by
concentrate
@ 05. Nov. 2007. - 01:41:45
1.
It was night. Jarvan Tarant was still in the office. He’d been at the office all day but hadn’t got much done. The Blue Nightingale case had hit a dead end and his uncompleted tax return loomed like a painful unpopped pimple on his desk, accumulating circular coffee cup stains and fallen ash. He sat back in his ergonomically designed chair, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. Silk Cut. The cheap smoke rasped at the back of his throat pointlessly. He blew a smoke ring at his laptop and thought about his life. He was 42, virtually penniless, and horny as hell. Being a private detective hadn’t proved as profitable or glamorous as he’d anticipated. Assignments were few and far between, a lot of his clients defaulted on payments, and oftentimes they were ungrateful about the can of worms he’d opened for them. He was sick of the life. Sick of chasing dud leads and searching for clues where there were none to be found. Sick of all the betrayal and the double-crossing and the lies. Sick of his pulpy, ugly face in the mirror. He felt disappointed. 10 years in the life and only one or two high speed car chases. He hadn’t had to shoot his gun in over 2 years. It was dirty, repetitive work and he felt like giving it up and going back to the Post Office. He leant forward and stubbed the cigarette out on the table top, exhaling smoke with a long disgusted sigh. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and decided to call it a night. He stood up and walked towards the door, grabbed his jacket - hung from a nail rudely hammered into the flimsy partition walls of his office - opened the door, stepped outside and had walked halfway down the hall before he heard the phone ringing in the office. He looked at his watch. 2.33 in the morning. Who the fuck called him at this hour?
‘Tarant?’
‘This is he.’
‘It’s The Chameleon, you know who I am?’
‘No, who are you?’
‘I’m the shape-shifting motherfucker who’s gonna pay you.’
‘What for?’
‘I need to find a girl.’
‘I don’t deal tricks mister, this is a reputable company.’
‘Not that sort of girl, her name’s Pinky, she’s a dominatrix, and I need to locate her.’
‘You got any more than that?’
‘Some pictures and a telephone number.’
‘Come by my office tomorrow at noon and we’ll discuss it. Bring the pictures and my fee.’
‘How much?’
‘300 per day, I’ll need a week in advance.’
‘Okay.’
Half an hour later Jarvan Tarant was sucking on a bottle of beer in a snooker club close to his apartment. It was the only local place that was open past 3. He was still horny as hell. He thought about Pinky, wondering what she looked like, if she ever got horny. Did she wear pink? It was a mystery to him. He looked around the bar at the Turkish men playing pool. They all wore cheap polyester slacks and moustaches. Some music played. Jarvan Tarant decided to dance. He closed his eyes and moved instinctively to the beat of the music. His head tilted sideways. He swayed and rotated with his feet firmly rooted to the spot. He felt better, almost ready to sleep. Maybe this would be the case he had been waiting for. The song ended, he finished his beer, and went home.
2.
In the morning Jarvan Tarant liked to read. He was slowly working his way through Miller, Buk, Fante, Kerouac, Buddhadasa, Nabokov, Dost, Genet, Castaneda, and Hunter S. He liked any combination of hard hitting, fiercely individual, slightly pornographic, surreal, or esoteric. He had a fondness for some of the more flowery stuff too. J. Winterson, DHL, A. Nin and the poetry of Ted Hughes. His small apartment was littered with tattered volumes and overdue library books. He sat in bed reading Our Lady of the Flowers and eating from a bag of mixed nuts and raisons.
At times it would rain. I would hear the patter of the drops on the zinc roofing. Then my sad well-being, my morose delectation, would be aggravated by a further sorrow. I would open the door a crack, and the sight of the wet garden and the pelted vegetables would grieve me. I would remain for hours squatting in my cell, roosting on my wooden seat, my body and soul prey to the odor and darkness; I would feel mysteriously moved, because it was there that the most secret part of human beings came to reveal itself, as in a confessional. Empty confessionals had the same sweetness for me. Back issues of fashion magazines lay about there, illustrated with engravings in which the women of 1910 always had a muff, a parasol, and a dress with a bustle. It took me a long time to learn to exploit the spell of these nether powers, who drew me to them by the feet, who flapped their black wings about me, fluttering them like the eyelashes of a vamp, and dug their branchlike fingers into my eyes.
He looked at his cheap wristwatch, picking with the fingernail of his left index finger at a small piece of almond that had lodged itself between his primary molar and cuspid tooth. It was 11.30. Time to get up.
3.
‘You’re late,’ said The Chameleon.
‘I’ll work through my lunch break.’
Jarvan Tarant fumbled for his keys in his jacket. The pockets had worn through and consequently all his personal effects jostled for room in the depths of the lining. Jarvan’s fingers felt for his keys while he looked at The Chameleon’s face.
He was a short, fat-lipped, rotund man in his 70’s with a down-turned mouth and protruberant eyes that were slightly too far apart and pointed in different directions. His skin seemed thin, almost transparant, and beneath its wrinkled surface could be seen a fluctuating network of chromatophores – specialised cells that can rapidly relocate many different coloured pigments. From each cheek two tiny horn-like projections emerged. The Chameleon seemed distracted, impatient. His protruberant eyes twitched in their sockets as he licked his lips nervously.
‘Come in, sit down,’ said Jarvan Tarant, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘I need you to find Pinky. She’s got something of mine.’
‘Where’s the last place you saw her?’
‘She used to work here,’ said The Chameleon, flipping a business card across the table as his face turned from red to blue to green.
Jarvan picked it up and looked at it.
PREYING MANTIS
mind control, electrics, cock and ball torture,
leg worship, and humiliation
07815 649943
‘So she’s a dominatrix?’
‘She’s a contemporary dancer, the dominatrix thing is just to pay the rent. I was going to help her open up a new theatre down town.’
‘And she’s disappeared?’
‘Without a trace, I’ve had my people search all over town for her and they came up blank, I heard you were making good ground on The Blue Nightingale case and…’
The Chameleon abruptly stopped talking and eyed a large fly that was buzzing around the office and had landed on a sticky patch of spilt coffee on the desk. In the blink of an eye his tongue jerked rapidly out of his mouth and its strangely muscular tip suctioned onto the fly, pulling it into his gaping jaws, which snapped shut, crushing the insect with a little squelching sound.
He pulled a brown envelope out of his pocket and passed it to Jarvan Tarant.
‘Here’s the money and the photographs. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing.’
4.
Jarvan Tarant sat in his ergonomically designed chair smoking a cigarette and looking at the business card. 1500 pounds in cash and a handful of large glossy photographs lay on the table - studio shots of a young woman wearing a pink spandex leotard and sky-blue legwarmers. There were various poses that seemed designed to demonstrate how supple and energetic the young woman in them was. She had shiny long auburn hair and beautifully arched feet. In every picture Pinky bent her lips into the same smile. It was a smile in which girlish innocence was fighting a losing battle with wanton sexuality. She looked about 19. Her youthful perfection was offset by a slightly crooked nose that gave her an approachable, friendly look. In one of the pictures she was holding a Chihuahua.
‘Pinky…’ Jarvan frowned, dialling the number for Preying Mantis.
A gruff woman answered the phone.
‘Allo?’
She sounded eastern European.
‘I’m looking for Pinky,’ said Jarvan.
‘Pinky don’t work for us no more. You wanna see Mistress Alexia?’
‘You know where I can find Pinky?’
‘I told you, I haven’t seen her, she quit, Alexia is working here now, you wanna come today around 3 for ball torture?’
‘Er, okay, I’ll come at 3. Where to?’
‘Come to the industrial estate off Hermitage Road and call this number at 2.45. Bring 300 pounds. She will torture you but no fucking okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
‘Tarant.’
‘Good.’
The gruff woman hung up the phone and Jarvan sat back in his ergonomically designed chair. It was around 1 and he still hadn’t eaten. He thought about The Chameleon’s tongue-act earlier. He didn’t feel hungry so he decided to go for a beer instead.
Half way out the door the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Jarvan its Abnar, how’s it going with the Nightingale Case? You got any leads?’
‘A couple, I’m waiting for Ernesto to get back to me with that spray. You got something for me?’
‘Maybe, but it’ll cost you’
‘How much?’
‘A grand’
‘How do I know its good?’
‘Its good Jarvan, you can trust me, come and meet me at 3’
‘I can’t do 3, how about I meet you tonight at 6, at the Turkish place?’
‘Okay, sure, I’ll see you there, bring the money, you’re going to like what I’ve got’
‘Fine.’
5.
It was about 3.20 by the time Jarvan got to Hermitage Road. He went into the phone box on the corner and dialled the number.
‘Tarant?’
‘I am he.’
‘Wait there.’
A big man in a black suit came around the corner and knocked on the door of the telephone box, speaking to Jarvan through the glass.
‘You Tarant?’
‘I am he.’
‘You got the money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to me.’
Jarvan counted out 300 pounds and passed it to the man through the door of the telephone box.
‘Come.’
Jarvan followed the man a little way down the street and through the entrance to a gated industrial complex. They came to the door of one of the units and the big man pressed a buzzer.
‘You seen any Chihuahua’s lately?’ asked Jarvan.
‘Wha?’
‘Chihuahua’s.’
From the dumb look on the big man’s face Jarvan could tell he hadn’t seen a Chihuahua in a while.
‘Pinky, you remember Pinky?’
Jarvan pulled one of the pictures of Pinky out of his jacket lining and showed it to the big man. The big man frowned and nodded his head.
‘Pinky? I don’t know.’
The door made a clicking sound and the big man pushed it open.
‘Go upstairs, number 5.’
Jarvan passed through the door and up the stairs into a long white hallway. He could hear classical music playing – Balakirev’s Octet, Opus 3. Suddenly it got louder as a door opened. A tall black woman appeared in the hallway, about 6 foot, wearing a dressing gown. Her hair was all natural – an afro. Jarvan looked at her.
‘Step inside,’ said Alexia.
6.
It was a large, high-windowed studio, part of a converted factory, overlooking a railway track, furnished in one corner with a nook of leather Chesterfield’s encircled by an array of well kept house plants. Several large abstract artworks adorned the walls, including one by de Kooning and what looked like a Hans Hoffman. In the centre of the room a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a low light over the surroundings. All the way along the far wall the brickwork had been exposed and an array of chains and straps hung down from heavy bolts embedded in the mortar. A gynaecologist’s chair - upholstered with red PVC and customised with unidentifiable electrical apparatus – skulked next to a pair of rough looking wooden stocks and some sort of gym horse with a saddle on it. On the floor was a basket containing what must have been 30 or so different types of whips, ticklers, ropes, cords, clamps and slings, and next to that stood a large ornate Chinese vase full of freshly cut stinging nettles.
Jarvan swallowed nervously.
‘Alexia…’
‘THAT’S MISTRESS ALEXIA TO YOU, SHIT-BAG’
‘Excuse me, Mistress Alexia… I… ’
Alexia’s face was like an African mask: cold, expressionless, wooden. Her dressing gown hung open and her tits were falling out of her brassiere like liquid chocolate. He could see the outline of her bush pressing against a pair of shiny rubber panties. Her skin was oily, smooth. Just above the bush a strap-on dildo of some girth prodded at the opening in her bath robe.
‘I… I’m looking for…’
‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHIT-BAG. SHOW ME YOUR BALLS.’
‘What?’
‘YOU HEARD ME, SHIT-BAG, YOUR BALL BAG, SHOW IT TO ME.’
Jarvan Tarant thought about it for a moment. He was still horny as hell. Maybe a bit of ball torture would take the edge off. Then again maybe it would only make matters worse.
‘Listen, I’m an old friend of Pinky’s, we go way back, do you know where she is?’
Alexia frowned, ‘Pinky?’
It was obvious she knew the name but she wasn’t sure if she should talk. She looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether to trust him. Jarvan tore his eyes away from her latex cock and tried to look into her eyes with an expression of authenticity and warmth.
‘Yeah, Pinky. Do you know where she is?’
Tarant passed her the photograph – the one with the Chihuahua.
Alexia took the photograph and stared at it blankly. She looked back at Jarvan. He held her gaze, willing her to talk.
‘Oh… her, yeah, she used to come here and do a lot of weird stuff for the customers, you know, specialist shit. A couple of guys got sick seeing her. They’d come around here asking for her 2 or 3 times a week. She had quite a reputation. Then she just disappeared. She quit I guess, maybe the life was getting her down. It can do that to a girl.’
‘The life is getting us all down Alexia, its getting weirder and weirder earning a living. You know anything about The Chameleon?’
‘That squamate? Everyone knows about him, especially Pinky. When she split he was pissed. He was one of the sick ones, he thought she was a victim, that he was going to save her. A lot of guys come through here thinking like that but not many of them have a hemipenis and a six foot tongue.’
‘A hemipenis?’
‘Look it up cleverdick. The fucked up thing is that she seemed to actually like that freaky lizard man’
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