| Lesbian: Lusty Liaisons: The Pearl Detective - Part 1: Harlem Nights (1/4) |
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You know about Harlem Nights, don't you? The kind of night in the height of summer when it's too hot to wear even the skin you're in? You have the windows thrown wide open in the hope of getting a 'through draft' and the only thing you wear is a thin sheen of sweat. City noises intrude constantly, the wawawa of the police siren in the distance, the neighbours across the alley rowing well into the morning, muffled bass from a boom box in a passing car. Sleep won't come; it's driven away by the constant, unwaning heat. You have some seedy-sounding jazz playing in the background—mood music, The Bill Evans Trio, or maybe some Chet Baker. The lights in your apartment are off, but the neon flash from nearby signs flows in through your windows, polluting your space. From far off a dog barks, is answered by the voice of many dogs, agitated by the heat. A telephone rings somewhere, going unanswered—damn, of all the noises in the busy, hot night it's that one noise that sets your teeth grating. Your naked form is sitting perched on the wide windowsill, smoke shrouding it from your burning cigarette, which you are about done with. Absentmindedly, you reach for another, light the new with the old before extinguishing the life from the burnt-down stub. You glance toward your bed, the covers in a tangled heap an admission that you at least tried to sleep. You hear people pass a couple floors below, more than two, but you're not sure for certain how many there are. They're headed away from the street, down toward the dead end of the alley—away from normal foot traffic. Stilling your body, you listen for snatches of conversation. The alley, as you know, is a favourite place for whores to take their johns for a quick 10-dollar blowjob, the staple of their working day. All becomes quiet. The whole city, it seems, pauses in its nightly doings. The pause is broken when a short scream rings out, followed by — how many? — pairs of feet running toward the street. Stubbing out your cigarette, you leave the perch by the window, seconds before an earth-shattering scream rings out — constant, no sign of let-up — the kind of scream that brings goose bumps breaking out in clusterfucks all over your skin, the hair covering your body in a fine down immediately rising and Satan himself dances on your grave, your flesh shivering with uncontrollable fear. ****** Down at the precinct we were as busy as any overheated night. The ceiling fans did nothing more than move hot, stale air around. No good at all for cooling a body. I picked up my by-now-cold cup of station coffee, took a pull at the darkly bitter brew and managed to swallow it just as the phone on my desk shrilled. I answered on the fourth ring. “Delano speaking,” my stock reply for all phone calls these days. ”Delano, Brinks at Central. I'm down in the alley just off Morgan and Fritz; we've got us a 10-27-1. My unit is sealing off the area, forensics have been notified and coroner is en route.” The voice curt and businesslike. ”Ok Brinks, you know the drill. Seal off, and await further instruction.” Grabbing my jacket, I headed out the door, pausing briefly to poke my head around the door to the men’s locker room to rouse my partner, Lou, from a fitful slumber. |
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