The Red Mohawk Page 4

  But Kevin’s appearance and the scuffles over vanilla-scented lube and leopard print pants weren’t Clarisse’s biggest problems. Those irritations had just been the start of what was about to become a very stress filled day, high on drama of all kinds. She should have seen it coming days or even weeks earlier.

  Kevin came racing out into the lobby from the first door on the right of the corridor. His sweater was draped over his arm and he was buckling up the belt on his jeans. He was perspiring profusely, his forehead soaked in sweat. Clarisse winced at the sight of a fresh patch of chunky vomit on the front of his white singlet.

  ‘Everything okay Kevin?’ she asked. Kevin stopped dead in his tracks and stared over at her as if he hadn’t noticed her there before. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Or his parents.

  Clarisse frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Kevin pointed at the orange coloured vomit stain on his undershirt and took a deep breath before responding. ‘She puked on me!’

  Clarisse looked at the sick patch. ‘Baby did that?’

  ‘Yeah. I never asked for it. Is that normal?’

  ‘No. Would you like me to wash it out for you?’

  Kevin shook his head. ‘No. Actually yes, my mom… I wouldn’t want to… no wait, actually, I don’t know. Can you clean it right now?’

  ‘Sure honey.’

  He seemed genuinely distressed. If it really had been his first time then the experience of being vomited on by Baby might well put him off returning. Some diplomacy was required. ‘Did you get what you’d paid for?’ Clarisse asked.

  ‘No I didn’t. I paid for a blowjob but she puked over me almost straight away. This really isn’t for me. I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Clarisse smiling. ‘You take a seat over there for a minute and I’ll get Linda to come and sort you out. While you’re with her I’ll get that undershirt cleaned up for you.’

  Kevin didn’t look convinced. He seemed to be caught in two minds. Some persuasion was required. Clarisse pointed at a soft comfy red sofa set up against the wall behind him. ‘Take a seat there a second while I call Linda. They’re talking about that killer on the news.’

  He looked over at the sofa and then up at the television. It would take him a while to make a decision, the poor lad. He was totally traumatised and incapable of making even the simplest choice. While he stood distracted by his own inner monologue and the voice of the newsreader, Clarisse picked up the phone and dialled Linda’s number.

  ‘Hi Linda,’ she said. ‘Can you come out here and take a young man off my hands for a while. Poor Kevin here has had a bit of a bad first experience and I think your calming influence is just what he needs.’

  ‘Sure thing, Clarisse.’

  Clarisse put the phone down and smiled at Kevin again. ‘If you want to give me that undershirt I’ll have it dry and looking like new for you in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Linda will keep you entertained in the meantime, no extra charge. You’ll like Linda. She’s never sick on anyone. And I’ll get her to give you a teabag.’

  ‘I don’t drink tea.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Trust me, you’ll like it. Here, give me your undershirt.’

  Kevin peeled off his undershirt and handed it to her. Then he sat down and spent the next thirty seconds trying to work out what Clarisse meant about the teabag.

  At about the moment his facial expression revealed he’d worked out what it was, Linda, a veteran buxom blonde in her early forties appeared and escorted him off down the hall to room six. As soon as the door closed behind them, Clarisse headed off down the hall to Baby’s room to find out what had happened.

  Baby had been acting strangely for a while. Clarisse, with all her experience should have confronted her before, but Baby was a little different to the others. She was one of the unfortunate girls in the business who wasn’t there voluntarily and for that reason Clarisse had always cut her a little slack. Baby was only nineteen and had been groomed into the job from an early age. She had started off as a hairdresser and washer of dirty laundry. Clarisse and the other girls had raised her as best they could, and did their best to prolong her childhood but they all knew that her destiny was inevitable.

  The day after her fifteenth birthday Mr Mellencamp put her to work. As was his way, he had sex with her first and then threw her into action so that she could start paying for the roof he had put over her head. She had quickly become popular with a lot of the older guys and nervous first timers because she had a permanent sweet-yet-terrified look on her face. In the case of Kevin Sharp, Clarisse had actually recommended he try Baby because she thought the two of them might get on quite well and Baby deserved the first shot at making him one of her regulars. The innocent young guys often tended to stick with the same girl on every visit. And Kevin looked innocent.

  She knocked hard on Baby’s door. ‘Baby? You okay in there?’ she called through the door. There was no response.

  She turned the doorknob and walked into the room. The bed in the centre of the room was a little unkempt, but she’d seen it plenty worse over the years. From the bathroom in the far corner she heard the sound of someone retching. The bathroom door was ajar. Through the gap Clarisse could see the soles of Baby’s feet. The young girl was naked and on her knees vomiting into the toilet. Her long scraggly dark hair was hanging over the side of the toilet seat. There were remnants of vomit in her hair and it looked in serious need of a wash. Clarisse stepped inside the bathroom and knelt down beside her, scraping her hair away from her face to try and keep it clear of any vomit.

  ‘You okay sweetie?’ she asked.

  Baby didn’t look up. Instead she vomited again. Clarisse rubbed her back in an attempt to comfort her.

  ‘Is this the first day you’ve been sick?’ she asked.

  Baby pulled her head out of the toilet and looked up at her. She had tears running down her face. ‘Third day running,’ she said.

  Clarisse nodded in acknowledgment. She paused before adding the next, inevitable question. ‘You taken a test?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘A while.’

  Clarisse rubbed her back once more then stood up. ‘I’ll get someone in to sort it out for you.’

  Baby shook her head. ‘Clarisse,’ she said with pleading eyes. ‘I want to keep it.’

  Over the years Clarisse had become familiar with this type of situation. Several girls had gotten pregnant and hoped to keep the child. The best way to deal with it was to keep the girl as calm as possible. ‘Fair enough, honey,’ she said. ‘I’ll try and sort something out for you. Stay here and get some rest. I’ll be back in a while.’

  There was no way in hell the boss would let Baby keep it. They didn’t allow pregnant girls at The Beaver Palace. Not any more. It was bad for business. Normal practice would see Baby’s unborn child terminated before the end of the day.

  Six

  Taking a shit in the morning was becoming more of a strain for Hank Jackson as he got older. Award ceremonies were over in less time than his early morning trips to the lavatory and they tended to be smoother too. His doctor had been telling him for years that he needed to incorporate more fruit and roughage into his diet. But it was hard to remember to eat fruit, particularly in the evenings because it interfered with his drinking. Hell, Hank couldn’t sleep without polishing off a six-pack of Heisler Beer first.

  His drinking had gotten worse in tandem with his business going down the shitter. Ever since he’d ended up in debt to Silvio Mellencamp he’d been struggling to stay afloat. The used car business wasn’t doing a roaring trade. The wealthy residents of B Movie Hell tended to have brand new cars delivered to their doors, courtesy of a scheme Mellencamp had introduced. And the problem was, no one with the exception of the occasional youngster was interested in a second hand car these days. Hank’s lot was full of bashed up old bangers and former stock cars that had seen better days. Shit, half the ve
hicles were good for nothing other than scrap metal, but he still had to try and sell them. He needed to sell something soon just so he could fix a leak in the roof above the toilet. It was bad enough that he spent half his time sitting on the toilet, but these days he had to do it while wearing a big grey Stetson hat to keep the crap from the septic tank from dripping onto his head. And the hat was making him sweat even more than all the straining.

  He’d opened up the car lot, imaginatively titled Jackson’s Motors at eight a.m. and not had sight of one customer for the first half an hour before his morning newspaper was delivered. As soon as it had arrived he’d headed straight to the en-suite washroom in the corner of his office. He’d been sitting on the can for half an hour trying to force out a particularly stubborn turd when he heard the bell ring above the door of his office. His first customer in three days had picked the worst possible time to show up.

  ‘I’m just in the john. I’ll be out in a sec!’ he shouted out. After half an hour of straining he’d not dropped even a tiny pebble, but the sudden anxiety of knowing he was now being rushed caused his stomach to loosen slightly, albeit only to release some trapped wind. If the new customer in his office had replied to his announcement that he was taking a shit, he wouldn’t have heard it, such was the length and volume of the escaping fart.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Hank called out, while waving his hand in front of his face and holding his breath.

  A deep male voice responded. ‘I’m looking for some wheels.’

  ‘By wheels, do you mean wheels? Or a car?’ Hank hated it when people used slang. Wheels! Honestly, of all the slang terms to use for the word car, it was the one that irritated him the most.

  ‘You got a stock car out front. I want it,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Okay, hang on. I’ll be right out. Can you just turn on the radio on my desk for a second?’

  The person in his office duly obliged and some music filtered in through the toilet door. Hank recognised the song playing. It was Earth Angel by Marvin Berry and The Starlighters. Much to Hank’s relief, the man in the office turned up the volume. It allowed Hank the opportunity to unleash a loud trumpeting noise from his backside without fear of it being heard by his new customer. He breathed a sigh of relief and wiped some sweat from his brow. Even though he was still desperate for a shit the release of trapped wind eased his discomfort immensely.

  He wiped the sweat off his hand and onto his pale green polo shirt, then reached down and grabbed a handful of the cheap white toilet paper from the roll on the floor by his feet. He gave his ass a quick courtesy wipe. He was slightly concerned that he might have “followed through” when he’d broken wind. A quick rummage back and forth with the toilet paper and then a glance back at it confirmed his suspicions. He chucked the dirty paper down the toilet and grabbed another handful. One more decent wipe ought to be enough to make it safe to pull up his pants and hurry out into the office.

  He picked up the roll of toilet paper and unravelled three sheets. As he tore them off there was a loud knock on the door. With the door being less than a metre in front of him he was conscious of how close he was to his newest customer.

  ‘Hey, I said I’d be out in a sec. Gimme a minute will ya?’ he called out.

  The man in the office didn’t knock on the door again. Hank couldn’t tell what he was up to because the radio was still blaring out real loud. He went for one more quick wipe of his ass. Three or four rubs back and forth were enough to do the trick, he decided. He didn’t bother to check the paper for skid marks this time, fearing he might lose his customer if he took any longer. Instead he dropped it straight down the toilet and stood up. He pulled his pants up in a hurry and turned to flush the toilet. He yanked at the handle, giving it a good hard tug to make sure it flushed properly. In sequence with him releasing the handle on the toilet there was a loud crashing noise behind him. The toilet door had been kicked in. Hank turned around, his face frowning with a mixture of anger and shock at the impatience of his new customer.

  That’s when he saw who he had been speaking to through the door. It was a large man in a bright red jacket and black jeans, wearing a yellow mask over his face. A yellow mask with a vile grin across its face, hollowed out eyes and red stripe of hair on top.

  ‘Shit.’

  Seven

  Being Chief of Police in B Movie Hell had always been considered a cushy job. The post was traditionally awarded to someone near retirement, so that they could spend their final days attending social functions and opening supermarkets. That was all there was to it, until today. Now it was a shitty position that no one wanted, because there was a cop killer in town.

  Chief O’Grady walked in to the briefing room and avoided eye contact with all of the other officers. Their voices quieted down to a hush as he approached the podium. By the time he had taken up his place behind it, the silence was deathly. He looked up. There wasn’t a single empty seat in the room. It wasn’t the world’s biggest briefing room anyway, but it had never been so busy that it had officers standing at the back behind the five rows of seats. For the first time since the Christmas party just about every officer on the B Movie Hell police force was in attendance. Usually a briefing would have plenty of absentees. But it wasn’t often that they had one the day after a cop killing. Everyone was in their standard blue uniform with the exception of two of the senior detectives in the front row who were wearing plain clothes.

  The B Movie Hell police force employed approximately forty officers. This wasn’t a town that dealt with a lot of crime, certainly not serious crime, and certainly not murder. And cop killers? They’d never had one before. This was uncharted territory.

  ‘Good morning everyone,’ O’Grady started. ‘For anyone who hasn’t seen it, Lucinda has organised a collection for Pete Neville’s family. So far we’ve got enough for some flowers and a card, but it would be nice if we could come up with something a little more personal, so anyone wishing to donate money or ideas should see Lucinda as soon as possible.’

  He took a deep breath as he looked down at the notes he had brought in with him. On top of the notes was a sheet of plastic for the overhead projector. On it was an artist’s impression of the killer, pieced together from information provided by Officer Randall Buckwater who was the only witness.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing, what happened last night,’ he said, looking back up at the audience.

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ a voice from within the audience mumbled.

  O’Grady raised his hands slowly to call for quiet in the hope of quelling any further outbursts before they started. ‘I don’t know what you’re all working on right now, but in case anyone is in any doubt about this, let me make it clear. Catching this killer is now everyone’s top priority.’

  A few more, mostly approving comments flew up from the audience.

  ‘I’ve sent Randall home for the morning. He just needs a few hours sleep and then he’s itching to help find this killer. He’s pretty shaken up, obviously. But he’s given our sketch artist a description of Pete’s killer.’ He glanced down at the picture again. ‘The press haven’t seen this yet, but they will in about half an hour.’

  ‘So let’s see it!’ someone shouted out.

  ‘Okay.’ O’Grady picked up the sheet of plastic and slipped it onto the projector on the desk to the right of the podium. Before switching it on, he added one final comment. ‘Now because the killer was wearing a mask this doesn’t have the level of detail we were after, but the mask and clothing are very distinct.’

  He reached down and pressed a button on the side of the projector. The internal light switched on and a picture lit up on the whiteboard behind him. A picture of the masked murderer of Pete Neville.

  An Irish voice in the audience piped up rather loudly with the phrase “What a cunt.” O’Grady ignored it and stepped aside to make sure everyone could get a good look. ‘The observant ones among you will have noticed that we’ve coloured this one in. Colour is importa
nt with this character. Note the distinct red leather jacket. No store in town sells these. I’m convinced we’re dealing with someone from out of town, but if anyone recognises the jacket, feel free to shout out now.’

  There was a moment of absolute silence in the audience as everyone took in the image on the whiteboard.

  ‘Okay,’ O’Grady continued. ‘Now take a close look at that yellow mask. This is obviously the most outstanding feature. Randall swears that this is exactly how it looked. Says it’s imprinted on his mind forever. It’s a yellow skull with some blacked out teeth and he swears it was grinning at him. And this red bit on the top, that’s a strip of hair, called a Mohican or Mohawk. It’s a style that’s popular with punk rockers and people who are just generally retarded. Now until we have something better to work with, or someone identifies this freak, we’re simply calling him the Red Mohawk, but I guess most of you already know that from watching the news.’

  One of the two plain clothed officers in the front row raised his hand. It was Benny Stansfield, a veteran detective with a fairly aggressive attitude who wasn’t much of one for paperwork and fancied himself as the Dirty Harry of the department. He’d been a thorn in O’Grady’s side for years. He worked under the misguided impression that because he wore his own clothes he was somehow more rock ’n’ roll than everyone else in the department, and therefore normal rules didn’t apply to him. What made it more irritating was that he didn’t look as cool as he thought. His beige suit was a little too big for him but the freedom it provided allowed him to gesticulate wildly whenever it suited him. He wore the same filthy brown tie every day. It was obvious that he simply threw it over his head each day and never fully tightened or untied it. His brown hair was greasy and just a tad too long for an officer. His don’t-give-a-fuck attitude was topped off with a patch of two-day-old stubble on his chin but nowhere else.