Chapter 13
2311 Words
How to do this?
Interviews first? Or files first?
Slicing open the first of Stanton’s boxes, inside I find printouts, reports, photos…
A cursory examination reveals the kind of obscene detail one would expect to find in such files. Confidentiality aside, it’s not something I want Mitch seeing. She stumbled on photos of the most recent victim. I’ll not have that happening again.
Need to find myself a workspace…
Not Mitch’s place…
Not the main house either. Even if I ‘borrowed’ the use of James’ office there, any of the women might chance upon the files. And thinking on it, if Jenny spotted the boxes, no one would keep her out of them, confidential police files or not.
Figure something out later…
Meanwhile… Stanton’s interview list…
Individuals not suspected of the crimes… these particular crimes at least… but perhaps in a position to hear of anything.
particularSchauder…
Renberger…
Gordonton…
Who to start with?
?
Who’s least likely to make trouble?
Renberger’s a bad case. He’ll take some handling. I’ll need to tread lightly.
And although I don’t know him, from what I hear, Gordonton isn’t much better.
Start with the low-hanging fruit…
Emilio Schauder…
Although, technically speaking, Schauder and I brushed by each other for some years, in fact, I barely know him. In my trafficking days, I spent most of my time travelling, making the most of whatever opportunities arose from the latest war, famine, earthquake or regime upheaval. Change, in any country or society, means opportunity for those willing to take it. My motto was always to seize it with both hands.
technicallyopportunityCarpe diem…
My role was location and supply of the ‘Goods of Sale’. Customer Relations was handled by Bech. He found the clients, contacted them, convinced them that we were genuine and hopefully, closed the deal.
Customer RelationsBut of course, Bech is way beyond being asked his opinion, of Schauder or anyone else.
No great loss to the world…
Always was a charmless bastard…
I’ve no real idea even, how much business I did with Schauder, Bech’s records never having surfaced after the shoot-out that took him down.
Perhaps I should follow up on that some time?
?
Focus…
Emilio Schauder…
I run a quick mental recap: The last time I met Schauder was some years ago, Bech arranged it: a meal during which I was supposed to socialise and exert my charm on the clientele…
“Isn’t that your job, Bech?”
“Isn’t that job, Bech?”“Of course, sir. But sometimes, potential clients are more easily impressed if they meet the man at the top.”
“Oh, very well. If you insist. But don’t make a habit of this. I’ve better things to do with my time.”
“Of course, sir. But this Schauder runs a successful business. I’m keen to develop a working relationship with him.”
While I remember having a very good meal… Bech spared no expense… None of my expense anyhow… on a Chinese banquet for f**k-knows-how-many... … all I recall of Schauder himself is the glassy-eyed stare of the near-terminally stoned.
myI do recall that he and the equally glaze-eyed little tart he brought with him pretty much cleared the table by themselves. And that they kept whispering and muttering and giggling to each other, making a show of excluding Bech from the conversation.
Could have been whatever they’d been smoking of course. Certainly, when they lit up, whatever sauna they’d been growing the weed in would have had no space for bathing facilities.
Make an appointment?
No…
Element of surprise…
Just show up…
*****
Schauder’s club goes by the name of ‘Noir Blue’. I’ve never been inside and, on the strength of the name and my brief previous encounters with Schauder, was expecting to find something on the seedy side of sleaze.
Instead, fresh paint tangs the air in the foyer. Underfoot, the carpets are clean. And the desk is manned by a middle-aged matron who, differently dressed, would appear more suited to a school or a library.
However…
What is she wearing?
What is she Her outfit looks to have been hired from some costumier to Bollywood. A startling shade of pink, edged with tassels, sequins and…
I peer closer…
Yup…
… and small bells, it might suit a young woman, if she had the hair, eyes and skin tone, not to mention the physique, of the Bollywood starlet for whom it was intended. However, the costume’s occupant was apparently moulded from dough by a baker on a bad day.
ifAnd he had plenty of dough to work with.
She stabs at a ticket dispenser. “Entrance fee is fifty. One drink included. Give the token to the barman to claim the drink.”
“I’m here to see Emilio Schauder.”
“Still fifty to go inside.”
“I’m not here to use your facilities. I said, I want to see Schauder. Is he here?”
said“Got an appointment?”
“No.”
“Gimme a name then. And I’ll ring through.”
Schauder won’t know who Lars Waterman is. That name won’t get me inside. ‘Klempner’ probably will, but I’m not about to spread it around the place.
From my wallet, I slip out a twenty, offer it to the old hag. “For you. Let me through. I simply want to talk to Schauder.”
She eyes the note. “That’s a twenty. Entrance is fifty.”
Fuck this…
“I’ll find him myself, shall I.”
A sharp left and I march through the swing doors. Behind me, a voice babbles. “Security. Right now.”
*****
Inside, I discover that Old Hag’s ensemble is part of the themed joys of Noir Blue. The interior is set out as a kind of bastard copy of an Indian temple. Decorated in eye-watering colours, it looks as though a five-year-old loose with a paint palette.
Walls and ceiling are draped in tomato-red, frog-green and that gaudy shade of gold that make knocked-off designer watches look counterfeit. To call it a ‘riot’ of colour is inadequate. This verges on full-scale insurrection. But the explosion-in-a-paint-factory decor is a mere background for brass lamps, burners sprouting incense sticks, statues of that cross-legged, elephant-headed deity, and goddesses with more limbs than a millipede.
look The music would be okay if you enjoy listening to the sitar, or at least, the genuine article. But this sounds like something aired across the reception area of the cheaper kind of psychologist’s office.
Or is it psychiatrist?
In fact, I’ve visited India in the course of my business, and I enjoyed it. I took my time, doing the tourist round of the Ellora Caves, the Taj Mahal, the Golden Temple and the rest.
The country impressed me, although I passed on the opportunity to immerse myself in the life-giving waters of ‘Mother Ganges’. A sacred river brimming with raw sewage, industrial metals and antibiotic-resistant bacteria, seemed to me to be an opportunity to wash away my sins that I’m happy to push back until the last possible moment. Nonetheless, India left me with the urge to read my way, cover-to-cover, through Kipling’s works.
No, I’ve no problem with India and its heritage. But I can’t say the same for this second-hand, badly plagiarised, derivative of the original.
And the musak-ified twanging of the ‘sitar’ plucks at my last nerve.
This is a s*x club?
This is a club?Who the f**k would want to get it up in here?
Apparently, my opinions are not shared. w****s and their clients lounge, or display, or f**k on cushions in the same mind-etching, psychedelic colours; or on beds and loungers with throws and tapestries to match.
The whole place stinks. And not just of the incense suggested by the burners. The flowery musk of hashish overlays the sour acidity of h****n. The burnt plastic stench of meth competes with…
stinks.??
What’s that one…?
Oh yes… Permanent marker.
Someone’s high on Angel Dust.
I can even smell tobacco.
If it’s smokable, someone in here’s smoking it.
Why do they do it?
Why do they it?They’re in a whorehouse for f**k’s sake. What compares with the Rush of good s*x?
whorehouseI recall the Beatles went through a phase like this… Discovering God through studying their navels and the mysteries of the Far East. Or some such crap.
The Beatles came from Liverpool. I’m not sure where Schauder hails from, but it sure as hell isn’t India. The last time I saw him he had the complexion of a cave-dweller.
I’d expected Schauder to be perhaps at the bar, mingling with the clientele. Or maybe at a table, watching the customers, overseeing events. But there are no tables. And the only conventional seating is half a dozen tall stools at the bar.
Instead, I find him lounging in a corner, on similar floor cushions to the rest. Wearing a loose collarless kurta in white linen, and matching dhoti, his eyes are half-lidded, his face slack, as he shares a hookah with the semi-naked girl lying beside him. She looks barely old enough to be out of school, but her arms and wrists are pockmarked, the skin shrunken.
It takes him several seconds to register I’m there. When he does, his response is sluggish. “So… Look what the cat dragged in…” He doesn’t just drawl. His voice is a slow, sleepy drag. “The great, supposedly late, Larry Klempner.”
“Good to see you too, Schauder. I’m surprised you remember me after our last meeting.”
His eyes narrow and the slur tightens up. “I"m not buying.”
“That’s good. I"m not selling.”
He waves to a nearby cushion. “Take a seat.”
“I’m fine standing.”
He sucks from the mouthpiece of his hookah. Inside the vase, white smoke swirls over the water. “Feeling your age, Klempner? Not limber enough to get down and up again?”
“Oh, I’m limber enough. But I prefer being upright.”
His gaze drifts, then refocuses. “So… you’re not trying to sell. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to ask questions. I’m hoping you might have some answers.”
“Oh? About what?”
“About the serial killer that’s loose in the City. The one they’re calling The Surgeon.”
His forehead creases. “What’s your interest in that?”
“He’s targeting prostitutes. I’m asking around after anyone that might have seen or heard anything suspicious. Who might have seen something, or someone, that gave them cause to worry?”
Schauder draws from the hookah again, then sitting upright, passes the hose to the girl. She inhales, then sags back, her face vacant, fumes drifting from her nostrils.
“That wasn’t what I asked.” Schauder’s voice has sharpened up, not much, but noticeably. “What’s your interest? And why come here? You’ll damage my reputation.”
“It’s not just you. You’re not being targeted. There are others on my list to visit. And I’m enquiring for a… friend.”
justHe folds his arms. “What friend?”
“It doesn’t matter. I…”
matter.“I think it does. I’ve already had the police snooping here. As if I’d know anything. Why are you asking?”
youCrap…
I’m trying to assemble a sensible explanation, but Schauder’s still talking. “How are you still walking the streets, Klempner? You got some deal going with the cops?”
I should have thought about how to answer this…
“Schauder, we’ve known each other for years. We’ve done business. Do you think I’d…”
He cuts me off. “Business?” Whether the word is hissed or slurred, I’m not sure, but any pretence at friendliness has vanished. “I never did business with you. Or that schmuck of yours, Bech. He tried hard enough, but I never bought any of your so-called goods.” He swings an arm, gesturing across the floor. “I don’t deal in slaves. My women are here of their own free will.”
business goodsI follow his gesture, taking in the detail. “Yes, I can see their free will etched on their veins. How much free will do you have left when you"re addicted to h****n or c***k?”
free willHe bares his teeth. “You think you’ve got the moral high ground here, Klempner? There’s no one in here… Not one… who didn’t choose to be here. You might not like their life choices, but it was their choice. They know the deal.”
one…theirHe relaxes, shrugs, settling to something between a smile and a sneer. “They want their fix. I see they get it. They work for me. I see they get what they want.” He spreads his arms “Hey, Larry… I’m not a charity. My girls know I’ll help, so they come to me.” Schauder’s companion stirs, giving him the vague smile of the un-souled.
I nod down to her. “Like her for example?”
Schauder tips up her chin, giving me a clear view of her face. “You fancy her? You can have her if you like. For an hour or so, you understand.” He sniffs. “On the house. Seeing as how you’re a special guest.”
“I don"t think so.”
“As you like.” He rolls her away to lie on her back, eyes vacant. “Anything else, then?”
“No. I don’t believe anyone here is in any danger from The Surgeon. He likes them healthy. From what I"ve seen, he"d not touch anything from your kennel with a long pole.”
*****
- Writer
