Quintic (43 page)

“
G
ood job, guys,” Chris
praised Ham and Charles. “And before you say it’s not much, Ham,
let’s see where it leads us.”

The duo had
been touring the titty bar scene, befriending strippers and
showing
photos around of Lemieux, his
dead hooker and the dead stripper that had been unearthed. At one
club, a stripper vaguely remembered Lemieux getting into a fight
with some guy a couple of days before his murder. Unfortunately, at
some point during his interrogation, Ham had leaned too hard, and
the woman had clamped up. She had yet to volunteer a detailed
description of the fighter. Hence, the three of them were now on
their way to meet this new potential witness.

“
I can think
of better ways to spend my Saturday afternoon, but anything for a
case, right, Boss?”

“
Right. What
time did you say her shift starts?”
Chris
wanted to have a word with her before she got into her work uniform
or lack thereof.

“
She
dances
the early evening shift; we’ll
catch her before her show.”

“Good.”

That
case was weird beginning to end. Beginning to
the middle, he corrected himself; they were far from wrapping it
up. If the guy they were looking for was one of the dead girl’s
regulars. If he had done the hooker. If he had begrudged Lemieux.
If he had killed Lemieux... Lots of
if
s but the shadow of a
motive.

The
o
nly positive thing in Chris’s job these
days? Patricia was staying away from the case
s
. Fucking impressive,
her world record as of yet. She hadn’t questioned his guys either,
not even Reid, not even Charles. So Chris didn’t worry about her
walking around stirring things up.
Yah right
. He hoped she remained
safely into her writing frenzy. That dreamy air of hers was damn
attractive, like at the bar the other night. How she got a
seriously uptight Reid to act that silly was beyond him. Karaoke
for Christ’s sake!

When
Patricia’s turn had come up, she had intoned a French song. He had
not understood more than a few words, something about a guy wanting
to bite into a shepherdess as if she was an apple.
Kinky.

“
It’s a
little song by a dead French singer named Joe,” she had explained.
“The guy in the song likes this country girl, but he’s a tad
presumptuous in his approach to her. The girl’s a bit sassy, so she
makes the guy wait.”

The lyrics
seemed eerily familiar, damn sensual too. Then again, everything
she said in French sounded suggestive. In any case, like the girl
had stood up the poor sap in the song, he too was misinformed on
occasions. She had fallen asleep in the car on the way back to his
place. He had to drag her to bed; the damn woman would probably
have slept in the car had he let her.

E
xperience had taught him (the
hard way) how much trouble arose when she was sleep-deprived, with
her imagination going into overdrive and busying itself with
matters other than her books. Hence, he had let her sleep. Better a
quick jerk off in the bathroom than amazing sex if it led to her
day-dreaming one of his cases. To be on the safe side, he let her
sleep in the following morning too. The fucking French song was
stuck in his head. In his shorts. He had felt her skin, smelled her
hair all night, but still he had let her sleep. He deserved a
fucking medal for that.

His mood had
been crappy since then. The weather wasn’t helping. Damn rain
again, all yesterday, all today so far.

“
You OK
there, Charles?” He prompted. “Want me to drive?” The rookie made
all his stops, three seconds each, signalled all turns, basically
driving like a sissy. No wonder Ham had been in such a bad mood
lately.

Not
that Ham had let Charles drive. In Ham’s book,
rookies didn’t get to drive, hierarchy or something. Since Chris
had not wanted to drive, it was their case after all, as the boss,
he had offered the driver seat to the kid. A welcome break from the
duo’s routine, he had thought. Yah right.
Should have kept your fucking mouth shut,
MacLaren
.

He made a
note to ask one of the guys to bring Charlie’s driving techniques
up a couple of notches. Not Ham, though, the man drove like a
maniac. Not Reid, since Charles went rigid when Reid was around.
The two didn’t speak as such, more like every time Reid greeted
him, the kid stopped breathing. Chris couldn’t tell yet if Charles
was infatuated or merely afraid.

Charles
became stiff and
breathless around Patricia too, plus he turned scarlet. Charles
certainly felt no anxiety toward her, unfortunately. How could a
grown male, a police officer at that, fucking blush? Granted the
damn woman was an accomplished blusher herself, so she probably
knew from her real-life experience which buttons to push to make
one flush. Chris sure knew how to turn
her
pink. Damn liked it too.
Sexy as hell. How long had it been since he had made her blush? Too
long. His plan for his Saturday evening included her, all of her
and only her. Her and the French apple song thing.

The strip
joint was three blocks down from Lemieux’s club and four from the
dead stripper’s. This neighbourhood was the destination of choice
for gentlemen in wants of tasteful entertainment. The dive looked
shabby but who was he to judge?

“
I see
someone recently bombarded the parking lot,” he commented
ill-humoredly. “More than once.” Holes pocked the cement all over.
“Lucky we took the truck; a guy’s suspension could get total just
trying to park here.”

The walk was just as bad.

“
I counted
eighteen empty bottles of beer, probably enough pieces of glass to
make another ten, nine condoms, seven syringes and three shoes. How
much did you get?” Ham’s humour.

“
Just get us
inside, Ham.”

“
Not a fan
of the garden, I get it, Boss. Better warn you, though, the
decorator didn’t go splurged on the glamorous interior
either.”

Shit no.
Typical crummy
decor. A door-less toilet
next to the entrance, a narrow bar, its top crisscrossed by
cigarette burns, a long catwalk, a double row of chairs on each
side. The entire place might have been painted flat black initially
but had more of a dark brownish-greyish-dirty as hell hue now. The
paint was peeling from the walls, from the ceiling, from
everywhere. Chris suspected paint dandruff fell on the stage when
the place was busy. For now, the flakes were hanging on by a
thread, waiting for the place to start shaking a little. It looked
like it wouldn’t take much, at the first bar fight, it would be
snowing. Next to the dance floor at the farthest end, a door led
into the girls’ dressing room.

Feeling yet
again he was getting too old for this shit, Chris cursed between
his teeth and decided he hated Lemieux even more. He glanced over
at Charles. The kid was staring at the wall instead of the floor.
An improvement from even the week before. The young officer did
glance, very short peeks at a time, every ten seconds or so at the
stripper.

I don’t blame you
for
turning a blind eye, man
. The dance did
not make for an attractive sight. Perhaps the kid was not a total
failure. After all, he was better than any of the quartet had been.
And, except for his wild night out with Patricia, Charles had kept
a low profile, working relentlessly on the case.

Ham had
confirmed (reluctantly)
that the kid was
doing more than his share of the legwork, the mouth-work. Charles
was putting up with Ham in the process too, so kudos for
that.
You still owe me big,
Angel of mine, for keeping the kid around
.

Ham was
another story
. Strip joints were the
guy’s playgrounds; he was quite at ease this afternoon. Chris
suspected Ham and Lemieux would have had a lot in common, beginning
with her. Too bad he was comfortable with the team he had now, and
too old to start over, because sometimes he dreamed of a classier
team.

The woman on
the stage was concluding her number. Everything on her looked too
big: lips, ass, breasts, nipples, even her hair. Not his type, not
by a long shot. The few guys watching seemed to disagree with him,
though, as they were ogling her (not so much her face, however).
The three officers went unnoticed.

“
Maybe if I
leave Charles with the chic clientele,” Chris whispered to Ham.
“He’ll get the hang of it.” Then again, it might be a lost cause.
Seeing as Patricia had talked sweetly to the kid every single time
they had met, she had probably ruined him for any of the working
women around tonight, even a naked one smiling from the dance
floor.

Indeed, the
curvy stripper was smiling at Charles.

“
Want me to
call her over, Boss?” Ham offered.
“I’m
buying a half hour for the baby. Crash course.”

Chris
glanced at Charles again. The younger man managed a smile, a sharp
nod at the woman, all without a blush. Polite but not aroused,
maybe the kid too thought the stripper’s flesh was overly
generous.

Only Ham was
enjoying himself,
trying to get Charles
embarrassed. The duo could be at it all day, but Chris was tired of
standing around.

“
Fuck this,
I have plans for the evening.
Get things
moving, guys.”

The manager
didn’t seem to be in at this time because no one came forward to
hassle them. Although, since they kind of stood out in their suits
and ties, possibly the manager was hiding somewhere hoping for
their hasty departure. The club didn’t present many hiding places,
though. The door-less toilets were empty, and the club offered no
private booth for their patrons. Did the girls carry dividers for
private lap dances? Fucking tasteful.

The
bartender, a portly, bald man of undetermined age, was busy staring
at the girl from the bar. How could he still be interested? Chris
studied the short man more closely and realised the guy wasn’t
looking at the dancer but at a point on the wall to her left, as
Charles was doing. Or maybe the man was sleeping with his eyes open
because he hadn’t blinked once while Chris observed him, and he
sure hadn’t offered them anything.

“
You want
something, Mac, you get it yourself. They don’t do table
services.”

C
hris raised an eyebrow at Ham.
“No fucking tables.” And thank God, no buffet. Chris couldn’t
imagine what a meal in this place would taste like. If he ever
caught her in this dump, he was going to detain her for insanity
and hang whoever brought her here.

“Classy joint, ain’t it?”

“Let’s get this thing moving.”
Impatient.

Fat spread
out, the stripper finished up. When she strolled back to the
dancers’ changing room, they followed after her, Ham leading the
way, Charles trailing after Chris. Nobody stopped them.

The designer
had not invested
a penny in the changing
room either. The paint coat on the walls was decades old here too.
Four small chairs, one in each corner of the room, and the hooks on
the wall above each made for the furniture. Work clothes, faded
colour, sequins missing, feathers missing, hung on the hooks,
waiting their turn under the spotlight. The backstage was fucking
depressing.

Chris found
the images of lingerie negligently left on a floor or draped over
the back of a chair arousing. Patricia’s lacy, silky, frilly, he
found particularly feminine and enticing for it forecasted she was
naked somewhere nearby. Nothing sensual or ladylike on the hooks
here, just fucking pathetic.

As a
police officer, he had visited too many
hellholes to count; this wasn’t amongst the worse, not by a long
shot, but it was depressing to think of Patricia showing up in a
place like this.
I’m too damn
old for the shit
. He never had that kind
of worries before her. Fuck, he’d see her tonight or he might get
plastered.

Try his
fucking best in any case, even if he couldn’t get drunk when he
wanted to. Good genetics and training from his reckless youth left
him without a buzz. It used to anger him, but now he appreciated.
It had its usefulness when one tried to make one’s girlfriend drunk
so one could steal information out of her or seduce her. It was
annoying as hell, though, when one was depressed or pissed off by
the said girlfriend. Such was his life these days, the best damn
time of his life.

He turned
his attention back to the strippers in the room. A lot of curses
were thrown back and forth. What was their problem anyway? No way
was this the first time cops had walked into the place. So what if
the girl from the platform hadn’t had time to dress up yet? No big
deal, they had already seen too much of her.

As for the
other two dancers in the room, Chris didn’t want to see them naked
either. One was skinny-thin in an unhealthy, cadaveric way. She
still had breasts, though. Fake. The other was average in weight,
height, looks and breast-size. Your next-door neighbour. Your
hairy, sulking, mean-looking homebody.