The Lover's Children

Chapter 73 – Solstice – Part 6

KLEMPNER

I do recall that he and the equally glaze-eyed little tart he brought with him pretty much cleared the

table by themselves. And that they kept whispering and muttering and giggling to each other, making a

show of excluding Bech from the conversation.

Could have been whatever they’d been smoking of course. Certainly, when they lit up, whatever sauna

they’d been growing the weed in would have had no space for bathing facilities.

Make an appointment?

No…

Element of surprise…

Just show up…

*****

Schauder’s club goes by the name of ‘Noir Blue’. I’ve never been inside and, on the strength of the

name and my brief previous encounters with Schauder, was expecting to find something on the seedy

side of sleaze.

Instead, fresh paint tangs the air in the foyer. Underfoot, the carpets are clean. And the desk is manned

by a middle-aged matron who, differently dressed, would appear more suited to a school or a library. This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

However…

What is she wearing?

Her outfit looks to have been hired from some costumier to Bollywood. A startling shade of pink, edged

with tassels, sequins and…

I peer closer…

Yup…

… and small bells, it might suit a young woman, if she had the hair, eyes and skin tone, not to mention

the physique, of the Bollywood starlet for whom it was intended. However, the costume’s occupant was

apparently moulded from dough by a baker on a bad day.

And he had plenty of dough to work with.

She stabs at a ticket dispenser. “Entrance fee is fifty. One drink included. Give the token to the barman

to claim the drink.”

“I’m here to see Emilio Schauder.”

“Still fifty to go inside.”

“I’m not here to use your facilities. I said, I want to see Schauder. Is he here?”

“Got an appointment?”

“No.”

“Gimme a name then. And I’ll ring through.”

Schauder won’t know who Lars Waterman is. That name won’t get me inside. ‘Klempner’ probably will,

but I’m not about to spread it around the place.

From my wallet, I slip out a twenty, offer it to the old hag. “For you. Let me through. I simply want to talk

to Schauder.”

She eyes the note. “That’s a twenty. Entrance is fifty.”

Fuck this…

“I’ll find him myself, shall I.”

A sharp left and I march through the swing doors. Behind me, a voice babbles. “Security. Right now.”

*****

Inside, I discover that Old Hag’s ensemble is part of the themed joys of Noir Blue. The interior is set out

as a kind of bastard copy of an Indian temple. Decorated in eye-watering colours, it looks as though a

five-year-old loose with a paint palette.

Walls and ceiling are draped in tomato-red, frog-green and that gaudy shade of gold that make

knocked-off designer watches look counterfeit. To call it a ‘riot’ of colour is inadequate. This verges on

full-scale insurrection. But the explosion-in-a-paint-factory decor is a mere background for brass lamps,

burners sprouting incense sticks, statues of that cross-legged, elephant-headed deity, and goddesses

with more limbs than a millipede.

The music would be okay if you enjoy listening to the sitar, or at least, the genuine article. But this

sounds like something aired across the reception area of the cheaper kind of psychologist’s office.

Or is it psychiatrist?

In fact, I’ve visited India in the course of my business, and I enjoyed it. I took my time, doing the tourist

round of the Ellora Caves, the Taj Mahal, the Golden Temple and the rest.

The country impressed me, although I passed on the opportunity to immerse myself in the life-giving

waters of ‘Mother Ganges’. A sacred river brimming with raw sewage, industrial metals and antibiotic-

resistant bacteria, seemed to me to be an opportunity to wash away my sins that I’m happy to push

back until the last possible moment. Nonetheless, India left me with the urge to read my way, cover-to-

cover, through Kipling’s works.

No, I’ve no problem with India and its heritage. But I can’t say the same for this second-hand, badly

plagiarised, derivative of the original.

And the musak-ified twanging of the ‘sitar’ plucks at my last nerve.

This is a sex club?

Who the fuck would want to get it up in here?

Apparently, my opinions are not shared. Whores and their clients lounge, or display, or fuck on

cushions in the same mind-etching, psychedelic colours; or on beds and loungers with throws and

tapestries to match.

The whole place stinks. And not just of the incense suggested by the burners. The flowery musk of

hashish overlays the sour acidity of heroin. The burnt plastic stench of meth competes with…

??

What’s that one…?

Oh yes… Permanent marker.

Someone’s high on Angel Dust.

I can even smell tobacco.

If it’s smokable, someone in here’s smoking it.

Why do they do it?

They’re in a whorehouse for fuck’s sake. What compares with the Rush of good sex?

I recall the Beatles went through a phase like this… Discovering God through studying their navels and

the mysteries of the Far East. Or some such crap.

The Beatles came from Liverpool. I’m not sure where Schauder hails from, but it sure as hell isn’t India.

The last time I saw him he had the complexion of a cave-dweller.

I’d expected Schauder to be perhaps at the bar, mingling with the clientele. Or maybe at a table,

watching the customers, overseeing events. But there are no tables. And the only conventional seating

is half a dozen tall stools at the bar.

Instead, I find him lounging in a corner, on similar floor cushions to the rest. Wearing a loose collarless

kurta in white linen, and matching dhoti, his eyes are half-lidded, his face slack, as he shares a hookah

with the semi-naked girl lying beside him. She looks barely old enough to be out of school, but her

arms and wrists are pockmarked, the skin shrunken.

It takes him several seconds to register I’m there. When he does, his response is sluggish. “So… Look

what the cat dragged in…” He doesn’t just drawl. His voice is a slow, sleepy drag. “The great,

supposedly late, Larry Klempner.”

“Good to see you too, Schauder. I’m surprised you remember me after our last meeting.”

His eyes narrow and the slur tightens up. “I'm not buying.”

“That’s good. I'm not selling.”

He waves to a nearby cushion. “Take a seat.”

“I’m fine standing.”

He sucks from the mouthpiece of his hookah. Inside the vase, white smoke swirls over the water.

“Feeling your age, Klempner? Not limber enough to get down and up again?”

“Oh, I’m limber enough. But I prefer being upright.”

His gaze drifts, then refocuses. “So… you’re not trying to sell. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to ask questions. I’m hoping you might have some answers.”

“Oh? About what?”

“About the serial killer that’s loose in the City. The one they’re calling The Surgeon.”

His forehead creases. “What’s your interest in that?”

“He’s targeting prostitutes. I’m asking around after anyone that might have seen or heard anything

suspicious. Who might have seen something, or someone, that gave them cause to worry?”

Schauder draws from the hookah again, then sitting upright, passes the hose to the girl. She inhales,

then sags back, her face vacant, fumes drifting from her nostrils.

“That wasn’t what I asked.” Schauder’s voice has sharpened up, not much, but noticeably. “What’s your

interest? And why come here? You’ll damage my reputation.”

“It’s not just you. You’re not being targeted. There are others on my list to visit. And I’m enquiring for

a… friend.”

He folds his arms. “What friend?”

“It doesn’t matter. I…”

“I think it does. I’ve already had the police snooping here. As if I’d know anything. Why are you

asking?”

Crap…

I’m trying to assemble a sensible explanation, but Schauder’s still talking. “How are you still walking the

streets, Klempner? You got some deal going with the cops?”

I should have thought about how to answer this…

“Schauder, we’ve known each other for years. We’ve done business. Do you think I’d…”

He cuts me off. “Business?” Whether the word is hissed or slurred, I’m not sure, but any pretence at

friendliness has vanished. “I never did business with you. Or that schmuck of yours, Bech. He tried

hard enough, but I never bought any of your so-called goods.” He swings an arm, gesturing across the

floor. “I don’t deal in slaves. My women are here of their own free will.”

I follow his gesture, taking in the detail. “Yes, I can see their free will etched on their veins. How much

free will do you have left when you're addicted to heroin or crack?”

He bares his teeth. “You think you’ve got the moral high ground here, Klempner? There’s no one in

here… Not one… who didn’t choose to be here. You might not like their life choices, but it was their

choice. They know the deal.”

He relaxes, shrugs, settling to something between a smile and a sneer. “They want their fix. I see they

get it. They work for me. I see they get what they want.” He spreads his arms “Hey, Larry… I’m not a

charity. My girls know I’ll help, so they come to me.” Schauder’s companion stirs, giving him the vague

smile of the un-souled.

I nod down to her. “Like her for example?”

Schauder tips up her chin, giving me a clear view of her face. “You fancy her? You can have her if you

like. For an hour or so, you understand.” He sniffs. “On the house. Seeing as how you’re a special

guest.”

“I don't think so.”

“As you like.” He rolls her away to lie on her back, eyes vacant. “Anything else, then?”

“No. I don’t believe anyone here is in any danger from The Surgeon. He likes them healthy. From what

I've seen, he'd not touch anything from your kennel with a long pole.”

*****