William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

Charlie’s face brightened. “I love older women. Bring on the grandmas.”

“And some of our clients are rather… large.”

“Fine, fine. More to love.”

The man did not crack a glimmer of a smile. “What about men?”

“Men?”

“Yes. Would that be a problem?”

“I’d… probably prefer not to do men. I just… it’s not my thing, you know?”

“Are you certain about that? We get many requests from male clients. With relatively few outlets for that sort of thing or places to meet men with similar interests, many do find themselves turning to us for assistance. If you were willing to take male clients, we could provide you with a great deal of work. And you did say you needed funds…”

Charlie thought long and hard. It was tempting, no doubt about it. If he could score some big money, fast, he could buy some fake ID, get his records altered. Make himself untraceable. Maybe even fly off to Rio and disappear once and for all.

But then he thought about Dean, and that first hideous, painful night…

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But bring on the women, and I’ll give them something they never dreamt-”

“Are there any acts you would not be willing to engage in? Any positions?”

“With the grandmas? Nah. I don’t care.”

“Well, then, that just about covers it, I think.” He stacked his papers and punched a perfectly placed staple in the upper left corner. “I don’t see why you can’t start immediately.”

“Great.”

“My secretary will issue you a pager. Please keep it on your person at all times. If we buzz you, proceed to a telephone as soon as possible for your instructions.”

“Roger.”

“Now there are a few rules we should review. First-”

“Get the money up front.”

The man’s lips thinned. Was that what passed for a smile with this guy? “Yes. There are others, however. Our clients must always be treated with respect. Be punctual. Never argue. The customer is always right. And most important-”

“Get the money up front. I understand. Believe me-I’ve been there.”

“Good. We shouldn’t have any problems. May I validate your parking?”

“Uh, no. I took the bus.” Which was true, even though it didn’t leave often and never went exactly where he needed to go. But he felt safer in a bus than he did walking the streets. Anything could happen to you when you were walking alone on the street, Charlie thought, a sudden chill running down his back. Like with Tony Barovick. He knew what had happened to that poor kid-like no one else did.

Well, almost no one. One did. The one who was undoubtedly searching the streets of the city, night and day, looking for Charlie the Chicken. So he could do it again.

Christina and Loving sat in a booth, casing the joint as they huddled over two longneck beers and a video monitor. Loving preferred to get the lay of a place before he barged in asking questions. And it was just as well, because Remote Control was not your average singles bar.

“So this is how they do it in the big city,” Christina said. “Back in Tulsa, they’d just have a debutante ball.”

“That would be an improvement,” Loving replied.

“I suppose this is better than trying to meet someone in an online chat room.”

“ ‘Fyou say so.”

“You can tell if a guy is really a guy.”

“Mebbe.”

“I suppose you preferred it when you could just club a woman over the head and drag her by the hair back to your cave.”

He shrugged. “Did simplify things.”

Christina scoped out the crowded bar. It was filled with people using video monitors, all of them hooked up to a single camera network. From the relative privacy of your booth, you could channel surf-for people. Keep switching from channel to channel till you saw someone you liked, then push a button to let your obscure object of desire know you’re watching. If there is no objection, you pick up the phone and chat. A meat market for the Nintendo generation.

“I know we’re working,” Christina said, “but I won’t object if you want to try it out. After all, a good investigator has to get a feel for the environment.”

“Pass,” Loving said.

“Too chicken?”

“Too smart.”

There was a buzzing sound, followed by a pop-up message on their screen. “Channel 42 says, ‘Hi!’ Would you like to reply? Press A to initiate contact. Press B to send them packing.”

Christina gave Loving a poke. “C’mon. Go for it.”

“Nuh-huh. The message is from someone named Adam. He doesn’t wanna talk to me. Or if he does, I don’t wanna talk to him.”

“Well, I’m game.” Christina pushed the A button. A head shot of a dark-complexioned man in his early thirties popped onto the screen. “Ten-four, Adam. This is Becky Sue.”

Loving arched an eyebrow. Becky Sue?

“Hi, Becky Sue,” the face on the screen replied. “I’ve been watching you.”

“You yellow dog, you.”

“I’m in one of the back caverns. Got a bottle of champagne and a chaise longue. Would you like to join me?”

“I don’t know. Whatcha got?”

Christina found his attempt at a seductive look all too amusing. “More than you can handle, sister.” He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

“I dunno, pardner. I can handle a lot.”

Adam was still unbuttoning. “That’s good to hear. Because I’ve got a lot for you.”

“Tell me more.”

“Why talk at all? Come back to my cavern and I’ll give you a taste of my all-night sucker.”

Christina pressed a hand to her throat. “Oh, my.”

“Come on, gorgeous,” Adam cooed. “Let me show you what you’re missing. We’ll relax, pour a few shots.”

“Sorry, slick. I don’t do hard liquor.”

“Do you smoke? I’ve got some joints.”

Loving stiffened.

“It’s quality stuff. Just in from Mexico.”

Loving began to slide from their booth. Christina grabbed his arm. “Hold on, Starsky.”

“What’s the problem?” Adam asked. “He doesn’t smoke?”

“No, dear. The problem is he hates drugs and the people who promote them. Last guy who tried to pass him a joint ended up in the hospital for a week.”

The screen went black.

Loving got up. “I’m going after him.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll be long gone.”

Loving grimaced. “I got enough atmosphere. Let’s try some actual investigatin’. They’re expecting us. You want the owner?”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

“I’ll do the barmaid. Word on the street says she was a close friend of Tony Barovick’s.” He moved toward the bar. “Don’t make anyone mad or go anywhere I can’t see you. I’m only lettin’ you in on this ’cause we’re so pressed for time. Push hard. Don’t let him weasel around with half answers. We’ll meet back here when you’re done.”

“No doubt,” Christina said. “Unless I find a dark cavern with a chaise longue.”

Christina hated being made to wait, but she might tolerate it from, say, the president of the United States. But from a greasy, overweight club owner? It didn’t sit well.

Fortunately, she had the overhead monitors to amuse her. One was scrolling through a montage of images from throughout the bar: couples kissing, men’s butts in tight jeans, women’s cleavage-had a camera been pointed at her chest while she sat in the booth with Loving?-a rapid-fire succession of faces howling with gaiety or rapturous with passion. If this wasn’t a television commercial, it should be.

At long last, Mario Roma put down his cell phone. “So you’re defending the guy who killed Tony.”

“Accused,” Christina clarified.

“We had cops and lawyers crawling all over the place, after what happened. I don’t remember you.”