the evenings. You think bargirls don’t like local men? You think they don’t all have a sweetheart that they share their winnings with? Some of these men even began to work themselves. They drove taxis and rented jet-skis. Some joined the skin trade. You don’t have to be gay to hustle men. In fact, it is easier if you aren’t. As I said, everybody was happy.”
“And the foreign men?” Joe watched a sullen-faced hooker on the way to her work. To work in a bar ran by some hapless expat who was only slightly less poorer than herself. She might get lucky, she might not, but the bar-owner’s fate was already carved in granite.
“They were stupid, they bought houses and cars. White man is like buffalo. They got married to the women. They lost all their money to the women. Some became very angry and very bitter.”
“What about Tammy?” Joe asked. “Hale, she was killed. Sliced apart.”
Hale’s smile morphed into a mask of concentration. “Doesn’t surprise me, Joe. Occupational hazard. I can think of half a dozen punters that would do it at the drop of a hat. Life means nothing here. Nothing.”
“What about Sebastian?”
“He had a thing with hookers.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“You never seen him? Let’s take a walk. Let’s go see my little friend.” Hale turned to the small crowd that had gathered in the bar to listen to him. “Thank you. Please go forth into the day and never, never, let your guard down. This place is a jungle. May the lizards of the night protect you,” he said. “If they bark once be aware, if they bark twice, run a mile.”
Outside , the sun beat down on them with an unforgiving intensity. “You think he has the juice to slice up a hooker?”
“Hard to tell, Joe. After seeing the kind of shit that flies around in this town , I’d say that anyone is capable of anything. Some customer gets sick of laying his missus in the missionary position once a month, so he pops down a blowjob bar once a week. It gets boring, so he starts frequenting go-go bars and shagging the birds in the short-time room upstairs. Next thing he knows, he’s into wenches on walking street. There is still an itch that needs to be scratched. He has to take it to the next level. This town changes people. One day he is lying down on a whorehouse bed. Picture the scene. Behind bird number one is another with a strap-on weapon-of-mass-destruction, pile driving into the felator’s Gary. He still isn’t satisfied. He needs more than this amateur shit. Two weeks later, he’s slicing up some jungle tart on a fucking pool table. This is the real deal, he decides. The ultimate short time. Joe, this bastard will strike again if they let him out. The fucker has the taste for it, and if you don’t mind my saying, we need to nail his ass to the ground.”
“Lead the way.”
TWELV E
THE KILLER opened the door and stepped inside the apartment. He closed the door and walked the five steps to a table. The Killer put down a leather satchel on the table. He opened the satchel and took out the knife. A Wilkinson’s ten-inch blade with serrated edges. Black handle. Dried blood rusted the metal. The metal shouldn’t rust, god darn foreign steel. His gaze rose to a bookcase. He picked out a black leather bound volume with bright gold gilt lettering along the spine. He put the book on the table. He opened it. Inside the book was a map of Fun City. He took the map out and unfolded it on the table. He reached into the bag and found a red ballpoint pen. He drew a small circle on a section of road. The first one had been easy. He marked a second point on the beach. The Killer connected the two points with a line drawn in red ink.
He took a bottle of beer from the fridge. He opened it and drank the cold , golden liquid. He moved over to the kitchenette and turned on the faucet. He cleaned the knife, dried it with a towel, and put it back into his satchel. He showered, dressed, and
“And the foreign men?” Joe watched a sullen-faced hooker on the way to her work. To work in a bar ran by some hapless expat who was only slightly less poorer than herself. She might get lucky, she might not, but the bar-owner’s fate was already carved in granite.
“They were stupid, they bought houses and cars. White man is like buffalo. They got married to the women. They lost all their money to the women. Some became very angry and very bitter.”
“What about Tammy?” Joe asked. “Hale, she was killed. Sliced apart.”
Hale’s smile morphed into a mask of concentration. “Doesn’t surprise me, Joe. Occupational hazard. I can think of half a dozen punters that would do it at the drop of a hat. Life means nothing here. Nothing.”
“What about Sebastian?”
“He had a thing with hookers.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“You never seen him? Let’s take a walk. Let’s go see my little friend.” Hale turned to the small crowd that had gathered in the bar to listen to him. “Thank you. Please go forth into the day and never, never, let your guard down. This place is a jungle. May the lizards of the night protect you,” he said. “If they bark once be aware, if they bark twice, run a mile.”
Outside , the sun beat down on them with an unforgiving intensity. “You think he has the juice to slice up a hooker?”
“Hard to tell, Joe. After seeing the kind of shit that flies around in this town , I’d say that anyone is capable of anything. Some customer gets sick of laying his missus in the missionary position once a month, so he pops down a blowjob bar once a week. It gets boring, so he starts frequenting go-go bars and shagging the birds in the short-time room upstairs. Next thing he knows, he’s into wenches on walking street. There is still an itch that needs to be scratched. He has to take it to the next level. This town changes people. One day he is lying down on a whorehouse bed. Picture the scene. Behind bird number one is another with a strap-on weapon-of-mass-destruction, pile driving into the felator’s Gary. He still isn’t satisfied. He needs more than this amateur shit. Two weeks later, he’s slicing up some jungle tart on a fucking pool table. This is the real deal, he decides. The ultimate short time. Joe, this bastard will strike again if they let him out. The fucker has the taste for it, and if you don’t mind my saying, we need to nail his ass to the ground.”
“Lead the way.”
TWELV E
THE KILLER opened the door and stepped inside the apartment. He closed the door and walked the five steps to a table. The Killer put down a leather satchel on the table. He opened the satchel and took out the knife. A Wilkinson’s ten-inch blade with serrated edges. Black handle. Dried blood rusted the metal. The metal shouldn’t rust, god darn foreign steel. His gaze rose to a bookcase. He picked out a black leather bound volume with bright gold gilt lettering along the spine. He put the book on the table. He opened it. Inside the book was a map of Fun City. He took the map out and unfolded it on the table. He reached into the bag and found a red ballpoint pen. He drew a small circle on a section of road. The first one had been easy. He marked a second point on the beach. The Killer connected the two points with a line drawn in red ink.
He took a bottle of beer from the fridge. He opened it and drank the cold , golden liquid. He moved over to the kitchenette and turned on the faucet. He cleaned the knife, dried it with a towel, and put it back into his satchel. He showered, dressed, and
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