That and a favor that I needed to cash in on.
Chapter 9: Red-Eyed Killer
The Black Dahlia was a womb of sound and liquid movement. The entire joint was draped in shades of red, and magma flowed along the walls in glass tubing that threaded the walls like veins. The featured band was a synoid group called Monae that favored a more electronic fusion sound that throbbed like a heartbeat. A chocolate-toned, tuxedo-clad dame with a pompadour hairdo jammed on stage, belting out songs with a voice that melted like butter into the microphone.
The crowd of regulars rocked a more ultramodern style that was supposedly popular at other Havens. There was no shortage of multi-hued hairstyles, metallic fabrics, and sleek, glittering accessories. In short, it was a fashion show where every flake tried their best to shine in a crowd full of glitter.
The Red-Eyed Killer gracefully sat across from me at the table. He wasn’t what I expected.
Because he wasn’t a he.
The dame could have fit in at any ritzy setting. Her slinky dress and fur stole was a bit conservative for the Black Dahlia, probably so that she could pass without notice. A large key-shaped medallion hung from her neck along with ropes of oyster fruit, and a velvet hat was elegantly perched atop her brunette bob. Her eyes were hazel, almost catlike as she regarded me with cold appraisal.
“Hands where I can see them, if you please.”
I placed both of my mitts on the table and gave her my most charming smile.
She wasn’t impressed. “You’re not Pike.”
I removed my Bogart and placed it on the table real casual-like before answering. “Pike got himself down on his uppers and couldn’t make it. He sends his apologies.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t do business with underlings. When you see Pike, let him know that I’m greatly displeased with his lack of professionalism. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
I crossed my fingers together under my chin. “How about doing business with the person who just fitted Pike and Big Louie for a pair of New Haven trench coats? You got time for that?”
She paused in the act of rising, then sat and gazed at me with regal haughtiness. “You must be Mick Trubble. The word on the wire is that you’re wanted for assaulting the brass and impeding an investigation. I take it that you’ve hidden the girl.”
“You figured right. Funny, I never thought the Red-Eyed Killer would be a dame.”
“That’s because you’re a man. Your limited imagination can’t conceive that the opposite gender is potentially as vicious as you are.” She pulled out a gasper case and opened it. “Smoke?”
I patted my breast pocket. “I’ve got my own. Plus I’m not too trusting with someone known to use paralyzing narcotics.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. A man should be entitled to his last smoke before dying.” She lit hers and puffed contentedly. “I’m going to give you a choice, Mr. Trubble. You give up the girl and I’ll kill you quickly. If you don’t then I suppose I’ll have to be as…imaginative as I was with the Luzzattis.”
I clenched my fists to keep my hands from doing something rash. “I’ll see your offer and raise. Here’s my deaclass="underline" you drop the contract on Natasha and I let you walk outta here with your vital organs intact. Your employers are dead, so the contract can be nixed with no problem. There’s no reason to go after the girl.”
A slender, blonde waitress stopped by our table. “Can I get the couple anything to drink?”
I couldn’t help but to grin at the dame’s assumption. “I’ll have a Godfather. Top it off with a shot of absinthe, will you?”
“As you wish. And the lady…?”
The Red-Eyed Killer looked at me with a tiny smile. “Absinthe?”
“To honor a friend that gave me a hand tonight. I don’t blame you if you pass, sweetheart. It’s a man’s drink.”
She turned to the waitress and smiled. “I’ll have the same.”
The waitress left. The Red-Eyed Killer’s eyes went cold again.
“You may have hidden the girl, but she’s still going to die, Mr. Trubble. My contract is final, no matter the fate of my employer. Once I agree to a deal then the job isn’t finished… until it’s finished. It’s a matter of professionalism.”
“Professionalism, is it? Or just a sadistic delight in killing folks?”
She blew a stream of smoke my direction. “Does it matter?”
My fingers drummed to the beat of the synoid band playing in the background. “Maybe I wanna understand why a dame like you would make a living torturing innocent people to death.”
Her smile would have looked lovely if she didn’t have Death behind her eyes. “There are no innocent people, Mr. Trubble. Don’t patronize me by feigning ignorance. You’re killer. I can see it on your face. You’ve killed before and you’ll kill again. You’ll keep on killing until you finally meet someone who kills you first. The only difference between you and me is that I can sleep like a baby after I wash the blood from my hands.”
My throat felt constricted as though her fingers clutched it tightly and squeezed. “I’ve put a few bad dogs down, yeah. If a mug’s got a case coming then I won’t hesitate to give it to him. But I don’t enjoy it. I get no pleasure from killing folks.”
I fought the inclination to back away as she leaned toward me. “Then you have no idea what you’re missing. Killing without pleasure is like sex without pleasure. It’s worthless. If you’re talented at an art or skill then you should enjoy it, or find something else to do. Personally I don’t want to do anything else.”
Her tongue slid across her crimson lips. “I love what I do. Every moment that I’m not killing someone is just wasted time. I love the feel of a razor’s edge slicing open a throat. The life that pours across my fingers. It’s the most potent high imaginable. I live for it.”
The waitress returned with our drinks. I really needed one by then. The blend of scotch, amaretto and absinthe was just what the doctor ordered for my bad case of nerves. Normally it takes quite a bit to rattle me, but the way that the dame went on about killing was about the most ruthless admission that I’d ever come across. She was one of those rare, perfect killing machines. No qualms, no conscience.
No humanity.
She scanned her drink with her holoband before picking it up and sipping.
I tipped my glass. “Checking for toxins? A bit paranoid, are we?”
She smiled. “Poison is easy to slip in a drink, Mr. Trubble. You obviously came here for a reason. I wouldn’t take offense if you tried to take the easy way out.”
“Poison ain’t exactly my style, darlin’. No offense, but I find it a bit cowardly.”
She ignored my barb and sampled the booze. “Quite the drink, Mr. Trubble. A bit on the strong side. Typical of what a man would prefer. Your gender always tends to overcompensate.” She was as composed as if talking to an old friend. “What do you call it?”
I finished the drink and set the glass on the table. “I call it a Troubleshooter.”
Amusement flickered across her face. “I suppose you would. Speaking of shooting trouble, I suppose that we’ve arrived at the point where I have to do just that. Nothing personal, but you’ve seen my face. You understand that I can’t allow you to walk out of here with that knowledge.”
“You’re welcome to try. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think that you would. But I know that you’re unarmed, Mr. Trubble. You had to pass through the scanners at the door before you entered. This nightclub has a very strict policy against firearms. That’s the only reason I agreed to meet Pike here. Now you, Mr. Trubble… I know your kind. You rely on your gun. It’s like your right hand. You probably have a name for your firearm, don’t you? It’s that special to you. But it’s your crutch as well. You really can’t function well without it.”