martin went back to searching for the Scotch. There was a small room at the back of the shop, with a deep alcove at one end, piled high with goods, found, imported, or stolen from across the wastelands. Cuban cigars, Russian vodka, Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica, vacuum-sealed Alaskan red salmon, rare wine from California that at one time would have been the week's special in a 7-Eleven.

  'Why does Peter keep this stuff here?' Martin called to Paul in the next room. He could hear the old man humming, metal grating metal.

  'He's got stuff like this stashed all over town. Yang's the big man here, no one dare go against him, but that doesn't buy him everybody. The cops'll still confiscate this stuff if they find it. Sometimes they're supposed to find it.'

  'Like a bribe?'

  'A look-the-other-way sign of goodwill.'

  Henry threw in a few words between his humming. It sounded like a traditional song.

  Paul said, 'Why'd you leave the army? They throw you out?'

  'None of your business.'

  'Fair enough. So, you born in the States?'

  'Texas. Me and my old man moved to France when I was a kid. Haven't got much to tell. Same as everybody else.'

  'Texas? No shit? Never figured you being from Texas.'

  Martin stepped back, taking in the boxes as a whole, hoping the Glenfeldon label would start to glow like a beacon. He knew he'd get roped into shitty jobs like this to begin with, jobs for lackeys and gofers. Which was fine. Just so long as Peter paid the monthly amount agreed upon and supplied him with an apartment. He just didn't want to end up as another one of Peter's 'boys'. Hired help, debt collector, twisting thumbs because some poor shop owner wouldn't hand over thirty percent, chasing hookers who'd gone missing.

  There was a door in the back and Martin opened it to see if he could get some more light into the room. He stepped out, batting away a flying bug. The business opposite had its shutters rolled down. A fluorescent sign said KTC Electronics: We Got You By The Gizmos. Then in the distance, walking on the street, he saw the girl from the hospital.

  At least it looked like her. He couldn't be sure. Sunglasses, long black hair, tall and slim. She was carrying something in her hand that looked like a stick, about a metre long. He watched her until she disappeared behind a building, then he spat on the ground and went back inside.

  'Why'd you call her Suzy?' Martin scanned upwards, trying to find the box with the Glenfeldon label. High in the corner was a box of shotgun shells. 'Didn't Peter call her Tomoko?'

  'What? What you say?'

  Martin moved to the doorway. 'Why'd you call that girl Suzy?'

  'She used to work for a bodyguard company. They gave each other names, you know, like codenames. Hers was Suzy. Yang's got a soft spot for her for some reason.'

  'She works for him?'

  'Same as us. Only she gets the type of jobs the likes of you and me only get to hear about.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like jobs you hear rumours about. No one knows that much about her. All I know is that she's a bitch. Fuck, my knee still hurts.'

  'Any idea where Yang's Scotch is? Are you sure it's the Glen-whatever-it-is?'

  'Yeah.'

  Henry dropped his comb and scissors on the counter in front of the mirrors. 'Looking in the wrong place. I'll show you.'

  Martin sighed. 'Great. You couldn't have just told me?'

  'Sorry. Sorry.'

  Henry shuffled to the door. Martin moved out of his way and watched him go to the wall adjacent to the alcove and lift up a cloth covering a table. Underneath were more boxes. He got down on his hands and knees. Martin joined him. The old man pulled out a box and Martin tore open the lid. It was damp and smelled salty, like it had washed up on a beach somewhere. Inside, six bottles.

  'I got it,' Martin called.

  He picked up the box, careful the bottom didn't fall apart, and followed Henry back to his business.

  Humming again, Henry picked up his comb and scissors. He pinched some of Paul's hair between his fingers and started cutting. Paul's head toppled over, rolled off his shoulder and hit the floor. It sounded like a coconut wrapped in a wet towel. Henry yelled out and leapt back.

  Paul's headless body slid off the chair and curled into a heap. Martin froze, heart punching his chest. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of a woman walking past the window.

  He dropped the box onto a counter, moving quickly to the door and throwing it open. She was nowhere to be seen. Martin waited for a minute, breathing hard, watching a police cruiser slowly taking a corner and some kids playing soccer with a tin can. He went back inside.

  He turned the lock, flipped the card to the 'closed' side. Blood dripped from the ceiling. He sat on one of the stools for a few minutes, thinking what to do. He pulled a slip of paper from a pocket, a phone number on it written in pencil.

  'I want to speak to Mr. Yang.' He turned away from the body. 'It's Martin. Is he there? I don't care what he's doing, put him on.'

  A moment later, Martin heard Peter Yang's voice over the speaker.

  'What's the problem, Martin?'

  'Paul's dead. She cut his head off.'

  'Who's she?' asked Yang calmly.

  'The girl,' Martin said. 'The girl at the hospital.'

  Peter seemed preoccupied with something. 'Are you certain?'

  'Yeah, I'm sure it was her.' He paused for Peter's response. Christ. How many six foot Japanese girls did he fucking know? Martin took a breath. 'She took the package we collected at the hospital.'

  Yang seemed to have come round. 'They're gone?'

  'I checked. They're not there.' A line of blood was snaking across the floor toward him. 'It's the barber, he's making that noise.' Martin lowered the phone, spoke to Henry. 'Peter said can you stop that terrible moaning.'

  Henry stopped whimpering, at least tried to keep it down.

  Back to the phone, 'What do you want me to do?'

  'Stay there,' said Peter. There was an edge to his voice now, hard and business-like. 'I'll send someone.'

  8

  Body Bag

  'What we have to do here is be quick and efficient. Can you do that?'

  Martin looked at Travis. It seemed like a straightforward question. 'Sure.'

  'Good.'

  The only thing to announce Travis' arrival had been a gentle tap on the glass of the door. Martin hadn't seen him before, but Travis gave a knowing nod that seemed to indicate he was the guy sent by Yang. He'd stepped in, glanced first at Henry, sat on a stool in a corner, then at the body on the floor.

  'I'm Travis,' he'd said, without meeting Martin's gaze. He was a black guy with a shiny bald head and a trimmed goatee.

  He had an Amerasian accent, though Martin couldn't pin down the state of origin. He'd started out himself with a Texan accent, though after years of living in France that had changed to a Eurasion one. Maybe French-English with a laid back southern drawl. He couldn't get rid of that.

  Travis said, 'That's the shortest haircut I've ever seen. White boy got it fast. Eyeballs still open, like he's gonna wink at ya.'

  It wasn't meant to be funny and Martin hadn't laughed. Now he stood with his arms folded, watching Travis bending down to the body to take a closer look. He straightened, adjusted his jacket slightly. 'I'll be right back.' Travis left the shop and came back with something under his arm.

  'Body bag?' asked Martin.

  'Yeah. You familiar with these things?'

  Martin stepped closer. 'I've seen a few.'

  'Okay, let's lift him in,' said Travis.

  Martin grabbed Paul's jacket, Travis the feet. Quick lift. Shuffle. Paul's arms flopped out when they dropped him. Martin pulled the bag around him, trying not to count how many times he'd done this before.

&nb
sp; Travis closed the zip to Paul's waist. 'Get the head.'

  'Right.' Martin lifted the head, rolled it into the bag.

  Travis finished zipping and got to his feet. He used shampoo from a dispenser to wash his hands, wiping them on a towel he pulled from a pile.

  'You got the man's car keys?'

  'Yeah. We gonna clean up here or leave it for the old man?'

  'It's his shop, let him do it.'

  Travis pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and gave it to Henry, saying something in Chinese that Martin didn't catch. He could speak only the basics of Mandarin, badly, which was pretty much useless in a part of the world where there were as many dialects as there were languages. Then there were all those European languages.

  'What d'ya think you're doing?' said Travis.

  The bottle of Scotch Martin had absently picked up had caught Travis' attention.

  'Think he'd miss one of these?'

  Before Travis replied, Martin had put the bottle back. He tried smiling, but Travis just kept on staring.

  Henry opened the door when they heaved the body up. He followed them outside and popped the trunk of Paul's car so they could throw him inside. There weren't many people on the street, teenagers skateboarding and a few people in a takeout, where a garish neon sign flashed the words Pizza and Burgers.

  Travis said they'd leave Paul's car where it was and it would be disposed of later, along with the body. Right now they had other 'business' to attend to, which involved a trip in Travis' car. Forget about whatever job Peter gave you, Travis told him. We got plans to make.

  9

  Benz, Dooley and Shady

  She wore T-back panties, fishnets, high heels and a tight top, emphasizing the deep curves of her waist. Now that, Martin thought, is an ass. She was only in front of him for a second, but she had a showgirl swing to her hips that was hard to forget, almost hypnotic.

  The android babe was a distraction from the annoyance he felt at Travis who had entered the club for free without bothering to tell the bouncer they were together. Twenty-five dollars on the door. Money Martin couldn't afford.

  He'd lost Travis somewhere in the gloom of the club. The lighting was arranged to create pockets of darkness, pillars placed to obscure the view from one end of the club to the other. The place wasn't jumping, but business seemed good.

  It was a mixed crowd, the exotic, erotic, fetishistic and plain. Looking around, Martin figured not even his shirt would elevate himself to plain. It had a picture on the back of a bikini girl surfing, smiling like she was doing a toothpaste commercial. He liked that shirt.

  They had the air conditioning going full blast in here. He felt warm, sticky sweat drying on his back.

  'Man. Over here.'

  Travis' voice brought his attention to a round table. Three men sat there.

  'Benz, Dooley and Shady.' Travis gestured to each man in turn. 'Would you like a drink, Martin?'

  Martin took the empty seat between Benz and Shady. 'Yeah. Coldest beer they've got. Thanks.'

  Travis looked down at him, his voice level. 'They're all cold.'

  'Right. I'll have a Chung's Extra.'

  Dooley raised his glass and rattled the melting ice cubes at the bottom. 'I'll have a vodka a-la-coke.'

  'You get your own,' said Travis. He vanished into the depths of dancers and waitresses.

  Dooley lowered his glass despondently, combing fingers through his long hair. 'New dude gets special treatment. How d'ya figure that?'

  They were three men who couldn't have been any more different from each other. Martin checked out Dooley first. He might have been the youngest of the trio, Shady being somewhere in the middle. Shady had a scrappy mess of hair, bushy brows on a face that seemed locked in a permanent grimace, suspicious of everything. Benz looked as though he'd rather be somewhere else.

  'Travis is sizing him up,' said Shady. 'You can tell a lot about a man from what he drinks.'

  Dooley tilted his glass and crunched the ice cube that slid into his mouth. 'That's true. He ordered a local beer. Means he's trying to fit in.'

  Benz was leaning away from Martin, one arm hooked over the back of his chair. Martin saw the stock of a K17-Special jutting from a holster. 'I don't need a college degree,' said Benz, 'to tell me that a vodka and coke is a fucking fag's drink. Ain't that right, Martin?'

  'Ain't no fag's drink.' Dooley gazed off, to another place.

  Benz grunted. 'You trying to fit in, new guy?'

  'No.' Martin slid his hands across the smooth lip of the table. 'I'm just thirsty.'

  Travis returned and sat opposite Martin.

  'There is a matter we need to discuss.'

  Martin took a drink from the bottle Travis had placed in front of him. Travis had some sort of blue cocktail.

  'This had better be important,' said Benz. 'I was busy.'

  Travis took a sip, smiling at Benz as if he'd known what the man was going to say. 'It's important enough. I need you and your friends to find a woman. She took something belonging to Mr. Yang.'

  'What did she take?' asked Dooley.

  'Never you mind what she took.' Travis placed a small object on the table. 'What she has is a case exactly the same as this one. I want you to find it.'

  Benz seemed hardly interested in the little case. 'Whatever you say. You tell Mr. Yang if he doesn't pay when the job's done he can go fuck himself.'

  'What's in the case?' asked Dooley, swirling the ice cubes in his glass.

  Travis ignored him, keeping his attention on Benz. 'You'll get exactly what you're worth, Benz. And a bonus if you find her quickly.'

  Martin recognised the woman immediately when Travis dropped a twelve-by-ten onto the table.

  Shady turned the photograph so it was facing him. 'I've seen her somewhere.'

  'She works for Mr. Yang,' said Travis.

  Martin could see Travis was banking on the picture to rope these guys in as much as the money.

  'As what?' Shady made a confused sneer. 'Is she real? She looks weird.'

  'She's real,' said Travis. 'Tomoko Iwamoto. From Japan. When you find her don't try any soft stuff. Don't let her get close to you. Mr. Yang wants to see her, but if you're forced to do some permanent damage then that's acceptable.'

  'You gonna point us in the right direction?' Benz picked up the picture, checked it out for a second, then let it fall.

  'You're with me, Benz,' Travis answered. 'Shady, Dooley and Martin, you'll go over to Jimmy Ho's and see if she's there, or been there. She used to work for Ho, they're old friends. Show Martin some of the neighbourhood.'

  'Oh, man, we were told to keep away from Ho's place.'

  Martin didn't think that Dooley had said anything wrong, but Travis gave him a glare that made the man physically shrink. Shady lit a cigarette.

  Martin leaned closer to Travis, keeping his voice low.

  'You sure you want me to go with these fellas? I'd be better off –'

  'Never mind where you think you'd be better off.' Travis sat straight on his chair. 'You start at the bottom with the go-see-what's-over-that-hill jobs, and if you're lucky Mr. Yang will send you for some groceries and let you keep the change.'

  'You got a problem with us?' asked Shady. 'I got a bad smell or something?'

  Martin shook his head slightly, his expression serious. 'No. It's your face. It makes me wanna puke.'

  Dooley laughed. 'Your face, man. Yeah, that's funny.'

  Shady grinned, showing stained and chipped teeth.

  10

  Pop Box

  Shady's car had automatic gears but no autodrive. Before Martin had the chance to look for a maker's badge he was in the back of the car, and Dooley was yapping away with an endless amount of energy.

  They hit the freeway quickly. It wasn't long before they reached the furthest limits of the city and were plunged into darkness.

  Martin waited for Dooley to pause. He'd been waiting ever since they'd left the club.

  'How far is it to this Jim
my Ho's place?'

  There was no answer, there wasn't time. Dooley was back on track.

  'You ever see the rats in Singapore, man? They are fucking huge. All the animals are getting bigger on account of the oceans rising. They found that giant turtle not long after Manhattan got wiped out.'

  Martin poked his head between the two seats in front of him. 'Are we still in Kuala Lumpur?'

  'We left KL ages back. Ho lives over in Ipoh.' Dooley twisted and pointed. 'There you go, we just passed the signpost for Kubu Baharu.' He turned in his seat, almost kneeling on it, to face Martin. 'So these rats are huge. The rat controller job was all I could get after the university closed. One more year and I'd have my degree in chemistry. I could have been designing new drugs for the rich and famous.' He scratched his face, then said to Shady, 'Pull over, man. I gotta take a wiz.'

  Shady brought the car to a stop and Dooley got out. He unzipped his pants and let loose a line of urine into the bushes at the side of the road. Shady finished a cigarette and flicked the stub into the blackness beyond the open door.

  'Are we friends with Jimmy Ho?' asked Martin.

  'We tolerate him and he tolerates us,' Shady answered flatly.

  'So he won't be too happy about us waking him up in the middle of the night.'

  'Probably not.' Shady leaned over the passenger seat. 'Come on. You're wasting time.'

  Dooley was aiming for a large fan-shaped leaf. 'I tell ya, man, all those super drugs like snake, bake, ramhead. There could have been a Dooley drug. Chicks in a penthouse getting high on Dooley.'

  And he sang hiiigh on Dooolee. Martin didn't hear the rest of what he was saying, he'd tuned the man out and turned his attention back to Shady, who was craning his neck out of a rolled-down window to watch two cars go past. There was only any need for concern if passing cars started to slow down.

  'You said you'd seen the girl somewhere before. Have you seen her at Yang's place?'

  Shady looked over his shoulder at Martin. 'Think he'd let someone like me go there? Travis hires us and we go.' He waved his arm down the long black highway. Two red taillights were just disappearing around a bend. 'To me, Yang's like a gameshow host. An asshole. I want nothing to do with him.'