The Lover's Children

Chapter 55 – April’s Tears #6

PAT

“Get out of here! Get away!” He bats at me with his spatula as though he’s calling me En Garde. “I

don’t need your sort here.”

“No? Gimme one of those then.”

He brightens. “Thought I was gonna have to pack up for the evening.” He slides a burger off the plate,

onto a bun split onto a napkin and scoops onions over the top with the kind of slick technique that says

he’s done nothing else with his life for the last forty miserable years. He holds the burger poised, not

actually giving it to me. “That’s one fifty.”

“Always pay my debts,” I say, tossing him the coins. Water streaming down six inches from my nose, I

bite, chew, swallow. It’s crap, but I’m hungry. Another three swallows, it’s still crap and I’m not hungry

anymore.

The rain eases off.

Time to go.

Tossing what’s left under the stand, I pull up my collar…

The weasel bawls out. “Hey, that’s what the trash can’s for!”

“Yeah?” Hawking up, I angle, aim and spit. The gob splutters and boils, skittering over the hot plate

before bursting over the stacked crap-burgers with a Pop! “Guess they belong in the trash can too.”

“You’ll pay for those you little shit!”

“Fuck off, Grandad.” Grinning, I sprint for the coffee house.

*****

I make it to the cafe in time, but only just, slamming the door closed behind me as the rain sheets

down.

There’s the usual stack of giveaway newspapers on the counter. Helping myself to a copy, I take my

usual table with its view onto the street, then flip through to see if there’s anything about me in today’s

issue.

Annoyingly, none of it’s about me. Instead, it’s all complaints about the police and what they’re doing.

Word is from our informed source at City Hall, that Police Commissioner William Stanton is under

increasing pressure to call in extra resources and expertise from external agencies following the latest

murder of a young woman believed to be committed by the serial killer they’re now calling, ‘The

Surgeon’…

… Speculation runs rife that Mayor Vandervoort has already demanded his resignation…

As if I wasn’t giving them enough material to work with.

Still…

The ‘Surgeon’…

Nice…

Got a touch of style about it…

I turn to the back pages. Sudoku and the other crap will at least kill time until the rain passes.

Brenda arrives, clutching the coffee pot. “Your usual, Pat?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Lousy weather we’re having.”

“Yeah.”

“Enough to keep everyone off the streets.”

Two refills and a doughnut later, the crossword all but finished, I hover with a pencil, watching out of the

window while I think about the last couple of clues.

8 across… Domestic animal plays brazen instrument…

_ _ _ _ mp_ t

Domestic animal?

The rain looks to be slackening off.

Gotta be ‘pet’.

I pencil in an experimental ‘e’.

_ _ _ _ mpet

Trumpet?

Doesn’t fit…

The rain fizzles out. And I wait.

And, lo-and-behold, they’re out again, emerging onto the streets to go about their nightly business.

Patrolling the street, cheap women, in cheaper clothes with their unsubtle cut and their obvious faces.

It’s a sort of uniform I suppose. Advertising what they’ve got.

Oh, yes…

Of course…

I fill in the rest of the answer

Strumpet

A shadow moves to stand over me, jug in hand. “’N’other coffee, Pat?”

“No, thanks. Rain’s stopped. Gonna make a dash for home between showers. Got the early shift.”

“Okay. Sleep well. See you tomorrow, I dare say.”

“I dare say.” I fold up the paper, stash it behind the menu. “Night, Brenda.”

Outside, the air is clean and fresh, with that just-washed tang to it. Above, the clouds are clearing. I

imagine the stars are out, but in the glare of the City, the sky is a featureless black. At ground level, it’s

warming rapidly and now steam curls from the drying asphalt, glowing orange in the street and car

lights.

It’s a beautiful night.

And it’s way too early to go to bed yet. I’ve not done my ‘rounds’ yet.

So, I set off once more on my evening stroll.

*****

There’s so many of them. Some young. Some old. Or at least looking old. All strutting, pacing up and

down, flaunting their tawdry wares.

Come fuck me…

Cheap fuck for hire…

I amble by the square, stopping by a bar for a beer, joining the crowd watching a game on a TV

bracketed up the wall. But below the screen, I’ve got the angle to see through the plate glass window.

A yell rises. Someone scored and reflexively, I join in, raising my bottle in a general toast to whichever

dimwit got a ball across the line. Sucking from the neck of the bottle, I scan outwards.

There’s one…

Looks good…

Not so obviously trashy as most of the others, she could be quite young. It’s hard to tell under the

plastered-on make-up. Beautiful hair too. Long and loose, it shines under the streetlights. The harsh

lighting makes an odd shade of it. It could be chestnut, but the neon gives it a weird orange tinge.

Perhaps the hair is just mousy and the night lends it an undeserved glamour.

She stands by her running mate; a short, busty little tart, curvy to the point of being dumpy. The pair

simper up to a couple of guys who, without breaking off their conversation, skirt around and move on.

Dumpy scowls and gives the finger to their backs. Chestnut lays a hand on her arm, calms her down.

Yeah…

Seems to be made of better stuff…

Chestnut seems quite promising, so I order another beer, elbowing back onto the bar so my face is

angled up at the game but my eyes aiming outward, watching her style.

She’s nice. Tall and graceful with good posture.

Wonder why she’s partnered with Dumpy?

A breeze squalls up, whipping a litter of chip packets into curlicues. A drinks can bounces behind then

onto the road where a car rolls across, crushing flat. Across the plaza, Chestnut’s hair rises on the wind

in a great neon-gold aura around her, like some overblown sci-fi effect.

Beautiful hair…

She looks great.

Then, I see it. Another squall, and the whole halo of hair billows, but she’s not trying to contain it.

Instead, hand flat on her head, she’s clamping onto the top, stopping it from lifting away. Underneath,

the dark tint shadows around her face. Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

It’s just a cheap glamour wig…

Cheating bitch…

I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the game-watcher next to me gives me a startled look. “Hey, Give

the guy a chance. It wasn’t that bad a move.”

I fling a hand at the screen. “All the fucking world’s an expert.” I knock back my beer and leave.

*****

Pissed off, I march along, walking off my temper.

This is stupid…

Blow off a bit…

Over a door, a sign flares into the night, lurid red. Sapphire Club! Exotic Dancers! All Kinds Of Girls! All

Beautiful!

I’ve been here before. The only trace of sapphire I’ve ever seen is some blue wallpaper in the entrance

lobby, probably left over from a previous tenant. It’s got that fake furry texture that’s supposed to look

like velvet but is really just a trap for dust and cobwebs. At the ceiling corners, it bubbles and peels, but

no one pays attention. That’s not what they’re here for. The public face of the establishment is that the

girls will ‘dance’ with the clients. No more. The reality is different. But the police don’t give a flying fuck,

so why should I?

It might be just what I need.

The suited ape at the door is about typical, except that his jacket sleeves aren’t long enough to let his

knuckles graze the ground. Still, I give him a twenty, and he stands aside to let me enter.

Inside, it’s busy. Music blares a thumping rhythm while a five-foot-two little trollop cavorts around a

pole, shedding what passes for her clothes as she goes. She’s not bad-looking, but not my type. Kinda

elfin with big brown eyes and a mass of curly hair. Still, she appeals to some of the crotch-rubbers at

the bar, and as she swings around her pole, makes eyes at likely-looking prospects.

“What can I get you?”

“A beer.”

My temper at Chestnut’s cheating ways is cooling off, so I might as well watch the show. Curly spins

and struts and swaggers. Swinging one leg up the pole in a ‘splits’ manoeuvre that is as lewd as it is

athletic, she displays her crotch, barely concealed by a red thong. Just this side of legal, she offers

what she has to those willing to pay.

As the music clashes to a stop and her number ends, one of the crotch-rubbers strides forward, a ten

clutched in his hand. She simpers, stuffing the ten fuck-knows-where into the two square inches of her

thong, then accompanies him off into the shadows, no doubt onto the ‘dance floor’.

Some jerk wearing a blue jacket, bow tie and a poor toupee waves a microphone, flinging an arm off-

stage. “A round of applause please, for Danielle. Wasn’t she lovely?” The guy next to me at the bar

pays more attention to his drink. He’s not the only one.

Toupee Boy rattles on regardless. Presumably, he’s being paid to do so. “And now, Gentlemen, our

next performer for the evening. A big hand please for… Lily!” A few heads turn to gawk. None bother to

clap.

Lily takes the stage.

And I know on the spot I’ve found her, in this most unpromising of venues.