Charlotte
On my Spartan ‘bed’, lying on my side, I hum to myself…
Somewhere… over the rainbow…
… Skies are blue…
… and the dreams that you dream about…
Gradually… I realise… my thighs are warm…
?
?
Oh, God…
My waters…
My waters are breaking…
And as I strain to look, to see beyond the expanse of my own stomach, liquid, faintly yellow, streaked with red, trickles from between my legs, across the cardboard and the concrete floor and to the drain…
*****
James
I close the door behind us, “You and Michael are going to have to come to terms at some point.”
“I daresay, but now’s not the time. I’ll drive.” Klempner regards me as I take the passenger seat. “Think you can keep that limp under control?”
“I’ll do my best.”
He sits, hands on the wheel, staring into space for a moment, then clicks his tongue. “Don’t worry about it. We can make it work for us. When we get there, let me do the talking. You stay quiet and practice that ‘Bad Bastard’ face of yours.”
“You ever considered going into politics?”
He grins and turns the key.
*****
Finchby’s ‘club’ is down by the docks, in an area where ‘gentrification’, or the socially acceptable side of it, hasn’t arrived yet and won’t for some years.
Based in one of the old warehouses, the outside is more or less unchanged from the industrial days: brickwork, dirty with age, complete with long-defunct smokestacks, loading bays and bricked-up windows. Indeed, noticeably, there are no remaining windows at ground level, or indeed for the two floors above. The narrow openings above that are heavily barred.
The rusting corpses of winches and pulleys jut out from walls above the canalised waters, deep green and with a rainbow sludge floating on the top.
A neon board flashes red from the roof, Club Electric!!
Another, fixed to the front wall, cycles through garish colours, promising, Girls! Girls! Girls!
“I’m looking forward to bulldozing this area,” I mutter.
Klempner glances sidelong. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This area’s going to be redeveloped. It’s on Richard’s worklist and mine. But it’s right at the tail-end of the City renovation plan.”
“Perhaps you should talk to your billionaire friend and get him to adjust the timetable.”
“It’s an appealing idea.”
He tuts. “Who’d have thought architects wielded so much power?”
We pull up into a parking lot that is everything you might expect: litter lies in squalid heaps against the wall: fast-food cartons, bottles and cans, old newspapers, condoms. And scattered here and there, strips of foil and broken hypodermics. Klempner steers carefully to avoid axle-crunching ruts and potholes.
Despite the unsavoury nature of the surroundings, the number of cars parked up suggests brisk trade. High-quality trade too. Few of the cars are economy models.
“Finchby’s sharp,” says Klempner. “He’ll try to score points, to needle you. It’s how he works. How he thinks. Hang on to your temper.”
The ‘main entrance’ is a steel door, heavily made, equally heavily set into the walls. The only fittings are an industrial-grade lock, and a bell-button set in the wall to one side
And it’s closed.
“Shouldn’t he be open for business at this time?”
Klempner presses the bell… “This is an invitation-only establishment…” He waits five seconds then presses again, leaning on it this time, setting a shrill continuous ringing echoing inside. “The general public are not encouraged to wander in off the street.”
After a few moments, the echoes morph from alarm-bell to footsteps, drawing nearer before, moving smoothly on well-greased hinges, the door swings open.
The individual standing there is short, scrawny, greasy and seems to be keeping some of his lunch stored for a later occasion on his tee-shirt.
As he claps eyes on Klempner, he gawks and tries to pull the door closed, but Klempner moves quickly, jamming a foot into the gap. “Evening, Ricky. Good to see you too. Where is he?”
Ricky hangs onto the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle. “Mr Finchby said he wasn’t to be disturbed.”
Klempner scratches behind an ear, turning to me. His voice mild, “Was that the question I asked, James?”
I struggle to keep my face straight. “I don’t believe it was, no.”
“That’s what I thought.” Klempner jabs down with a fist onto the fingers clamped around the handle. The boy yelps, releasing the door, then finds himself pushed back against the wall with Klempner’s other hand clamped around his throat, pressing in and up; forcing him to tiptoe.
Expression and tone bland, Klempner says, “Now, why don’t you answer the question I asked, rather than the one I didn’t. Where is he?”
“Pool-hall.” It comes out as a squeak, jolting to a squeal as he is released. “I’ll take you there…”
“I know the way.” Klempner sweeps past him. “James, if you please.” He leads me past a cash-counter, blocked off with a heavy-grade metal grid, and up a staircase.
As we march, side-by-side, up a stairwell smelling of stale beer and staler cigarette smoke, he grins, flashing brows at me. “I love doing that.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
Music thumps a heavy base as we climb two floors, getting louder by the moment. As we push through swing-doors at the top, the noise is cacophonous. Even Klempner screws his face against it… I can’t hear his words over the sound, but his lips shape the words… Fucking racket…
He points past a bar and a dance floor to a door beyond.
There are no men dancing, no partners to the girls there. It’s a performance. A dozen women cavort and strut, either naked or almost so. The moves they’re making are calculated to entice; hips gyrating, breasts swinging to the pulsing rhythm. The dancers should appear sensual, even tantalising. But performed by rote, no spark in the eyes, no soul, it simply looks lewd.
Lights spin and strobe, casting an other-worldly weirdness over entertainer and entertained alike. White, black, Asian: tall, short, elfin or voluptuous, they’re all here. Some of the girls look too young to be here…
They probably are…
… and some, hollow-eyed, their faces and bodies wasted, look too old…
How old are they? Really?
Either way, they perform their act. One comes close, tries to loop her arms over my neck, but I sidestep, and she backs off as Klempner scowls at her.
Even without my Jade-Eyes to consider, I wouldn’t go near any of these women.
How many are here by choice?
Would Klempner know?
I follow him as he leads me past doors, mainly closed, and cubicles; some screened off, others not, where Finchby’s girls ‘entertain’ the customers.
In one cubicle, a group of three display for the client sitting there. Two lie on a couch opposite, giving him some ‘girl on girl’ action in a sixty-nine. The third is kneeling between his knees, sucking him off. Across her naked back and butt are the clear marks of old scars and fresh weals; layer upon layer, healed and semi-healed; the marks of a crop or a whip. The girl pumps him with her mouth with a steady persistence…
Getting him off before he looks for other ways of achieving it…
I turn my face away. The customer is an acquaintance of Richard’s and I’m guessing he wouldn’t like it known where he spends his evenings.
I enjoy sex clubs. I have no problem with exhibitionist or voyeuristic sex. I’ve taken part in plenty of both myself. But in the clubs I attend, have visited over many years, every single person present, male or female, was there for the sheer fun of good sex; and of sharing that fun, that kick, with others who felt the same way.
This place turns my stomach.
We exit through the door Klempner indicated.
The room beyond is dimly lit save for a single bulb overhanging a pool-table and a wall-mounted screen above the bar, displaying what looks like some soap-opera.
A girl sits on a barstool. Wearing a cheap-looking top, too low-cut, and tight shorts, she chews gum with her mouth open, staring vacantly at the TV. Even from here, I can see the discoloured veins on her forearms.
A figure leans over the pool table, his back to us, cue pulled back, taking aim. Wearing a leather waistcoat over a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and black leather pants, he looks the very stereotype of a grifter. With a smooth movement, he strikes the ball and pockets another.
Klempner stands, silent, legs akimbo, thumbs hooked into his belt, waiting.
The figure straightens up, circling the table, intent on his game until, at the other side, facing us now, he startles as he sees us.
“Larry? And…” His eyes settle on me, his forehead creasing, then recognition sparks. He stares at me, flat-eyed, then looks back to Klempner, ignoring me completely.
From a side door, Ricky appears, with another man, an obvious heavy. “In here…”
The bouncer comes barrelling in; well over six feet tall, he could compete with Michael for build, but lacks the looks and the charm. “Mr Finchby…”
Finchby holds up a palm. “It’s fine, Leroy. Mr Klempner and I are old friends.”
Leroy subsides but takes up a post by the door we entered.
“Larry… Good to see you.” Finchby takes a stool by the bar, chalking the tip of his cue and displaying yellow-stained teeth in a shark-smile. “I’d no idea you were back in town.”
He gestures to the back of the bar, the bottle-lined shelves. “What can I get you? A beer? Something stronger? Or something on the house?” He snaps his fingers at the girl, jerks his chin to Klempner. “Mr Klempner wants company.”
The vacant expression doesn’t change. Still chewing her gum, she slides from her stool, walking with a swing to her hips she has perhaps been instructed to use. But when Klempner glares at her, she falters and returns to her seat.
“I’m not interested in your used goods, Finchby.”
Finchby sniffs. “Your choice.” He still holds the cue, an inch thick of seasoned timber. Leaning forward, all traces of the fake smile vanishes. “What are you interested in Larry?” Then the smile reappears. “Can I take it you’re back in business?”
“I’ve changed my line of business.”
“Do tell.” Finchby takes a seat at the bar. Klempner takes the stool next to him, slides a photo of Charlotte across the bar top.
Finchby’s eyes flick down and immediately back up. “A girl?”
“You know her?”
Shrugging, “She doesn’t work here.”
“Why does no-one here answer the question I asked?”
Taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Finchby extracts one, offers the pack to Klempner, then me. Klempner shakes his head. So do I.
He lights up, sucks, then blows out smoke. Then, the cig held between two fingers, cupped into his palm, “I recognize her if that’s what you’re asking…”
His gaze shifts to me. “… And you.” His lip curls. “Yes, I recognize you. You cost me a packet. And my reputation. I’d made commitments. You made me break them. What were you thinking of, bidding up to that price on the little ginger trollop?”
I bite my tongue, keep my tone level. “It was an open auction. Anyone could bid. Anyone could have won the bidding. It happened to be me.”
“I couldn’t even get the fucking deposit fee back,” he snarls. “A grand down the flush, just like that.” He slides off his stool, moves up close; close enough that his smoker’s breath washes over my face. “You didn’t have that limp then. You up for it then? Or is the arthritis taking over, old man?”
Klempner’s tone is mild. “You want to be careful there, Finchby, judging the book by its cover. Especially with a man who knows how to take a bullet in the leg.”
Finchby blinks, backing off, yellowed teeth bared.
Klempner keeps speaking. “Finchby, one of your girls is making trouble. And that makes me wonder why?”
Finchby sucks at the cigarette again, blows blue smoke towards me. “Which girl? What kind of trouble?”
“You took her from me maybe five… six… years back. Short, blond, big ass and tits. She could be pregnant now.”
Finchby doesn’t reply. Running his tongue between lips and teeth, he looks at me, eyes hostile.
Klempner follows his gaze. “You can talk. James here knows the score.”
Finchby stubs out his butt. “If you say so…” He extracts another cigarette from the pack. “That’s not a description that narrows it down much. Plenty of girls like that around here.” He jerks his head back out. “Two or three out there.”
Unfolding a sheet of A4 from my pocket, I lay it out on the bar, flattening the creases out with my palm; a print-off the woman Beth picked out from the hospital waiting room.
Finchby leans in, squinting. “Not brilliant quality is it?”
“It’s taken from a security camera.”
He takes the sheet, face tilted back a little, holding it at arms-length, up to the light. “Oh yes, that’s Lena.” He shakes his head, passes back the paper. “Not seen her for months.”
Klempner’s eyes meet mine. “How come? I’m sure you didn’t just set her loose.”
“One of the clients liked her. Paid me a good price. Something about the way she yells when he gives it to her rough.”
“Which client?”
“Ah… Come on, Larry. You know I can’t tell you something like that. Anyway, what’s this trouble you’re talking about?”
“Never mind what trouble.” Klempner rests his chin on a fist, waiting.
Finchby takes another draw, inhaling deeply. “Y’know, I’ve not seen Lena there, but I’ll tell you who I have seen. Baxter. And he’s pissed at you.”
Klempner jolts to attention. “Baxter? What’s he got against me?”
Finchby inhales, flashes brows. “Says you owe him.”
“No, I don’t.” Klempner rubs at his forehead. “He’s been paid everything he was owed. I did it myself.”
Finchby screws the butt into an ashtray, “Gotta say, it didn’t sound likely to me. I know you pay your bills. But that’s not what he says. And…” He leans back on his elbows against the bar… “…he says you left him for the cops to pick up last time he saw you.”
Klempner stands, face reddening. “I did no such thing. Baxter had disappeared before I left. He was nowhere in sight.”
Leroy stirs, stepping forward. Klempner glares back at him. “You got something to say?”
The man-mountain moves closer.
“Finchby, why don’t you get your poodle under control,” snaps Klempner. “If he comes snapping around my ankles, I may feel the need to snap back.”
“Okay… Okay…” Finchby holds up palms, one curling blue smoke. “Leroy, calm down. Larry, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what Baxter said.
I butt in. “Is this the same Baxter that….”
“Yes, he was the driver when I…” Klempner skids to a silence…
When you abducted me…
“Yes… That’s him…” Klempner scratches a brow. “Finchby, why were you talking to Baxter in the first place?”
Finchby grins. “He called by. Said he was setting up to fill the gap you left. He’ll definitely be pissed if he learns you’re back in business.”
“What did he say? Exactly?”
“Wanted to know what I was looking for. Said he’d get it for me. Asked me for a shopping list in fact.” That shark smile again. “Bit of competition is good for business, eh? Should drive the price down.”
Somewhere deep in his chest, Klempner rumbles.
“Anything else I can do for you, Larry?”
“No. We’ll be off. James…”
“Anytime Larry. Pleasure to see an old friend.”
Leroy still holds his post by the door. As we pass, his eyes follow Klempner, who stops, turning on him. “You got a problem?”
Leroy doesn’t reply, simply glaring some more. Klempner takes a step, one hand whipping up in that same gesture I saw with Ricky, pinning his neck in the crook of thumb and finger and lifting. The other hand punches into his gut. “Learn some manners, Fido,” he hisses.
Then he drops him, gasping and clutching his stomach.
“See you around, Finchby.” And he marches out.
*****