The Lover's Children

Chapter 62 – April’s Tears #13

JAMES

Klempner sees Stanton out, but returns to find Charlotte, waiting with me, wearing her ‘rebellious’ face.

Close to combative in fact. Her jaw is set, almost aimed, at her father, “You should have done it.

Agreed to help.”

“Charlotte!”

She starts at my bellow, but Klempner raises a finger my way, gives a short shake of the head. “Jenny

is entitled to an opinion on this…” She smirks… “…aside from the detail that she shouldn’t have heard

that part of it so was clearly eavesdropping…”

The smirk fades. “Okay, I was listening in. How else was I supposed to know what was going on? And

it doesn’t change anything. You should have agreed to help him.”

Klempner’s tone remains cool. “I refused because it would have upset your mother. You saw how she

was when she thought Stanton was coming after me. I don’t want to see her in that state again.”

Charlotte Hmmms, sucks in her cheeks, inspects her feet. “I could do it. Some of it anyway. Talk to the

girls. Ask Stanton’s questions for him.”

My stomach flips. “Absolutely not!”

Klempner flashes me another look…

Calm down…

… jabs a finger toward her. “And that would upset Mitch even more. You exposing yourself to trouble.”

Charlotte scowls. “I’m not scared of trouble. And the killer’s not interested in me.”

“No?” Klempner cocks a brow, perches a hip on the back of the settee. “He might be,” he drawls, “If you

start rubbing shoulders with street hookers. He’s targeting prostitutes.”

Her eyes shoot arrows. “I can handle myself.”

“I know that. But I’m not aware you’ve ever come up against a psychopathic misogynist set on raping,

then disembowelling you?

Her face tightens. “And you have?”

“You might be surprised at what I’ve come up against. The last one who wanted to disembowel me

planned on using a machete. And correct me if I have my facts wrong, but aren’t you pregnant?

Your…” Casting a look my way, he flounders for a moment… “… Your other husband might have

something to say about that.” Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

“This one too,” I growl.

Charlotte hesitates, bites her lower lip.

Klempner’s not finished. “… So shall we call that the end of the conversation? You all pay your taxes to

fund the police department. They shouldn’t have to come running to me to handle something like this.

That’s their job. It’s what they’re for.”

She doesn’t look happy. “Maybe you’re right,” she mutters.

“Maybe I am. And while I’m happy to face down machete-wielding maniacs with an attitude problem, I

don’t intend to be the one explaining to your mother why you’re haunting the City streets risking the

same thing.”

In the background, Cara raises a wail. Klempner flicks a glance to the door. “I believe your daughter

wants her lunch.”

Hunching, Charlotte nods and exits. As her back turns, Klempner rolls eyes my way. I roll back.

*****

PAT

From my cafe table across the street, I watch the entrance of the Sapphire Club. Just before ten, the

dancers arrive, trickling in by ones and twos. The hulk at the door lets them in. Lily and Ginny arrive a

few minutes later, exchange a few words with him, then vanish inside.

So, my way is clear.

Assuming there’s no roommate.

It doesn’t take long to reach Lily’s apartment. Some old bag carrying groceries gets me inside. I even

get to climb the first two storeys with her as she rattles out some crap about her grandson never

visiting.

It’s a cheap and nasty building full of cheap and nasty apartments. On the third floor, I pad along the

corridor, the soles of my shoes peeling from the carpet with each step. Stale cigarette smoke hangs in

the air, not quite masking the funk of second-hand beer, piss and vomit.

At what I reckon to be the right spot, I find a pair of shoddy, plywood doors, facing each other across

the corridor. Lily’s isn’t in good shape. The paint’s peeled and cracked. Around the lock and hinges, the

wood’s splintered, obviously patched and repaired, more than once probably. The remains of bootprints

dent the cheap timber.

Kicked in…

Boyfriend?

Drugs bust?

Who knows?

But disappointment bites….

If this is how you live, perhaps you’re not right after all…

The door’s locked of course, but the lock’s just standard pin-and-tumbler, as second-rate as the rest of

the door, and it’s obviously not the original.

Oh, Lily…

You should look after yourself better…

Anyone could walk in…

Landlord should be ashamed of himself…

Get him to install a decent lock…

Or maybe he won’t pay?

Why repair what will just get kicked in again?

A quick glance one way, then the other, up and down the corridor…

Alone…

… Using my body to block the view of what I’m doing, just in case, I slip the ‘wallet’ from my top pocket.

To any casual eye, it would hold the usual crap: bank cards, loyalty cards, cash. In fact, it contains my

pick set.

I’ve done this lock before, or something similar enough to make no odds. Choosing from the torsion

tools the one I think most likely to do the job, inserted one-handedly into the lock, a small amount of

applied tension on the cylinder pressures it to turn. Which of course, it can’t do just yet, until the pins

are lifted.

It’s a bit awkward, but I’ve had plenty of practice, and with the other hand I insert my chosen pick,

easing in. The first couple of pins are free. There’s always one or two like that in cheap locks. But the

third one resists, still seized with its own friction.

Angling to exert a little bit of pressure, keeping constant pressure on the barrel, slowly, carefully, I force

pin three upward until, with a Click! the split in the pin aligns with the barrel, the barrel rotates a fraction

and I move to the next pin. Thirty seconds later, all the pins have shifted and aligned, the pressure

against my torsion tool drops away and the lock snaps open.

From behind me, not exactly a noise; almost a movement of air. I turn to find the door opposite is

cracked open, just a nose and a faded eye peering around…

Fuck…

“Hi.” I put on my best blue-eyed-boy smile. “Handle’s jammed.” I step to the door, offering my hand. “I’m

Andy. Lily’s new boyfriend.”

A snort. “Ha! If she’s calling herself Lily, you ain’t no boyfriend.” And the crack bangs closed. A second

later and the thwack of slamming bolts rattles the door.

Nosy old bitch…

A glance up and down the corridor to be sure no one else followed that, and I hover, considering.

She saw my face…

Should I do something about her?

?

She thinks I’m a john…

… and she’s seen plenty of them…

Nah…

She’ll never remember.

Turning the door handle, I slip inside.

And it’s nice. Much nicer than I expected from the unpromising corridor. Perhaps Lily can’t afford a

more expensive address, but she looks after what she has really well.

I knew you were better than that…

The carpet is cheap and threadbare. But there are no stains, and faint stripes in the pile say she’s been

cleaning.

A coffee table holds a bowl of fruit, all fresh. And the Formica surface, straight out of the seventies, is

polished. And now I think about it, a trace of furniture polish hangs in the air. The TV is dust free. So

are the shelves and magazine rack.

No ash trays…

Doors lead off. I try the first: the kitchen. Again, everything is budget-basement stuff, but it’s

immaculate, the cheap vinyl clean, the trash can emptied, the counter-top wiped.

You live in a hovel…

… but it’s a pristine hovel.

A smoothie maker sits on the side, just the base. The glass jug is upside down on the drainer. In the

bin, broccoli stalks jostle for room with carrot peelings.

I check the fridge. Veggies. Salad. Chicken joints, skin removed. Sparkling water. Semi-skimmed milk.

A bottle of white wine capped with a wine saver: one glass missing. Four cans of alcohol-free beer.

Helping myself to a can, I crack open the top and amble back to the lounge, plonking down onto the

settee.

Something hisses and a paw flashes out, slashing four bloody lines across the back of my hand. A

lanky cat, arched and slit-eyed, its tail bottle-brushed, glares at me. I swing, aiming to back-hand the

fucking thing, but it swan-dives from the couch then slinks underneath, leaving me sucking at the blood.

Fuck…

In the bathroom, the mirror and basin are polished and the john flushed blue. A small moulded-plastic

cabinet, aged yellow, teeters in one corner. The drawers stick as I test each one: soaps, towels and

tampons, a plastic comb, hair grips, slides and bungees, contraceptives…

Band-aids…

It’s the stuff on a roll where you have to cut off a strip, so I pop back to the kitchen looking for scissors,

finding them in the cutlery drawer. The fucking cat follows me and I aim a kick at it, but it dodges,

skittering under the TV, then watches me from its coward’s safety.

Back in the bathroom, I snip a couple of inches off the roll. Washing the blood off the back of my hand, I

watch it trickle red into the basin, then dab the hand dry with toilet tissue before applying the dressing.

Rinsing the basin clean, I drop soiled paper and the backing from the plaster into the toilet, and flush.

The water whirls away taking paper, blood and backing with it and rubbing the sting away from the back

of my hand. The cat’s nowhere in sight as I meander to the next door.

A bedroom, as uncluttered and clean as everything else I’ve seen. The bed is neatly made, pillows

plumped and a fringed counterpane pulled straight, the top neatly turned back. A dressing table with a

cracked mirror is set out with a tray of budget-brand cosmetics: lipsticks and blushers, eyeliner and

mascara. Another tray holds cotton pads, files and nail polish in subdued colours.

Nothing’s left lying around or untidy. A linen basket holds soiled clothes. Rummaging through I find

blouses and bras, a worn pair of jeans, two pairs of plain white cotton panties and a thong in black.

Is that what you wore when I saw you dancing?