I am not a woman. I am not a man. I exist in a rare form that will forever reside beyond your narrow comprehension. Your expectations do not excite me. Your assumptions do not move me. When all the working stiffs have wrought their little fingers to the bone, and all the mindless do-gooders and bleeding-heart samaritans have sauntered off home for the night...
…that’s when I come out to play. The real me.
I am a nighthawk. A ne’er-do-well. Wrapped within the bleak isolation and perennial heartache that comes to define the Big City. I am just like all the others, see…caught between the bright lights and broken tiles. My rouge coloured lip-stick glistens beneath the haze of yellow street lamps. My long wig dazzles and beguiles in equal measure. And my eyes…well, those luscious windows into my cold and troubled soul will soon begin to blossom with a real effervescent glow.
Enough to woo any man’s heart.
Take last week for example. It was Friday night; party time down in the plagued and puzzled depths of the now infamous downtown district. As usual, the streets were alive with passion. The clubs were brimming with trouble. Wide eyed girls and pretty boy posers littered the cramped side-walks with their dizzy footsteps, blissfully ignoring the beggars on the corner. It was a night of mindless merrymaking. A night of romping revelry. Deep in the heart of the big dirty city.
At once I saw the usual ensemble of nocturnal night-folk enter the stage. Dealers and junkies. Pimps and pushers. Party goers young and old. Together they danced beneath an invisible umbrella of wicked wonder and pompous pleasure-seeking. And on that particular night, breathing in the smoke infused air with the neon lights shining up against my false eyelashes…
…I was one of them.
I carefully repositioned my curls and flashed my self-constructed cleavage, waiting for the first bleary-eyed sucker to stumble my way. It did not take long. Here in the Big City, it is not uncommon to find many a harebrained snapper dancing on the end of my line…
“What’s yer name darlin’?”
On Friday nights I always went by the name of ‘Stacey’. I arrived as a six foot plus blazing go-getter with eyes of fire and a heart of steel, stepping onto the overground city metro in my pink wig and famous white heels.
“Stacey…” I spoke suddenly, clearing my throat as I searched for the correct tone of voice.
“And what’s yer poison, then Stacey?” the dealer asked with a snarl, bearing a set of jagged yellow teeth beneath his cracked lips, “…I got shots and stubbies, tallboys and tumblers…or maybe yer lookin’ for somethin’ a little stronger eh? I got Captain Cody, China White and a couple Xannies if yer need ‘em. What do yer say!?”
I batted my eyelashes and turned to walk further down the graffiti covered carriage, my newly purchased heels clip-clopping behind me.
“Now, now…” the man growled, pulling aggressively on my sleeve, “…don’t yer at least wanna try before yer buy, eh Stacey? How ‘bout a little sampler, on the house…?”
“No…” I said, “…I’m not interested. Please, leave me alone…”
But the dealer refused to let go of my arm, pulling me closer to his rotten scented breath.
“No…?” he replied with a frown, “…no!? Girls like you don’t say no to me! I want to be your friend Stacey…and I think you n’ me ought to get real close, if yer know what I mean…”
“No…” I repeated once more, “…and if you don’t let go of my arm right now, I’ll get Deputy Commissioner Chambers himself to come down here and lock you away!”
Finally the brute took his dirty hands off of me, but not before offering up one last piece of wholesome advice…
“Ha!” he cackled loudly to himself, thrusting a hastily devised contact card into the palm of my hand, “…don’t yer be runnin’ yer mouth ‘bout the police now, Stacey. The cops ain’t got no play round ‘ere…and they know it! Next time you find yerself down in these parts, give this number a call. We’ll sort you out good n’ proper, we will…and tell all yer pretty girlfriends too, eh!”
It felt like a threat more than anything else. But then the grotesque looking dealer peered down at my hands and shuddered slightly. His reaction grew even more perplexed by the time he noticed the collection of scuff marks scattered across my knuckles, as well as the rather sizeable bulge bobbing around in my throat.
After that, he decided to back off.
I never did see that little rat again. But of course, here in the Big City, weirdos like him come in all different shapes and sizes. That particular thick-witted scumbag was just the beginning…
The city train-line, meanwhile, continued to rumble alongside countless shady buildings and several abandoned apartment blocks on either side of the tracks. Above the heads of all the usual prowlers and pillagers we soared, the rusty railroad threatening to give way every couple of minutes.
I sampled the city’s sorry excuse for public transport every Friday night for reasons that I do not yet truly understand. Maybe it was the rush of the rails underneath my feet, the passing of muted strangers trailing off into the night, or simply the closing of one door and the opening of the next. Or, then again, perhaps it was the company these old rust-bucket carriages usually tended to keep. A safe vestige for rascals and swindlers alike, away from the haunted avenues and motherless streets outside.
Every stop provided new sullen faces to observe. Every station a coldhearted copy of the one that came before. Drunks sat alone snoozing past their bedtimes as rough snapshots of the city blasted through the windows, one lonely picture after the next. Elsewhere, quiet characters remained coiled up in the corner, their eyes peering every so often above their crumpled newspapers. From time to time even the odd confused tourist would somehow wander into the carriages uninvited, before soon stumbling right back out again with no intentions of ever looking back.
Yep. There was a lot to admire about the wild rails of the city, alright.
What was there not to love…?
“Oi…you there! Pretty girl, come sit over here will ya!?”
Alas, my latest admirer was not some happy-go-lucky beggar who had managed to find his way out from the cold. Nor was he some kind of bumbling boozer who had foolishly overslept and missed his stop. This was a different type of unnerving individual; once more with the scent of hard liquor riddled upon his breath...
...and that oh so familiar look of treachery residing firmly in his eyes.
“I said come over here, bitch!” he demanded a little more intensely this time, “…come sit on my lap and see what I’ve got for you…”
By now we had sunken lower into the dirty depths of the city subway system. Here you would often find a whole different breed of clientele.
Husbands with wandering hands for example, holding onto the warm bodies of younger women with their shirts open and their words more than just a little slurred. But they were not the only ones, of course. Wives with broken heels and tear-stained mascara marks were just as prominent. As were the many youngsters on board, making plenty memories of their own. Those little bastards came armed to the teeth with a concoction of half consumed bottles, spray cans and fifteen-inch kitchen knives concealed beneath their belts.
And this latest one had seemingly taken a certain interest in me…
“You’ve got money…ain’t ya?” he smiled menacingly as he heaved himself into the seat beside me, “…I can tell just by the way you dress, girl. And the way you smell…”
“Who?” I asked in my best attempt at feigning innocence, “…me?”
“Damn right girl!” he spoke again, opening up his jacket to reveal the contents within, “…what’re you lookin’ for tonight? I’ve got it all…brown, white, a little bit of crystal…everything you need.”
“No thank you…”
“…I didn’t say you had a choice, did I!?” the boy grunted angrily, swatting his unwashed locks away from his beady little eyes, “…there’s a party happening tonight down in Maddison’s Avenue, in the old yard behind the pool hall. You’ll find me and the rest of ‘em down there every Friday night…serving up all kinds of gear. Come on, yer know yer wanna come with me!”
I shook my head and pouted slightly, “…sorry, I don’t think it’s my scene.”
But sadly, this only enraged the guy. Without further introduction the greasy-haired hoodlum opened up the remaining half of his jacket, pulling out a rusty flick-knife with a sinister grin aimed in my direction. He then proceeded to run his dirt infested fingers up and down my surprisingly firm body, pausing slightly as they stumbled upon the rudimentary implants I had sought to disguise as a pair of luscious breasts.
“What’s this…” he mumbled suddenly, recoiling somewhat in horror, “…you…you’re a…”
With that I stood up, carefully removing one of my heels from the sole of my foot. I wasted little time in slamming the pointy end of the shoe straight into his thigh. And boy, I cannot begin to tell you how good that felt...
The foulmouthed thug whimpered suddenly and reeled backwards, finally succumbing to his newfound affliction as he curled up on the seat and tended to his wound. He now paid witness to the silhouetted figure of a towering temptress standing above him. Someone ready to reign all hell fire over his cowardly little bones. But by the time the young pretender had reopened his eyes and observed the space around him, I was already gone, slipping out onto the nearest platform as the carriage doors slammed closed behind me.
It was just another Friday night here in the Big City; a debauched and dangerous playground for the degraded and the depraved.
And that’s before you have even made it into the clubs and the back-houses.
That’s before the real fun had even truly begun…
*
Saturday nights and Friday evenings are never one of the same. If Friday nights are known for their piranha-like nature, swimming and circling around helpless sardines until they get their fill…then Saturday evenings are when the real sharks start to assemble, their cold dead eyes emerging slowly from the shadowy waters.
Every Saturday night I like to be known as ‘Matilda’. A sweet country-bumpkin blonde with a warm smile and a pair of swinging hips you do not want to mess with. Those same swinging hips had only just emerged from a local nightclub named, Porkies. And let me tell you, there were certainly enough pigs and ham-heads in that place to drive a girl like me crazy!
The club had been jam-packed with troublemakers looking to make a name for themselves. Mostly consisting of excitable boys who had yet to encounter any essence of a real woman in their lives, these libidinous young whippersnappers sought to terrorise the dance floor with their pushy moves and presumptuous one-liners. Yet, no such scam would work on me. I was too busy watching the multi-coloured spotlights as they danced across the ceiling. The smell of sweat and watered down booze distracted only momentarily from my sensory self-indulgence. I became lost within a rush of warm bodies and a haze of trampled footsteps, the surge of repetitive techno beats echoing gloriously through my ear-drums.
Throughout this all-encompassing pursuit of earthly pleasures, however, the stark cold reality of Big City living had somehow served to escape me. So much so, that by the time I had made it back outside and onto the gritty streets again, I had hardly noticed the minor gathering of mobsters huddled suspiciously in the alleyway.
Nor the fact that one of them had a gun…
“Let’s get the fuck out of here…” I heard one of the men whisper, “…drop the gun and let’s go already.”
But his weapon wielding companion seemingly wasn’t listening…
“No…” he spoke slowly, “…not yet. First, we need to make sure that the coast is clear…”
Suddenly the sound of the romping music and drunken voices had all but disappeared. I found myself cowering behind a set of dirty bins with old newspapers and cigarette butts littered at my feet, praying the man with the gun hadn’t yet spotted me.
Ah, the battered back-alleys of the bedraggled Big City. Hardly quaint or moderately picturesque in their atheistic, these dingy dead-ends and sunken side-streets played host to all manner of ill-fated individuals. From the humble pervert wallowing in the dark, waiting for pretty girls to pass by with his hands held firmly in his trouser pockets. To the drunken deadbeats hauled on the floor, the beefy brawlers heading out for their night-shifts, and the lost young damsels who had seemingly taken one wrong turn too many. This was as bad as it gets around here. For even the scurrying sewer rats and hungry hound dogs sought not to hang around these parts for longer than required.
My latest back-street encounter would involve a rather gruesome looking crew. The men were tall and broody, leaning up against the wall in partial view of the solitary street-light. Thick cigarette smoke filled the air between them as they each shuffled around aimlessly with their hands housed in their long black overcoats. There were three of them in total.
Four if you included the bullet ridden body lying face down on the floor beside them…
“This is stupid…” spoke the so far silent member of the trio huddled at the back. He seemed more pensive than the other two, his dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes giving him a surprisingly angelic complex within the overwhelming darkness of their predicament.
“We shouldn’t even be here tonight…” he proceeded, slowly peeling away from the wall, “…we should be sipping martinis and watching the sunset far away from here…toasting ourselves on a job well done!”
His voice was calm, with a demeanour that was somewhat subdued. But upon revealing a pair of clenched fists swinging by his side, and a set of deep frown lines that would give even the Grand Canyon a good run for its money, the man suddenly rose above his two companions with a far tougher presence.
“Don’t worry Ray…” one of them replied, “…what happened at the bar was no one’s fault. Things just got a little out of hand, that’s all…”
“Oh, things will get out of hand soon enough…” the tall, blonde goon replied sternly, “…we've already dealt with one of our problems here tonight. Now it's time to go and get the other one. I’m gonna kill that little backstabber!”
His companion peered back at him with a serious gaze.
“Not if Marty gets to him first you won’t…” the man replied earnestly, “…he’ll ruin all of us if he finds out what happened. Best not to go shouting about what you want to do to him, Ray…you never know who might be listening.”
The trio of ill-mannered mafiosos proceeded to eyeball one another in silence. All that could be heard was the soft wail of a siren or two from somewhere in the distance. That and the sound of their crinkled cigarettes burning quietly in the still night air. Things had become so sedate and oddly tranquil between the three crooks, that you could have almost overlooked the presence of the cold dead body still lying dormant on the ground.
“Alright…” said the one with the gun, “…let me just breathe it all in one last time, then we can go.”
What the victim had done to achieve such an unfortunate end was a notion shrouded in secrecy; another macabre mystery lost to the murky Big City. I nonetheless watched on as the goon kicked the dead man unceremoniously with the sole of his boot, turning the face of the deceased over from one side to the other. He then began to pace up and down alongside the corpse, eventually tossing away his smoke next to the large pool of blood expanding at his feet.
“Ok…” he posed suddenly, dashing his snub-nosed pistol over the nearby fence with a casual flick of the wrist, “…let’s get the hell outta here.”
“Hold on a minute…” the blonde man remarked abruptly.
“What? I said let’s go. I don’t wanna be here when Chambers and his boys finally show up!”
“I said, hold on…”
One of them had spied something. Over their shoulders, right next to the bins in the corner…
Much to my great displeasure, an unexpected clanging noise had suddenly caught their collective attention. It could have been a stray fox crashing against one of the bins, maybe. Or, then again, perhaps it was the result of a spiralling item of clothing recently fallen from the ensemble of tangled washing lines hanging above our heads.
That would have surely explained it.
But of course, life here in the Big City rarely proves so straightforward. The noise in question had ultimately been caused by neither of those things. For in the end, I was the conclusive source of the disturbance. Me and the sound of my long leather boots striking against one of the metal lids. Me and my sexy blonde wig suddenly poking out from behind the trash cans for all to see and marvel upon. And who said blondes have all the fun, eh…?
“Is that…?” I heard one of them utter in disbelief, “…no, it can’t be…surely not…”
Now, the jig was up. There I stood alone in the darkness. My blonde wig flowing elegantly down below my shoulders. My hands positioned dominantly upon my hips in no-nonsense fashion. These boys had surely never seen a woman with quite so muscular forearms, a pair of strong legs hunkered down like tree stumps, nor nearly as much hardened stubble sprouted across her anvil-like jawline. These rotten criminals were in the midst of someone totally new and novel. Someone who could quite easily pop each of their heads off in one fell swoop. Gun or no gun…
“Quick, run!” they hollered in unison, fleeing to escape, “…hurry up already, cover your faces!”
Just like the cold evening air, my feet remained frozen. Just like the nosy neighbour peering out from her third-floor window above, the Big City had been silently watching us. But much like the wind, filtering through the grimy back-alley and up into the ether, the three hoodlums had suddenly scattered along with the ash from their discarded cigarettes. Abandoning their forsaken murder weapon over the nearby wooden fence.
And leaving their fallen victim face down in the moonlight...
With one last look of horror they were gone, off into the night to meet the next lurid encounter the Big City had in store for them. I meanwhile stood alongside the unnamed corpse. Watching, waiting. Feeling in my bones for what would happen next. Nothing new would eventually transpire, however. So in the end I turned and walked back towards the club known as Porkies with a newfound spring in my step, and my soft flowery dress trailing delicately behind me.
This was Saturday night here in the Big City after all.
And this is what we lived for.
*
Tell me…what do you long for every time you wake up and rub your weary eyes? What makes you smile once another new day has been so crudely thrust upon you, with your mind wandering aimlessly from one kooky nightmare to the next? Go on, think about it.
Some wish for the sound of pretty songbirds wafting through the air, or the yellow haze of summer sunlight waltzing lovingly upon their eyelids. Others prefer a freshly assembled breakfast served up on a four-poster bed, their bodies gently stirring with the sumptuous scent of lavender softly creeping through the window. Yet, I on the other hand, would encounter no such pleasantries one such morning down in the heartland of the downtown dirty city.
This time it was Sunday, of course…
…the day for all that is holy.
It began like all the best Sunday mornings usually tend to do, beneath the unwashed sheets of Little Red Ruby’s; the fourth-floor brothel here in town. I had been distracted by all manner of different noises emanating from the neighbouring rooms. The money on the bedside table seemed to glow with a certain ‘hush-hush’ delight in the dim morning light. Whilst slumped next to me in the wobbly bed-frame and taking up most of the moth-eaten mattress, the fat man finally awoke with an excitable smile on his face.
“Wow…” he spoke in a flustered manner, brushing his boyish fringe away from his face, “…last night sure was something. You don’t let up, do you!?”
I laughed softly, shaking my head.
“What did you say your name was, gal?” the man proceeded, lighting himself a cigarette and candidly disposing of the ash on the dirty rouge coloured carpet.
“I didn’t, but my name is…Loraine.”
That day I did not feel quite like my usual self. I felt more like ‘Loraine’; the type of girl who cared very little for fanciful feasting or any such rousing regale. She was the kind of woman who didn’t dip her fingers too close to the fire, caring only for the mortal flesh of life…
...wherever she could find it.
“Well…” the man replied, his chubby feet sticking out beneath the duvet, “…Loraine, you sure know how to show a man a good time! How much do I owe you for last night?”
It was a loaded question. But then again, this was a rather loaded place to wake up in…
The term ‘brothel’ was perhaps a touch of an overstatement for Little Red Ruby’s. It was more of a flophouse in truth, far from your average bordello or den of ill repute. Light crept in cautiously through the holes in the mock velvet curtains. The floor came littered with much of last night’s unwanted leftovers; namely several empty beer cans and used prophylactics with their greasy wrappers strewn across the carpet. There was also the en-suite bathroom to consider too, of course, which remained a jumbled mess of cracked tiles, bloodstained towels...
...and other sordid remnants of ill-fated affairs.
Amid the filth and the squalor, however, my short-lived lover suddenly rose to his feet and began pulling up his trousers. His expensive suit jacket hung precariously on the side of a nearby chair, housing his phone, his wallet, and a set of shiny keys to the bright red sports car waiting for him outside.
“Consider the cash on the table as a downpayment, Loraine…” he continued, shooting another unseemly smile in my direction, “…there’s plenty more where that came from, believe me! But you won’t be offended if I walk out on you now, will ya? The importance of appearances, you understand…”
I shook my head for a second time.
“Good…” he said, slowly opening the door, “…if the mayor’s office finds out about this, even if they hear just a whisper…I’m screwed! Not to mention what the Big City Police Department would have to say about all the things we did last night!”
“Oh…”
“Those clowns would love to have a piece of me! Wouldn’t they, Loraine? But no…they’ll never get their hands on me like that…” he winked suddenly, “…not like you did last night!”
Downstairs the bedrooms continued to murmur with rocking bed frames and the moans of satisfied patrons. Back in the lobby, an elderly matron sat chewing a pencil with her coiffed hair and face of heavy make-up, casting aspersions on any poor loser in need of a good time. Yet elsewhere still in the old dilapidated building, hiding amidst the cracks and adjacent to all the action, off-duty sex workers would sit back and catch their breath during their twenty minute lunch-breaks. Those girls would smoke cigarettes and swap stories from the night before, wiping down the drudgery of another hard day’s work.
And yet with all things fairly considered, I envied them a little. I somewhat craved the lives of those brave women as they sat drinking lukewarm coffee, repositioning their push-up bras in preparation for their next lucky customer. It was a world away from the stark mundanity of everyday living. A place fraught with dirt and danger…
...yet a realm of great colour and intrigue, nonetheless.
“Before you go…” I told my newfound lover-boy, this time with a seemingly innocent wink of my own, “…how about a picture? You know, just for old times sake…”
The overweight man threw on his jacket and proceeded to lay upon the bedsheets next to me. Moments later we were locked in one another’s embrace all over again. I felt his breath against my own. He felt my fake bosoms rumple against his chest.
We rumbled and tumbled for a good half an hour before either of us shared another word. For in the heated passion of moments such as this, words are seldom required. My unidentified suitor was simply all over me. His diamond-studded wristwatch gave me shivers as I felt his warm hand grasp eagerly upon my shoulders…
“No, no, no…” he spoke eventually, wiping my purple lipstick free from his hungry mouth, “…what would the papers say if they got wind of the two of us like this!?”
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, “…let them talk! What’s it to you anyway…?”
“No my dear…” the unnamed man spoke assuringly, “…my profession will never allow for it, I’m afraid. Let’s just say my boss, well…he’s somewhat of a traditionalist, and he wouldn’t take too kindly to me messing around in a place like this.”
I said nothing in response, hoping my handsome heartbreaker would suddenly change his mind.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love now, have you…?” he said.
The man watched me peer back at him with the best puppy-dog eyes I could muster, before eventually turning my back and glancing solemnly at the far wall.
“Come on, you already have everything you need…” he spoke once more, “…the moment we just shared together, the money on the table…what else could someone like you ask for!? Let's say I suddenly found myself in your unfortunate position, if I were you…I think I would count myself rather lucky, would I not?”
With another self-righteous grin and a swift kiss on the forehead, he was gone. Heading for the door where he sought to reemerge himself back into the world of pompous high flyers and bald-faced liars. They were the kind of people who picked at their caviar and sipped casually on their lavishly sourced champagne. The type of folk with a whole lot of affluence to abandon, and even more luxury to lose…
...should their fortunes take a sudden turn for the worse.
As is the case with most fleeting love stories here in the Big City, however, that was the last I ever saw of that wily-eyed overly nourished figure of a man. In some ways it was a great shame that we had been unable to spend the rest of our Sunday afternoon together. I dare say that the pair of us might have made a great fit.
But as he left the room whistling merrily and adjusting his silk tie, with the kind of carefree carousal only a night down at Little Red Ruby’s can bring a man, I wasn’t the only one to take one final look at my slippery sweetheart as he made his escape.
The hidden camera in the corridor got a pretty good look at him too…
…and boy, was that the look of someone about to lose their job first thing in the morning.
*
Monday morning. Back to work. Back on the grind as it were, with the predictably overcast skyline serving up yet another uninspiring visual treat for us working stiffs to gaze upon.
Our office setting was bland and conventional, as you would perhaps expect. The receptionists were busy typing away in the lobby whilst the sound of cranking fax-machines filled the rooms upstairs. I had arrived on time dressed in my standard attire; a bright blue uniform that only my visually-impaired mother would find fitting, a pair of polished department-approved shoes strapped across my feet, and most importantly of all…
...a shiny police badge hooked proudly upon my chest.
Up steps the Chief Commissioner from across the desk. She was the head of police operations here in the Big City. Or in other words, my boss…
“What’s the matter, Chambers?” she began brashly, chewing on a big manly cigar between her lips, “…you look tired. Busy weekend was it…?”
“Not exactly…” I lied, “…it’s just, well…I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.”
The boss paused her smoke in the nearby ashtray and immediately got up out of her seat. She soon reemerged with a small paper cup hastily filled with water, unceremoniously thrusting it in my direction.
“Here…” she said, “…drink that. We’ve much to discuss…”
I gladly accepted her offer and threw the cold liquid down the back of my throat. I was grateful. For the small pause in proceedings had allowed me to reflect momentarily on what had turned out to be a rather eventful weekend...
From the rattling subway carriages teetering away beneath the city streets, to the slippery side-roads and unsettling alleyways, the lecherous night-clubs and their less than savoury clientele, plus the countless bordellos filled with carnal pleasures…life as an undercover cop here in the Big City is often a treacherous affair.
It’s quite amazing, isn’t it? How different one can feel under a beautiful wig and twelve-inch eyelashes. Is it not rather remarkable, what a set of make-up and a pair of high heeled boots can have on the untrained eye? You might even consider it somewhat sinister in some cases…
But today, everything was different. Today, I drank my water like a man. I sat back like a man. I pumped up my chest and snorted through my nose in my best impression of your regular macho bonehead on the street. Every action I was taking was an over-exaggeration. For like most confused fellas caught in the rat race with their minds all muddled and their emotions held at bay, I was overcompensating to the best of my abilities. I felt like a fraud; a concocted character just trying to make it through another lonely day.
But of course, the Chief Commissioner sitting opposite the desk neither knew nor cared for my latest performance. She was too busy caught up in her own predicament to notice…
“So Chambers…” she pressed on eagerly, rehousing that big cigar back inside her mouth, “…there’s already a lot on your plate this week, so I need you to take note…”
The boss proceeded to slam a big green folder down upon the desk. It sat there all powerful and menacing looking; filled with new avenues to explore, new suspects to cross-examine, and a whole host of new cases in desperate need of closing.
“Listen up Chambers…” the Chief Commissioner continued, “…there’s been a new influx of narcotics circling among the downtown area of late. Nasty gear, real bottom of the barrel stuff! I want names, faces, numbers…anything you can get your hands on so we can get a lead on some of these dealers. The sooner we get them off our streets, the better.”
“Got it chief…”
“There’s more…” she explained, her feet now resting high upon the desk, “…we landed ourselves a body last Saturday night. This one was a hell of a botch job, I’m telling you…”
“When are they not?” I replied with a sigh.
“Precisely Chambers. Now there’s a couple of fellas we already like for this hit, found them scurrying around in the early hours of Sunday morning. Apparently they’re the same crew who are currently wanted for the hit on…let me see now, ah yes…a relatively unknown bar going by the name of Jerome’s about a week or so back…”
“…you don’t say?”
“That’s right…but I want you to focus on one specific aspect of this case, Chambers. I need you to get your hands on the murder weapon. Find it for me. Bring it back in one piece.”
“Affirmative.”
“Oh and Chambers…” the boss remarked sharply, “…there’s one more thing. I think you’re gonna like this one…”
“Go on…”
The Chief Commissioner turned away for a moment as she sipped on her coffee and stared silently out the window. There wasn’t much to see out there, except from the ongoing lines of traffic and a family of disinterested gulls pecking at the weather-worn tiles.
This was the Big City in its moment of downtime, you see. Once all the frenzied party-folk had put away their glitter and trundled off to their beds. A time where the many flagrant vagrants had scurried back into their holes with their faces hidden from the spot-light. The point in which all the bright neon lights had finally fizzled out into nothingness.
My stoney-faced boss soon returned with a rather bitter taste in her mouth, but not because of what she was drinking…
“Certain rumours have been flying around about a Mr. Richard Rhinestone…” she proceeded, “…current aid to the city mayor. Apparently this one has been eliciting certain…favours…from our lovely ladies of the night here in the Big City. If you get my meaning…”
“I do…”
“Here…” the boss continued, lining up a newly sourced photograph in the middle of the desk, “…take a look at the guy.”
The image depicted a somewhat overweight individual leaving a darkened corridor. He wore an expensive looking suit jacket, an equally extravagant wrist-watch, and possessed a child-like fringe which hovered just above his noticeably pleased expression.
“He’s a real looker, isn’t he?” I mentioned sarcastically.
The Chief Commissioner however, had other more pressing matters on her mind…
“I want to throw the book at this guy!” she declared boldly, “…we’ve been given the order to go all out on this one. I want you to find out everything you can on him. From the 'whens' and 'wheres' of the whole ordeal, to his sorry excuse for pillow-talk if you can! Surprise me Chambers, get creative!”
“Is that everything chief?”
“That’s all…” the boss smiled warmly, “…you’re the best in the business, Chambers. I don’t know how you do it, but I know I can rely on you to get the job done.”
And that she most certainly could.
I eventually turned and got out of my seat, planning my next move carefully. Envisaging my next adventure…
The Big City can be a cruel mistress at times. It’s a place filled with crooked criminals and dancing jezebels in every backroom gambling den, after-hours dancehall and sleazy strip joint you can lay your eyes upon. But that simple truth does not change the fact that I am here to protect her, to be her underlying servant of justice on each and every occasion.
Whether they call me ‘Stacey’; the mean hussy who rides the city subway system, ‘Matilda’; the bumbling blonde with big boots to fill, or even ‘Loraine’; the pretty femme fatale found within the bedsheets of Little Red Ruby’s pleasure den, is totally irrelevant.
Whether fighting crime in my bright blue police uniform, or stalking the city streets in my pink wig and famous white heels, I am one of the same.
My name is Deputy Commissioner Chambers. And today, just like any other day…
…I am at your service.
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