Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

I nod. “Something like that.”

Now her smile gets a little bigger. “I thought so. I’ve seen you there.”

“You work there?” I ask, hoping she may know something useful, but knowing it’s more likely I need to move on.

She shakes her head. “No. So you’re a cop?”

“Something like that.”

“Name’s Melissa,” she says, sipping at her drink.

The lighting changes from purple to white, and I get to take a fast look at her. Dark brown hair. Nice complexion. Stunning blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Defined nose. No blemishes. Her hair hangs down past her shoulders, both behind and in front. She tilts her head and tucks a few strands behind her right ear. When she pulls the glass away from her mouth I get a good look at her lips. Bright red, full.

The light changes to orange. So does she.

“Joe,” I say.

“So what are you working on at the moment?” She knocks back the rest of her drink, sets the glass on the bar next to mine, and continues to give me the sweetest smile. My drink is empty aside from the ice cubes, which are melting in the heat as I keep my hand gripped around the glass.

“Get you another drink?” I ask.

“A Red Bull and vodka,” she says.

Great. So I order a gin and tonic for me and the most expensive drink in the bar for her.

I sip at my drink and look at her one, thinking it does look pretty good, but I don’t want to mix drinks: headache material for the following morning, memory loss for the night before. It doesn’t happen to me often, but there have been a few times over the last ten years.

“You were about to tell me what you’re working on,” she says.

“You’ve been reading about the serial killer?”

“You’re working on the Burial Killer case?”

I shake my head. “The other one.”

“Oh my God, you’re working on that ? The Christchurch Carver case?”

The Christchurch Carver. That’s what they call me. I want to tell her she can call me Carve for short. Look at a paper and read all about me. It’s amazing how quickly the media can come up with a name for a guy committing a string of crimes. It doesn’t have to be accurate. Just catchy.

“That’s the one,” I tell her.

“That’s amazing!” she says, and she really sounds like she means it.

“Well, I do what I can,” I say.

“It’s pretty noisy here,” she says.

I agree. Yes. Damn noisy.

We move away from the bar to a table near the front of the club, but not in view of the street. It’s less noisy, though only just. Darker, though. Fine by me. At least we no longer need to shout. To the right on the dance floor men and women are trying to lose themselves in an attempt at rhythm. They look like marionettes being controlled by puppeteers with a sense of humor.

“So, what can you tell me about the case? You close to catching him?” she asks, leaning forward. She is running her finger around the rim of her glass, playing with the salt.

I start nodding. “Soon.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“You know who the guy is?” She licks at the salt, then goes back for more.

“I’m getting a pretty good idea,” I tell her.

“But you can’t tell me,” she says.

“That’s right.”

“So you’ve seen the women he killed, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen them.” I take a sip at my drink. This one has been mixed stronger than the other one.

“What did they look like?”

I’m not prepared for her question, and not so sure she’ll like hearing the answer. “Um, well, it wasn’t pretty, that’s for sure.”

“He really made a mess of them, huh?”

I shrug, but it’s obvious I’m indicating the mess was bad. We talk about the case and I give her a few of my insights. She seems impressed, but doesn’t offer any opinions of her own, though she does tell me she’s been following the case closely.

“So what do you do?” I ask, finally changing the subject. She seems disappointed.

“I’m an architect.”

Wow. I’ve never killed an architect. “How long you been doing that for?”

“Eight years.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Why’s that?”

“I could have sworn you were only twenty-two.”

She gives me a laugh, that clichéd laugh reserved for when you totally fuck their age up in the right direction.

“I’m a bit older than that, Joe.”

I shrug like I can’t believe it. “You come here to wind down?”

“This is about my third time here.”

“This is my first time anywhere.”

“Oh?”

Another shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided to see what fun people do.”

Again the laugh. “What do you think so far?”

I put my glass down on the ring of moisture it had left behind. “So far it isn’t as scary as I’d thought.”

“It may get scarier.”

She’s got that part right.

“You live in Christchurch, Joe?”

“Yeah. All my life. What about you?”

“I was born and raised here,” she says. “Even started going to university here, but moved away a couple of years ago. I just got back and not sure how long I’ll stay. It’s a cliché, but I’m just trying to decide what to do with life. You know what I mean? In the two years I’ve gone, everybody has moved on. I don’t know anybody here anymore.”

Perfect. It also means she isn’t a regular at this bar, so not too many people will be keeping an eye on her to see where she goes. I don’t normally pick up women at bars. Only once before have I done it. It’s all about the challenge. Picking up a woman at a bar is difficult enough, but breaking her afterward is reward enough for the effort. Getting killed is the last thing they expect-though it’s always at the front of their mind as their biggest fear. It’s one of life’s biggest ironies, and they probably see that just before they die.

Like Angela-I could have just broken into her house. Like Candy-I could have simply hired her out. But work is a routine. Life is a routine. Taking the time to enjoy what we love in life isn’t a routine, it’s a commandment. If you have little to live for, then you need to enjoy it. You need to savor it.

“So you here with friends?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Sitting at home alone on a Friday night was killing me.”

I don’t say anything about her choice of words. Don’t mention that coming out is what will end up killing her.

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Sure. Another one of these,” she says, holding up her empty glass.

“You want me to order you an empty glass?”

She laughs. “You really are funny,” she says.

I shrug on my jacket casually as if I’m cold, even though it’s at least eighty-five degrees in here with all these people around. I’m hoping Melissa isn’t thinking I’m taking it because I don’t trust her or not coming back.

I bounce between a hundred other people. My mind is relaxed. It has this weird soft feeling. I order tonic water. No vodka. I can’t risk my mind growing any fuzzier. I buy her another Red Bull and vodka, not sure what the weird mix will do to her senses.

Back at the table she turns the conversation toward the case. Toward crime and punishment. We pause to buy new drinks when we need them. Every glance at my watch informs me time is slipping away quite nicely. The atmosphere is loud yet relaxed. I actually feel as though I could stay here all night, just drinking tonic water and making conversation with this beautiful woman.

Until four o’clock rolls around, that is, because then I decide that although I could stay all night, I won’t. It’s time to wrap things up. Other than confessing what my hobbies are, I can’t think of a single thing I could say right now to stop her wanting to come home with me.