San Francisco. 1950. The Post war economy still booms, but not everyone prospers. Heroin has become the drug of choice. Nightclubs and brothels have taken over the city’s opium dens. Like so many other cities across the country, gangs and sex workers claim the streets under cover of the night. The darkened alleys of Chinatown have snuffed another prostitute’s life, making it two this week. Ten hours from now, a third victim will be discovered. Sergeant Elizabeth Holmes will throw the growing case file on Detective David Meenor’s already cluttered desk. As for tonight…
“What did you have in mind this evening, love?”
Vickie sucks her cigarette, then rubs it out in the dirty ashtray. She exhales toward the ceiling, giving her client a moment to ponder the offer.
“Hmmm, I want you to pleasure me first. Then, I'll please you. How's that sound?”
The reply comes slowly, with an air of trepidation.
“That sounds divine. Just relax.”
Vickie kisses her index finger and places it on her client’s lips. She scratches downward, pokes her painted fingernail into her john’s chest, and sends the naked figure back onto the bed. She smirks, then drops to her knees and goes to work. Vickie takes her time without wasting any. She moves languidly, like the inked boa snaking up her thigh and around her hip. She slivers up between john's legs. Her tongue navigates the prey’s quivering flesh. She flicks her tongue around its sex; her dancing fingers tease it. Vickie’s limbs wrap tightly around her climaxing victim as she devours it, just as a boa would. When she's done, she lights another cigarette and flops down next to her satisfied customer.
Vickie Chan is adorable. She’s a bubbly, five-foot flute of champagne, spilling happiness everywhere she goes; intoxicating everyone she meets. Seven years on the streets have stolen her innocence, but not her hope. She sees the good in people, and her smile teases it out. Its warmth is matched by glowing eyes of jade. Jet black hair frames a youthful face that’s cut at a severe angle just below her chin, incongruous to the soft curves of the teen’s body.
“How was that, love?”
“Just like you said. Divine. You're amazing, Vickie. Worth the wait. You're something special.”
“Thanks. I'm happy you enjoyed it.”
Their minds travel in opposite directions as they lay side by side sharing a cigarette. Vickie smiles in anticipation of what's in store for her. She runs her finger in circles against her areola, causing her nipples to peak. The warm buzz flows through her to her core. She rubs her thighs together to kindle its heat. Smoke billows from between her lips as she sighs and passes the glowing cigarette.
Its heat fills john’s throat and lungs. Vickie’s mark rolls it between trembling fingers as it burns. Thoughts of what’s to come, of what was promised, float above like stale smoke. Perspiration beads on the john’s troubled brow. Vickie’s too excited to notice.
“Well? Ready yet? I don't know how much longer I can wait.”
She’s as giddy as a birthday girl. Her energy is heartbreaking. She's not making their transaction any easier.
“Uh, sure. Just give me a minute to get set up.”
Vickie springs up, her hands on her knees, while john reluctantly rises to the edge of the bed.
“Ohhh, you need to set up? Did you bring toys with you?”
She's bubbling, and oh so cute.
“You could say that. Just a sec…”
With unsteady hands beneath a dim lamp, the ‘toys’ are laid out next to a leather satchel. A foil pouch is unfolded, revealing a pile of white powder. A fresh syringe and a scorched tablespoon rest beside it. A scarf is pulled from the lamp and folded, then placed on the table. It lightens the room, but not the mood.
“Let me have the lighter, babe.”
“What are you doing? What is that stuff?”
Vickie grabs a pillow and clutches it to her chest. Fear cracks through her questions.
“The lighter, Vickie. Please.”
The hopeful (naïve) girl still trusts her john. Without looking, she reaches for the lighter and hands it over.
“I wish you wouldn't do that in front of me. I had no idea you were into that kind of stuff.”
“It's not for me. You pleased me, now I'm going to pleasure you. Come here, Vickie.”
Her nails dig into the pillow. She retreats to the far corner of the bed. Her jade eyes fill with fear and shimmer with tears. Confusion and betrayal fill her heart. It pounds against her sternum. She whimpers.
“You don't have to do this. Please, don't do this.”
“Listen to me, Vickie. It will be the best thing you've ever felt in your life. Trust me, I know. Just a little prick, and then you're off.”
“No, I don’t want to. I won’t let you! I want you to leave. Get ou—“
The backhanded slap silences her mid-sentence. The smack of knuckles on her cheek fills the room and knocks her off the bed to the floor. Her john thinks that’s a shame. Vickie won't get to experience the high that she was promised. She is out cold before she hits the carpet. The syringe that plunges through her soft skin is filled with enough heroin to knock out a horse. Vickie will never wake up.
**
The end of the war welcomed an economy that prospered. Men in uniform were rewarded for their service by adoring women. I wasn't invited to the party. The draft had branded me with a pair of loafers instead of combat boots, so I joined the police academy. That was eight years ago. I was just a rookie patrolling the beat south of Chinatown, where the sleaze puddled around stagnant gutters. I first met Melanie in the spring of ’46. She was walking the streets with a different purpose. Back then, she wasn't the woman she is now, but I saw something alarming in her eyes, something that arrested me. Four years later, it's still there. And it still does.
I look over my shoulder and into her smoldering eyes. They grab me as quicksand would. I lower my gaze to the satin sheet. Its folds soften her curves. My fingers grip those curves like my convertible Roadmaster cruising along the PCH under a full moon’s light. Our room is dim. The red neon signage cuts through the vertical blinds. It slices through my ring and revolver on the night table, then falls across her face like a mask, illuminating her pleading, amber eyes.
“Come back to bed, love.”
I don’t see them, I hear their pleading. I finish my whiskey and lay down beside her. Her hair spills across her shoulder like caramel. I tuck a lock behind her ear. Her eyes melt into countless shades of brown. Her mouth is voliptuous. Voluptuous. Sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Speaking of straight, the blood that throbbed in my temple’s veins minutes before has gone south and taken the throbbing with it.
“Kiss me, babe. I promise I'll make you forget everything about your case.”
I wrap my hand around her throat and kiss her. I press my lips against her soft mouth and slip my tongue past her parted lips. My erection exposes my lust. She drags her nails across my chest before she wraps her fingers around me. I bite on her ear as I moan. I suck on her neck, then sink my teeth into her shoulder while she strokes me. I tear the sheet away, revealing her curvaceous landscape. I drag my tongue into her cleavage. I slowly breathe her in. A floral scent carries me into her garden. I knead her firm breasts and nibble her firmer nipples. I lick circles around her areolas, giving her rise. She begins to purr and grip me tighter, stroke me faster.
I rip her hand from my shaft and throw her wrists above her head. Once I'm kneeling between her legs, I reach up and squeeze her breasts while my lips travel across her stomach and around her navel. She trembles when I lower my hands between her burning thighs. I caress her balls between my fingers. With one hand wrapped around her base, I kiss her swollen knob. I stroke her slowly, firmly. Her scrote nests in my hand. I feel them swell. I lick her pearl drops of precum as she sighs.
“Be careful, it’s slippery. I had it waxed,” she giggles.
She rakes her long nails through my hair and digs them into the back of my neck when I take her in my mouth. Her purring drops to a low groan and she raises her hips to greet me. The taste of her dew strengthens my hunger. I wrap my lips around her shaft and slide them down her cock until I’m kissing her neatly trimmed fur. She thrusts into me as I suck her. The musky scent of her sex and distinct taste of her cum elevate me. Her rock hard erection between the soft flesh of her thighs electrifies me. I'm losing it. I need to focus on her pleasure, or else I'm going to orgasm before she does.
I slowly take her down my throat then stroke her with my lips sealed around her glans. With two handfuls of hair and her thighs pressed against my skull like a vice, she cries out before erupting in my mouth and down my throat. Her limbs collapse to her sides and I waste no time cleaning up every last drop.
“Oh my God, David. No one has ever made me feel the way you do. Ever.”
I could never tell her I feel the same. I run my fingertips up and down her shapely calf as I kiss her inner thigh. I want to keep kissing her and take her in my mouth again, make her hard, but it's getting late. The room slowly begins to lighten with the sunrise. I know I should go.
“Come up here, darling. Lay beside me. Rest with me.”
“You know I can't do that, Doll. I have to get home.”
“Ohhhh, don't be like that, my love. Just five minutes. Please.”
I chuckle. Five minutes. It's never just five minutes. Not even for me.
“Sorry, Doll. I should've left hours ago. Last night's murder makes three. I've got no leads. I have to grab a shower and some fresh clothes before heading back to the station. Don't forget, I need you to come down this afternoon. Standard procedure, I just need you to make a statement.”
“Ohhhh, yes Detective. Whatever you say, Detective.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Sweetheart. I don't like it anymore than you do. I'm sorry about your girls. I'm gonna catch this guy. Don't you worry, Doll.”
“I’m not worried, David. I know you will. I love you.”
“Don't forget this afternoon. The station. Got it, Mel?”
Not exactly ‘I love you too, Doll’, but that's all I can muster. I do love her.
Melanie Saint Moritz was fourteen when Pearl Harbor received our invitation to the war. Melanie's parents named their son Melvin. The boy’s confused pleas fell on deaf and unsympathetic ears. In his parent’s defense, ‘sex change’ and ‘transgender’ were frightening terms during wartime. By the spring of ’42, Melanie left her parents and Melvin behind for a life on the streets.
Her story was not unlike many of the kids who lived in the shadows. She was twinked out by a pimp. Eventually, she was tweaked out on heroin. Unlike many of the kids, Melanie fought her way out. Back alley blow jobs promoted her to secretive trysts in hotel rooms with politicians more crooked than Lombard Street. Her savings grew as did the thickness of her black book, not to mention the prominence of her clientele. In time, she was able to afford surgery. And the nightclub, whose back door opened to the darkened alley where she conducted business as a teen boy? Well now, Melanie owned the place.
***
I always hate leaving Mel. I used to enjoy going home to Cindy. Me and Cindy were high school sweethearts. I was tucked behind the line of scrimmage. She shook things up from the sidelines. My talent took us to the state championship. Her attributes landed her on the cheer squad. Blue eyes, blonde hair, and a smile so pretty the boys rarely stole glances down at her pert A-cups. Toned and tanned legs fell from a pleated skirt, which covered a perfect, tight ass. Her attitude awarded her Captain status. I fell for the whole package. We were married six weeks after graduation. It was the summer of ’40. Marriage was grand. We were young and in love. Blah, blah, blah…
“…And in local news, police are still clueless after another dead body turns up overnight. That makes three unsolved murders over the past two weeks. When asked about developments in the case, Lead Detective David Meenor only replied, ’No comm—”
I twist the radio’s dial and silence the ignorant banter. Moonlight reflects off the chrome dash. I breath in the salty Pacific breeze, but it does nothing to calm my nerves. In no particular order, my current trifecta has me on edge, to say the least. The case should be at the top of my list, but I’m torn between my feelings for Mel and my commitment to Cindy. I need to focus. Box these problems up, one for each. After all, they're not related, right? I have to tackle one at a time. I drive home as the eastern sky pushes the darkness toward the Pacific. I’ve got to make it home before the sunrise grants my wife another day. A blessing that was stolen from three women in my city.
I step through the darkness and place my revolver on the nightstand while I slip off my loafers. My wife's bare shoulder faces me. I can hear her soft breath, faint and calm. I undress and tiptoe away from my pile of clothes. I glance down at my wife. She's as pretty as the day I met her. Melancholic thoughts take me back. I drag myself into the bathroom. My finger taps against the sink’s edge. The wedding band rings off the porcelain as I look into the mirror. My wife is still a youthful pixie. I wear my decade of marriage. My hair is streaked with gray; my face lined with wrinkles. I disappear in the dense steam coming from the shower like Alcatraz in San Francisco Bay on an foggy morning. I lower my head and assume the position beneath the shower head. The hot water melts into me. For a brief moment, my muscles relax and my mind follows.
“Good morning, Davey. I didn't hear you come in. Why didn't you wake me, baby?”
She wraps her arms around my waist. I feel her taut nipples press into my back.
There's something in her voice. It's not sarcasm or condescension. More like a forced interest. It resembles a mother talking to a child that isn't her own. She's too self-absorbed to feel me tense up in her presence.
“You look beautiful when you’re asleep. I didn't want to disturb you.”
It's true. She did. I didn't. My tension begins to fade. It doesn't hurt that she’s nibbling on my shoulder from the tips of her toes. Her hands wander between my legs.
“Oh baby, you're so sweet. Speaking of beautiful, I think I found something quite handsome down here.”
She wraps her fingers around my firming shaft, then caresses my scrote. A faint groan crawls out from my throat. She picks up on the cue and strokes me while sinking her teeth into my back. I spin around and pull her under the water with me. I bend down and smash my lips against hers. I run my hands over her slick skin and squeeze her tiny ass. She responds in-kind and tightens her grip. Our moans mingle amidst wrestling tongues. I slide my hand between her thighs and slip my fingers between her folds to pet her. She squeals when I find her clit. I rub circles around the swollen gem and curl my fingers inside her. I take her neck in my mouth. I want to taste her blood. She whispers in my ear.
“Fuck me. Now.”
I lower myself, wrap my arms under her thighs, and effortlessly lift her up toward my chest. She hugs my neck and positions her petals against my stamen. I slam her compact frame against the tile wall. She feels weightless in my arms. I press my torso against her. My engorged cock disappears inside her luscious pussy with little resistance.
“Harder, Baby. Make me cum. Faster, Davey. Faster.”
She presses her fingers into me as I drive deeper inside her. I feel her walls wrap tighter around me as I invade her threshold. The heat of the shower, the heat of my wife, makes me lightheaded. I thrust faster and she screams louder.
“Make me cum, dammit! Make me cum…Fuck, I'm gonna cum!”
I feel her push off the tile into me, then convulse. She quivers as she cries, then trembles before she goes limp in my arms, panting. Once she catches her breath, after I put her down, I hear that voice.
“Ahh, that was nice, baby. Thanks. Would you mind if I finished my shower alone?”
“Yeah, sure. Listen, I've gotta get to the station. There's been another murder. I hope—“
“And could you get breakfast started? Some of your delicious pancakes?”
I leave a note on the kitchen table before I leave.
COFFEE’S ON STOVE.
BREAD IN TOASTER.
BUTTER’S OUT
SO ITS SOFT.
I’M WORKING LATE.
XO
****
I merge onto the PCH and punch it south along the coast. The fog rises from the bay in my rearview mirror and I grip the wheel and let myself go. Finally, I can think freely. I forget my tense, albeit gratifying, morning with Cindy. I'm even able to put aside my romantic evening with Mel. I need to focus on the case, but there's not much to go on.
All three vics were young and female. All three worked the streets and were found in different motels scattered around Chinatown. There was evidence of drug use. Suicide would be a crazy coincidence. I don't believe in coincidences, crazy or not. What drugs were these girls using? Where did they get them? Two of the girls worked for Mel at Black n’ Blues. Maybe she'll be able to shed some light on the girls’s habits and their acquaintances this afternoon. I need to get to the Medical Examiner and pick his brain.
If I'm to have a productive day, I need to start off on the right foot. I stop at the ChitChat. One coffee, black. No donut, thank you. Yes, I know it's on the house. I take the joe outside. The engine’s heat radiating through the hood warms my ass and the coffee warms my soul. My mind is a blank canvas. I follow the expanse of the Pacific. It disappears into the lightening sky. Directly below me, it beats against my city’s shores relentlessly. I toss the empty cup and walk back inside.
“Two more coffees, black. And I'll take you up on that donut offer. To go.”
“Yessir. Coming right up.”
The girl at the register looks about Vickie’s age. Hell, loose her hair from the stubby ponytail and lose the uniform, this girl could be Vickie.
“Oh, could you throw some creamers and sugars in the bag, please?”
“Of course, sir. Right away.”
I grab the bag and leave a Hamilton next to the register. I head north on 280 to the ME’s Office. I enter the room as he's about to sheath his fingers in latex gloves and begin an autopsy.
“Not so fast, Doc. I'd like to talk to you for a minute or two. Besides, you should never perform an autopsy on an empty stomach.”
I shake the brown bag and extend a cup at him. He takes the bait.
“You realize this blatant attempt at caloric coercion doesn’t work with anyone but yourself, Detective.”
“The respect is mutual, Doc.”
We spend thirty minutes discussing the case. He informs me there's no evidence of prior drug abuse. Only one puncture wound from the syringe was found on each girl. Whoever shot these girls up was experienced. Career choices aside, all three were young, vital, healthy women. They exhibited no evidence of bullet or blade penetration. Physical violence wasn’t the cause of their death.
“However, each of the female victims was compromised in a specific and exclusive manner.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning, they were all defenseless before the drugs were introduced to their systems.”
“Ok. Go on.”
“Well, your first victim has contusions around her throat. That tells me she was strangled to the point of unconsciousness. Your second victim exhibits the same bruising around her wrists, which means she was subdued. Your third, and most recent victim, has a broken jaw and bruising on her left cheek. Probably the result of a violent blow, which resulted in her being knocked out.”
I need a minute to absorb all this. The violence is new to me. Who beats a woman? A coward, that's who. Add anger to the list of emotions running through my veins.
“So, once the women were manhandled, they were injected with the drugs. What else can you tell me?”
“Not much, Detective. The type of drug is still undetermined, as is the amount. All of our samples are still at the lab. As soon as I hear anything, you'll be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“I'm sorry I don't have more for you at this time. Thank you for the breakfast. I'll be in touch.”
“Yeah. You know where to find me. Keep at it, Doc.”
I walk out of there in a whirlwind. Fleeting optimism battles against bitter anger and disgust. Those poor girls. Not innocent, but not deserving of their dismal fates. I’m frustrated. I need to make this right. I need a drink.
THE GAELIC PROMISE
‘YOU’RE ONLY A STRANGER ’TIL YOU ORDER’
I read the sign above the heavy oak door before dragging it open and entering the empty, dark pub. I look around at a room full of chairs whose legs extend to the ceiling from knotted table tops. A feeble man pushes a mop across the floor. The bartender crashes through the kitchen doors, snapping my head back across the bar at her scowl. She’s massaging a glass with a towel that drapes from her shoulder.
“We don't open for another twenty minutes.”
I look at the clock on the wall. It reads 11:10. I throw her a doubtful glance. She doesn't hesitate.
“It’s fast.”
“I’ll wait.”
She reluctantly pours me a pint, and I realize the sign above the door isn't just words. We talk about her, not so much about me. She tells me about her boyfriend. They have plans. Marriage. A house, then kids. I listen intently. Jeez. She's just a kid herself. The drunk next to me mumbles in agreement and lifts his head. He pushes his glass toward the taps.
“One more for him, Linda. It's on me. Give me a shot of James while you're at it.”
“These are on me. Here's to the ones we love and the ones we don’t.”
She pushes the beer at our friend and the shot toward me before lifting her own. We tap, then throw them back.
…the ones we love and the ones we don't. I need to go.
*****
… the ones we don't. Something’s been eating away at me. It's not the case. It's not Mel. I know how it feels to be in love. I’ve felt those butterflies flutter. This is something different. Like ants nibbling at grains of sugar. I need to get home. I need to talk to Cindy.
She’s not home. The percolator is empty and the bread limply rises from the toaster. The butter is a congealed mess. My note isn’t on the table. It’s a crumbled ball in the trash. At least I think it's the note. I flatten it out on the counter for confirmation. I wonder if she even took the time to read it. I push it away and watch it fall back into the can. The peace offering settles atop a discarded box. What's with the box?
I push the note aside with a carving knife, then flip the lid off the box. It’s the perfect size for a necklace, or maybe a watch. I would've accepted that, but it’s no token of a lover’s affection. My Rolodex of emotions spins wildly. It slows at CONFUSION, then stops at FEAR. If these are Cindy's, what is she doing with them? If they're not, how did they get here?
I drop the box’s contents into a ziplock bag and hold it up for inspection. The syringe has been used, and the two vials are empty. The tiny vessels are void of description and instruction labels. I need answers. Is she hiding an illness or an addiction for a friend? Is she the one using drugs? My mind lurches toward the unimaginable. Is Cindy murdering prostitutes? I need to get these to the lab. I have to talk to Cindy.
Her work as a receptionist at the gym keeps her busy a few hours a day. The rest is spent working out and stroking the egos of the gym’s muscle. I can't complain. Since the day I met her, Cindy has been passionate about staying fit. It keeps her happy and she still looks amazing. Who am I to complain? I pull around to the back lot. That's when I notice her… and him.
He slips the box into her purse. She cups her hand against his cheek and soundlessly laughs. His left hand gropes her shoulder, sneaks down her back, and settles on her ass. He opens the door. She slides into the seat. He eases between the car and the open door. Whether they're talking, laughing, or kissing, I can't tell. I start the Roadmaster with a clenched fist. I've always remembered things in color, at least the happy memories. Sad ones always appear to me in black-and-white. I’ll never forget this one. It’s stained red.
I pull around the corner to the nearest payphone. By the time someone picks up at the station, I’ve smoked half my cigarette. The booth is filled with smoke. I'm fuming.
“Yeah. Jimmy. Anyone working over there?”
“Crazy morning. Boss-lady is looking for you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell her I got some evidence I need to get to the lab, then I'll be in.”
“Watcha got, partner? Solve the case?”
“Don't worry about it, kid. Just tell her I'll be in when I get there. Got it?”
“Sure thing. See you soon.”
By the time I get across town and drop off the bag at the lab, it's early afternoon. Doc doesn't have anything to offer, so I don't waste any time. I need to get downstairs before Mel shows up. Fortunately, she hasn't. I navigate through the officers, avoiding the other detectives. I know better than to assume I can slide behind my desk unnoticed. That doesn't mean I'm not gonna try.
“Good afternoon, Meenor.”
“Hello, Sar—“
“Af-ter-noon. It means after 12:00 PM, Detective. In other words, the morning is history. Understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I was—“
“We like to get things started in the morning around here. Preferably early. Understand?”
“Yes, Boss. I was—“
“Excuse me, Sarge?”
Sergeant Liz Holmes looks down at Jimmy, perturbed. I look up at him, relieved.
“Melanie St. Moritz is here to speak with Detective Meen—“
“Please show Ms. Moritz to my office, Detective Chadham. Tell her I'll be with her in a minute.”
Jimmy cowers away and Sergeant Holmes asserts her undivided attention.
“I’m not sure what you've got going on, but it better be related to this case. I don't need to tell you the pressure I'm under. Get your shit together and get me some answers, Detective.”
She turns her back on me before I have a chance to answer. Luckily, I'm able to catch Mel’s attention before she walks into Sarge’s office. I toss my head in the direction of the front door and lip, ‘Meet me outside. I'll be waiting.’ An emotionless nod is all I get. It’s more than I deserve. My first cigarette becomes my second. My second grows to a pile of distinguished butts at my feet. The first thing I notice when she exits the building is the way the sinking sun sets her eyes ablaze. The second is her palm stinging against my face.
“How could you? I don't hear from you all day, and then you leave me out to dry with that…that…woman?”
“Listen, Doll. It was out of my control. Things took a sharp left today. I'll explain everything. First things first. What did the Sarg—“
Mel's grip on my crotch takes my breath away. She gives me hers with a deep kiss. Her tongue thrashes against mine and our hands grasp at each other. I throw her onto the backseat and hike up her skirt. I rip her lace thong halfway down her thighs and sink my teeth into the flesh of her ass. She squeals. I spread her cheeks and lick her crevice. I circle her tight hole with my wet tongue before kissing it. When she's glistening with my spit, I slide my finger inside her. I hear her pleasure. Faint, but deep. I reach beneath her. Caress her balls and stroke her long, firm cock. She takes another of my fingers, moaning for more. I turn her over and she lowers her mouth over my tempered rod. She devours me; envelops me with her fingers, lips, and tongue. When she's done, I’m a throbbing mess of saliva and cum. She turns again, and with her hands gripping the front seat, she lowers her ass until my cock disappears inside her.
We savor each other in my Roadmaster until the sun-soaked afternoon cools to twilight. I've never experienced such intensity before or since. It is the last time I make love to Mel.
******
I’m still reeling from our interlude when I enter the station. Other than Jimmy's, my lamp is the only one aglow in the room of empty desks. He's nowhere to be found, and I'm not looking. I collapse in my chair and light a cigarette. After a drag, I balance the stick on the lamp’s base, which doubles as an ashtray. Smoke threads to the light and clouds beneath the emerald dome. I empty my lungs, shrouding the case file in smoke. Sarge’s note orders me to type up the transcript from her interview with Mel.
I exhale my next drag across my typewriter. A cloud of dust and smoke blows off the keys. I grab some paper and cram it between the rollers. The crooked, dog-eared sheet stares back at me blankly. I grab my whiskey. Fifteen minutes later, I've got three sentences falling to the edge of the paper. It seems my two fingers are better suited at measuring bourbon than hunting and pecking at letters. Where the hell is…
“Jimmy! Where the hell are you?! Chadham? You hear me?”
Jimmy’s got her restrained with two sets of handcuffs. Her outstretched arms glisten from nervous perspiration. The cuffs bite into her raw wrists and lock her to the headboard. He balls up a scarf and shoves it in her mouth, damming her desperate pleas. He straddles her bucking hips and rips off her bra. He licks his lips, but his lust creeps slowly. His tongue is unable to catch the drool that drips onto her breast. He gropes her orbs as she heaves, then twists her nipples until they're red and swollen. He undresses and lays on top of her. The feel of her skin against his bare chest makes him shudder. He licks his spittle off her and bites down on her nipple, making her wince. Jimmy slides down her torso and tears away her panties…
My voice echoes across the room. Silence. I crush out my cigarette and take another shot of bourbon, then make my way down the hall to the bathroom. If he's here, he’s sure as shit taking one.
Jimmy sits back on his ankles and grabs his leather belt. He clenches the strap between his teeth while he rolls her over and splits her legs. He sucks on the weathered hide. He drags his tongue across it, moaning into the strap. He shoves the moistened belt between her legs and up against her quivering pussy. He slides it across her protesting mound as she trembles. Her mistaken signals excite him. His firm ’shroom is now long enough for him to stroke between his thumb and two digits. He fantasizes of licking her dripping juices from the belt before folding it over and snapping it against her exposed ass. He leans back and grunts as he violently jerks at his snub pistol. Thoughts of the helpless girl beneath him, squirming and squealing in perceived pleasure, have him in a frenzy. A weak stream of semen spits from his knob and drizzles over his finger.
“Chadham! You in here?”
I shove the door open and enter the bathroom. Unoccupied urinals line the wall. Blinking lights tinge the porcelain and tile yellow.
Jimmy pinches his tiny dick in surprise. He sucks the discharge from his finger and scooches back on the toilet and jerks his feet up on the seat.
“Jimmy! Answer me!”
All the stalls are open, except for one. I slam my fist against it until he answers. He screams back at me, startled.
“What the hell, partner! Can’t a guy get some privacy around here?”
I can't see what he's doing in there and I don't wanna know. The sound of paper unrolling and the toilet flushing is all the confirmation I need.
“Finish up in there and get your ass to my desk. Pronto.”
I leave Jimmy with the file and Sarge’s instructions. Surely this kid knows his way around a typewriter better than me. I joke how feminine his fingers look dancing across the keys. He's not amused. In fact, he gives me a fearful look, as if those feminine hands have been caught in the cookie jar. I hide my bottle back in the drawer before I run upstairs to meet with Doc. To Jimmy’s credit, my return finds him hunched over his typewriter, just about finished with his third page. I drop Doc’s report next to his work.
“Impressive job, Chadham. I had a feeling your fingers wer—“
“Never mind about my fingers. Got anything interesting?”
Apparently, a touchy subject. I make a mental note not to revisit it. He resumes typing and I resume speaking.
“Yeah, you could say that. The paraphernalia came up clean. No prints on the syringe or the spoon. Toxicology reports for the vics won't be back for another ten days. However, residue from the needle tested positive for heroin. Pure, uncut heroin. Not cheap, and not easy to find.”
The typewriter ceases snapping and the room falls silent for a moment. Jimmy leans back in his chair, breaking the silence with an extended creak.
“You don’t say, partner. I'll finish typing this up and head over to Chinatown. I know a mule over there who might give me a lead.”
“That sounds good, Jimmy. Just paperclip Doc’s report to the typed transcript and throw it on Sarge’s desk before you leave.”
“You got it, partner. What about you?”
“I've got my own lead to follow. Oh, and Jimmy?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
He doesn't stop typing or look up.
“Sure thing. Uh, you too.”
*******
Linda is there along with our friend, but the place is teaming with lowlifes. I get her attention, then a glass, and the bottle. I hide at the end of the bar, next to the phone booth. I light a cigarette and scan the room. It's packed with people in search of distraction. They’re here to forget, and be forgotten. Anonymous shadows beneath dim lights, veiled in thick smoke. I've got my eyes on Linda as she works.
The poor girl, she probably thinks she has a future in this town. She’s got a man she loves. One who loves her. One who will protect her. I used to love a girl like her. A beauty like her used to love me. I'm older now. I know better. So does our buddy.
His head’s buried in the crook of his elbow, blind to our city’s ugliness. His other arm wraps around his beer protectively. He knows it'll be there when he wakes up. So will the next one. And the one after that…
The case finally has some legs and I'll let Jimmy run with it a bit. I still need to talk to Cindy. I have to know what she was doing with the syringes and vials. She needs to spill the beans and tell me about that brute from the gym. I can't believe she would have anything to do with murder, but something doesn't sit right, and it ain’t my wife’s affair. I catch Linda’s eye, hold my empty glass up, and tap it. There's a phrase about glass houses and rocks, but it escapes me. She returns with a glass of ice cubes. I give her a wink and slide a folded Grant under the empty rocker. I pick up the bottle and the ice and head into the phone booth.
“Great, you're still there. Listen, I want you to—“
“Christ, partner. It's a good thing you called. The phone’s been ringing since you left. I tried your house, but no one’s home. There's been another murder. Behind The Black n’ Blues Jazz Club.”
Shit! Mel!
“You still there? Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard you. I'm on my way. Does Sarge know yet?”
“Can't say. I know I didn't tell her.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“You got it. I’ll meet you there, partner…partner?…”
I drop the phone and grab the bottle, then hightail it out of there.
I screech to a stop amid scattered black and whites. Red lights cut through the misty night and reflect off the club’s windows. Yellow tape webs from its entrance, between light poles and around garbage cans. I can see Mel standing next to Sergeant Holmes, bathed in blue beneath the throbbing neon sign. She's shaking in her mink shawl. Her arms wrap across her chest, and I can see a cigarette glowing from her lips. She’s alive. She's safe. I sneak around the squad cars and under the tape, then disappear into the alley. Jimmy and Doc are separated by the victim’s chalked outline. A couple of officers have just loaded the body into the coroner’s van. Jimmy is scribbling spastically in his notepad. Doc has just ripped off his gloves and thrown them into his bag.
“Whadda we got, fellas?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news, partner. The good news is we've already ID’d the victim.”
“That's the good news?”
“The bad news is my mule is dead.”
“Jeez, Jimmy. Let me guess. He was murdered before you talked to him.”
“Sorry.”
“What about you, Doc? Anything good?”
“Aside from the fact our victim is male, this murder resembles the others. I've got the bag of paraphernalia to bring to the lab. I'm certain it will confirm what we already know, Detective.”
“Thanks, Doc. I'll swing by tomorrow if I don't hear from you first. Jimmy, you need to figure out why you weren’t the only one interested in the deceased. Got it?”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to sniff around here until Sarge disappears. Then I’ll talk to Mel. Good night, men.”
I spend the next forty-five minutes in the alley. I discover some footprints, a handful of cigarette butts, and a kid hiding behind the dumpster. The footprints most likely belong to Jimmy’s dead mule. Three of the cigarettes are unfiltered; one of the others has traces of lipstick. The boy claims he didn’t see anything and ‘if I did, what’s it to ya?’. The lab will take care of the prints and butts. As for the juvenile, pangs of guilt tell me to keep an eye on him. I send him off with a crumbled Lincoln. I remind him it’s for a hot meal and ask him to think of me if he remembers anything.
Mel’s at the bar when I enter the club. The evening has taken its toll on her, but her beauty still takes me away. She taps her cigarette over the ashtray. A glass of rye rests on her bare thigh. A lithe finger circles the amber drink’s single cube of ice. The door shuts against my back and she doesn't so much as bat an eyelash. I slide behind the bar and walk toward her.
“I needed you tonight, David.”
“I know, Doll. This case is spinning me every which way but loose. Things are heating up.”
“Don’t ‘Doll’ me. I'm not some floozy, David. I love you. We both know it's not the case that’s got you distracted.”
I freshen her drink and pour my own.
“Listen, Do...Mel. We've discussed this. You know I love you, but I can—“
“Can’t leave your wife, David? Or can't be seen with someone like me?”
“That’s not fair. I—“
“Fair? Don't talk to me about fair. Don't you dare! Do you think my life has been fair? My parents treated me like a freak. I lived on the streets for years. I was abused in ways unimaginable to you and this entire city. No one helped me get to where I am today. If anyone knew who I really was, I'd be a laughingstock. I would lose all credibility. I would lose this club. I could lose my life! So don't talk to me about fair.”
“Mel, you're right. I'm sorry. I’m talking out of line. I just want—“
“You want to know the truth of it? Do you, David?”
She places the cigarette in the ashtray and takes a sip of her rye. She looks over my shoulder and scans the bottles of liquor displayed against the bar’s mirror. She spins around and extends her arms at the empty club and laughs. It's hollow and fades quickly. Her eyes are glassy, but her voice doesn't waver.
“The truth is, I don't care about this club. I don't care about my reputation. I only care about you. I don't want to lose you, David.”
She spins back around. She stares at me with wet, desperate eyes.
“I love you. I can't live without you. I don't want you to leave me. That's the truth.”
She drops her gaze to the ashtray and watches her fingers trace hearts with her smoldering cigarette.
“Mel. I love you. You're not gonna lose me or the club. Just let me solve this case first, and we’re gonna work everything out. I promise.”
She scratches out the ashen heart, then crushes the butt and whispers, ”We'll work it out… After the case…”.
Sometimes a man's got to say the right thing at the right time. Truth or not. I did love Mel. That much was true. If truth be told, I don’t think she believed a word I said that night.
********
If I say we left on bad terms, that would be an understatement. No matter what I told her, I could not allay her fears. The more I attempted to console her, the more despondent she got. She might've been tired; she might've been scared. Maybe I was too vague. Unassuring. Too many excuses, too many false truths. It doesn't matter. I left her in the club alone.
It's been a long night and the concept of time escapes me. I park across the street from The Gaelic Promise. There's a car rumbling against the curb. A weak light above the sign umbrellas to the sidewalk. Linda stands beneath it. She's locking up. She laughs her way into the car and I watch it pull away. Good for her. I grab the bottle from the passenger seat. I should be thinking about the case. Why a male victim this time? What’s the pattern here? If I’m not going think about the case, there's always my failing marriage. Am I doing something wrong? What is Cindy doing wrong? Who is Cindy doing? Then there’s Mel. I can't lose her. But I'm not thinking of any of those things. I'm deep in thought with this bottle. Looking for answers. The only thing I find is the bottom.
The grimy hand slaps my window and straightens my neck from its painful angle. The view from my windshield tells me dawn would’ve done the favor in another hour.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
He can't wait that long. His breath fogs my window. I drag my dry tongue across my filmy teeth and wonder whose is more rank. I struggle to open the window. First his fingers, then his arms, and finally his head stick through the clear barrier as it lowers.
“Whatchu dun heeya? Use mizt lass cawl!”
His hissing laughter pierces my ears and grates my pained skull. I can't place the face, but the sinewed forearms and knotted fingers expose this creature of the night. If I wasn't so hung over, I'd be happy to see him. Linda is gonna get a kick out of this.
“You scared the hell out of me! Get in. Looks like we both could use a hot cup of coffee and some breakfast.”
He skips around the front of my car, cackling like a leprechaun possessed and falls into my Roadmaster. He talks the entire drive to the diner. I have no recollection of what he tells me. We feel the rising sun on our backs as we sit at the counter. He devours eggs, bacon, and a stack of hotcakes while taking advantage of his bottomless cup of coffee. I settle on some rye toast and one coffee while he tells me his story. The long and the short…
“Fallah ya hawt. It ain gunna lie t’ya.”
I set him up at the hostel around the corner from The Gaelic and promise to see him before the next last call. Matt tells me it's the first time he’ll be able to take a hot shower and nap in a bed with clean sheets in weeks. Possibly the caffeine, probably our heart to heart has me feeling refreshed. It's time to go home and confront Cindy. But not before a hot shower of my own.
The house is quiet when I get there. She's peacefully sprawled on her stomach, one arm beneath the pillow. The sheet curls between her legs and over her hip, exposing everything but her perfect ass. Morning sun pronounces her curves. Her toned body is smooth, but firm. I feel a spark, something buzzing. It's not the caffeine. I take the feeling, and my thoughts, into the bathroom. I leave my wedding ring on the sink and escape into a hot shower. I wash away the stench of last night, but the image of my naked wife clings to me. I can't ignore my swelling distraction, unless…
I wrap the towel around my waist, covering my flaccid excuse of manhood. Not only has my erection fallen, but my head is clear. A cold shower cannot be overrated. Neither can my wife's beauty. As soon as I approach the bed, the towel is tugged from above my knees. I gently rock her shoulder to wake her. Her skin beneath my fingers sends a jolt through me. She rolls over and groans, inches from my erection. She's groggy, but it doesn't take long for her to rise.
“Mmmm. Good morning, baby. I see you’re…up.”
This isn't going as expected.
“Cindy, we need to talk.”
“Ok. But not before breakfast.”
She rips the towel away from my waist. It drops to the floor and she delicately wraps her fingers around my stiff cock. She kisses my swollen head and pulls me closer to the bed.
“Cindy. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I feel her purr as she takes me down her throat. Her fingers dance under my scrote and between my legs. There's a hunger inside her, a sexual desire that has always made me weak. I throb within her throat. I feel her lips slide down my shaft. I grab a handful of her tangled locks and ejaculate. She takes what she can. I wipe what’s left off her chin with my finger and feed it to her. I roll her over and slide into the bed behind her. I fondle her small breasts, tweak her firm nipples, then slide my fingers between her legs and massage her folds. Soft warmth melts to liquid heat, and I enter her. Slow and deliberate. I sink deep inside her. I hear her cry. I fuck her harder, faster. She shudders and goes limp after we cum. I toss her aside and roll off the bed.
“I still need to talk to you.”
*********
The stench of guilt pervades me. I'm losing Mel and I can't get rid of Cindy. It's no mystery why. Balls. The absence of mine. I need to find them or grow some if I'm to straighten this mess out. My other mess, the professional one, is nothing but a mystery. The case has escalated off the rails. I need answers. Hopefully, Doc is in a giving mood. I stop at the ChitChat to sweeten the pot.
“Half a dozen jelly donuts and two cups of coffee to go, Rebecca.”
I take note of the embroidered name on the innocent nymph’s snug uniform. Rebecca’s smile warms me in ways a cup of joe can’t.
“Thanks, sweetheart. Enjoy your day.”
‘Cuz I sure as shit won’t be enjoying mine.
I dump the flask from my G-box into what's left of my coffee, and make my way upstairs. I offer the bounty to Doc and wait as he softens the bitter elixir with sugar and creamer. Grape jam oozes from the pastry and clings to his tie. Confectioners sugar lines his thin lips. I hand him a napkin.
“Thank you, Detective. You’re here early. Unfortunately, I don't have any results from the mule’s murder yet. What can I do for you?”
“I didn't think so. I figured I'd swing by before I got settled downstairs. No harm in trying. How's you're donut?”
Doc nods his head appreciatively as he chews on the sweet treat, then cleans his palate with the sweeter coffee. He vigorously wipes his mouth and holds up his finger.
“Oh, there is one thing. I almost forgot! Those other samples you brought me. I received the results.”
“And?”
“I assume they don't pertain to the investigation.”
“Why’s that, Doc?”
“Well, there were no traces of heroin. The only residue I found was from methandrostenolone.”
“Metha-what?”
“It's a steroid. The military started using it, and now athletes are taking it to enhance performance and increase muscle mass. Where did you get it, Detective?”
“She's taking steroids?”
“Who, Detective?”
“Um, nothing, Doc. Thanks. Let me know as soon as you get the results from last night.”
“Of course, Detective. Are you all right?”
Steroids? Why the hell is Cindy taking steroids? What the hell has she got herself into with that goon? At least it's not murder. She's no saint, but…
I descend the stairs confused, but relieved. I shut Pandora's anabolic box, saving that conundrum for later. My respite is short-lived. When I step into the squad room from the stairwell, chaos overwhelms me. Sergeant Holmes stands outside her door; a queen surrounded by frantic worker bees. Her voice bellows over ringing phones and questioning officers.
“Meenor! My office! Now!”
I shut the door behind me, silencing the squad room’s activity.
“What’s going on, Sarge.”
“Another murder, Meenor. Only hours after our mule’s. Jimmy's on his way to Knight’s Hotel now. I need you to get over there and take the lead before he screws anything up.”
Knight’s? That's where Mel and I—
“Meenor! Are you listening to me?”
“Huh? Yeah. Got it, Sarge.”
I tear down the descending streets. It's not her. Memories race through my mind. She would have gone home from the club, not to the hotel. They fight with the regret of my half-assed attempts to hold onto Mel. It's just a coincidence. My foolishness for thinking I could juggle her with my failing marriage. I don't believe in coincidences. I scream through red lights rehearsing my apology, visualizing our next embrace and making everything right. I need another chance to make everything right.
It all comes to a screeching halt. The regrets, the shame, my love. My Roadmaster. I idle hopelessly, waiting for the trundling cable car to pass. I grip the wheel, consumed by fear. The crowded car inches by. I spend the time discounting the endless What if’s?. The physicality of my reality consumes me. My head pounds behind a sweaty brow. A queasy stomach is flipping over beneath a challenged heart exploding in my chest.
Everything is put to rest when I arrive at the scene. It resembles every other. The crowd. The cars. Flashing lights and yellow tape. It all looks the same. I enter the room. Jimmy’s scribbling; Doc’s just closed his bag. It doesn't feel the same. They look up as I approach. Their eyes tell the story. They step aside. It’s not the same.
Sergeant Holmes takes a chance and gives Jimmy the lead on this one. She may be a hard-ass, but somewhere there's a heart in there. I'm not much use to the investigation, but I refuse to take any time off. I can't honestly say I have a place to call home anymore, but that's another story. Most nights I’m at my desk. If I need a break, I'm at The Gaelic. Last night, I took a break.
It's 11:50…AM when I stumble into my chair. Getting better, Sarge. There's photos and lab reports scattered across my desk. A starched envelope with nothing but my stamped name rests against my cobwebbed typewriter. I spin around in my chair, looking for someone to provide an explanation. Another failed investigation, Detective. I search for my letter opener, but settle for a nail file. Two for two this morning. The contents strongly contrast the envelope. It's handwritten. Some stains (tears and whiskey?) and a smudge or two of ink and ashes.
Dearest David.
This is no easy task. I apologize for the pain you will endure reading this. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a murderer. I am responsible for the deaths of those innocent girls and that thief. More importantly, at least to you, I took my own life.
I am not sharing this with you to place blame. I beg you, David. Do not feel shame or guilt. But as I told you, I cannot live without you. I have loved you since the day we met. I have loved you as I’ve loved no other. I realize you loved me too, for who I am, not who I was, or who I've become. You valued me and placed no value on my possessions.
I did not want to murder those girls. They were innocent. They were beautiful. But I had no choice. If I had taken my life, and my life alone, the club would've been lost to the city. Everything I have ever fought for would've been in vain. I would've been exposed as the outcast society thinks I am. The trash my parents were happy to be rid of.
You and I were happy together. I know that. I hope you do. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. I hope you find happiness again someday. I’ve left the club to you, exclusively. I've also left you my black book. Please do something good with it. Do something good for the city.
I love you, David.
Please forgive me.
xoxoMel
*
It didn't take much for me to convince Doc to avoid an autopsy (for obvious reasons). Surprisingly, coffee and donuts go a long way with professional friends. As for Jimmy, he impressed everybody (including your’s truly). With a little nudging, and a certain black book, he was able to close the case. Cindy finally grew tired of me and left. She crawled out from under the strong arm of her thug of a boyfriend too. Apparently, the title of serial killer and thirty years behind bars didn't appeal to her. As for me, I turned over the club to someone with experience and a future. Linda quit her job at The Gaelic Promise and became the majority owner of The Black n’ Blues Jazz Club with her soon to be husband. Our buddy Matt was hired to run the kitchen. These days, I spend most mornings at The ChitChat. Occasionally, I'll treat Mayor Holmes to a coffee and a donut. Who knows when I’ll need another favor.
