A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (22 page)

Stoner was feeling familiarly resigned to his lack of progress. ‘There is no getting a straight answer from you, is there? Can I ask some questions and will you answer them with a simple yes or no?’ To his surprise, the Hard Man nodded, waved his cutlery in what appeared to be an encouraging manner.

‘Do you have any idea who the killer actually is? If so, that knowledge could save me a lot of dicking around.’

‘No. Simple answer.’

‘Do you know who’s behind it?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have suspects?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you share this with me?’

‘No.’

‘Why the fuck not?’

‘There is no yes/no answer to that, my keen, impetuous but grammatically challenged friend. And that was the deal. Any more questions?’

‘Is Harding working for you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know who he
is
working for?’

‘No. But before you ask again, yes I do
think
I know, but if I’m correct in my thinking, that information could seriously impair your own work, would cloud your vision when it needs to be clear, and might send you off down roads to nowhere. Would certainly waste a lot of time, yours and mine. However, if it helps, I’ll guarantee to tell you should I get proof. And if I think it’s in our joint best interests. OK?’

‘Are you aware that there are two sets of murders running in parallel?’ Stoner sat back and watched for any signs of impact. The Hard Man stopped chewing for a moment, then resumed.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Parallel? I’m aware that there may be other bodies in this sequence of which I am as yet unaware. But parallel? What do you mean by that?’

Stoner ignored the question. Asked another instead. ‘Do you genuinely know of no connection between the dead heads?’

‘No. The very fact that they are so completely unconnected is what worries me the most. I can see no pattern in it. If it was just some nameless nutter extracting a terrible revenge from a society that hates him . . . I could live with that, but our employers
would not care about that at all, so we would not be employed. The lack of connection is the key to this. I think so, anyway. Find the connection and we can all retire to Barbados and watch the cricket. If you’re not eating that bird, pass it over and I will. It’s too good to waste.’

Stoner stared at his plate with distaste, then stood up. ‘I’ve had enough; you eat it. This just goes around in circles. We’re getting nowhere sitting here chewing chunks of undernourished, overpriced chicken. I’m off to the club to make some noise. I’ll leave the cell connected unless I’m feeling paranoid about it, and if that happens I’ll leave a message for you. That OK?’

‘It’ll have to be. How did you find out about the last killing, by the way?’

Stoner ostentatiously checked for eavesdroppers and whispered; ‘Elementary, my dear fellow. Elementary.’

Both men laughed aloud. A surprisingly happy ending to what should have been a more difficult conversation.

‘Nice evening for a walk, Mr Stoner,’ the Hard Man sounded almost avuncular. ‘Enjoy the air, and keep an eye on those dark doorways.’

22

IT HURTS ME TOO

‘I’d do anything to play in your band, Mr Stoner.’ The chubby young woman had been hovering around the stage like a lost soul for the entire evening. ‘Anything. Absolutely anything.’ She gazed at him, eyes wide in lonely appeal. Bili rolled her eyes, grinning from behind the supplicant, pointlessly but with pleasure tuning and re-tuning her bass.

‘It doesn’t really work like that.’ Stoner’s mental processing was preoccupied more with murder than with music; badness real rather than recalled and turned into song. ‘We’re not a band, as such. It’s certainly not my band. We’re just a clump of guys, y’know? We mainly turn up and play, as and when. The house band, Mellow, that’s a real band. We’re more . . . y’know . . . ad hoc. More of a loose jam kind of thing. Mellow are good, really good. They learn numbers and rehearse and everything you’d want. And they play a lot. Do you want an intro? I can do that. What’s your name? What do you play? Hey! You any good?’ He beamed encouragement.

Bili beamed right back over the young woman’s head. ‘It’s a fan!’ she mouthed, rolling her wide eyes.

‘Oh. Mellow? Yeah, they’re OK. They’re good enough, but they’re
not . . . ahh . . . special like you guys. You guys really do make it work. It’s just . . . it’s like it calls out to me. Makes me want to play too. It’s like . . . when I hear you guys getting really into it . . . really deep into it, and especially you, Mr Stoner, on the guitar, then I want to play it too. I work the saxophone. Tenor, alto. It would fit right in. Would blow side by side with your guitar, Mr Stoner. When you solo’d on “It Hurts Me Too” in your first set I knew I’d have to ask if I could audition or jam or join in or whatever. Your playing gets right inside me. I think you’d know what I mean when you hear me play. I’d pick up your lines, harmonise. You make your phrasing work in a way that would work on the sax, I think.

‘Really. I’m not pushy. I don’t mean to be pushy. It’s just, I dunno, it’s just that I’ve never met anyone who plays the guitar like it’s a sax before. It really digs into me. I really would do anything you want if you’d let me play. Anything. Just say what.’ She wound down, eyes wide, hoping for encouragement. Stoner stared at her. Bili had ambled off to conspire with Stretch by the piano.

‘OK. Couple of things. Like I said, it’s not really a band, in the formal sense that you seem to think it is . . .’ He was floundering a little. ‘We just . . . know each other really well and we’ve played together forever, so we don’t rehearse like most bands do, so they can get to know each other. We just come together here when it’s right. The others do more gigs than me, but I . . . I work a lot of evenings so I don’t get a lot of chances to learn many new numbers, so we mainly stick to blues we all know . . .’

‘Oh yes! I can see how it works. Couple of guys told me all about how your band plays, and how you stick to a pretty short list of numbers in the set, and that you don’t ever play the same thing twice. I’d love to try that. I can play lots of stuff, from formal jazz to bebop, and I think that some trad alto phrases would work just perfectly into the way you play. Your solo in “It Hurts
Me Too” just made my lips and fingers twitch. I could pile a whole extra layer onto that. Couple of run-throughs to sort out the timing, your approach to scales, this that this that, and . . . it would be brilliant.’

‘I’m sure it would.’ Stoner looked up, seeking help. Chimp waved, obligingly, from the bar. Bili pointed her eyebrows at the lights overhead. ‘Hey, look. I’m getting the evil eye from the others. Looks like they want to play some more. Could chat about it later if you’re around. Before the last act? What’s your name, anyway?’

‘That would be great. Great. Amanda. I’m Amanda. Do you do requests?’

Stoner paused on his way to his stool, stage left. Looked back. ‘I don’t usually choose the numbers. Bili on the bass usually decides what she fancies singing. I play it if I know it. You got a request, best ask Bili. She does bite, so look out!’

He grinned, and Amanda duly grinned in reply, headed off to speak to Bili the Bass. Who listened to her, smiled. Looked across the stage to Stoner. Stuck out her tongue at him. Fingered a third-fret G on her bass’s bottom string, dropped the string to sound the open E. Hit that note twice, left it ringing. Fretted the G to E sequence twice in slow succession then hit that bottom E twice again. Looked at Stoner.

Who nodded, fell into the tune, adding part-chords to Bili’s grumbling, mumbling bass. He switched to the Stratocaster’s bass pick-up, his little finger wound the tone control down to dull so the clicking of the bass strings cut staccato through the muted guitar chords as Bili stalked her microphone.

‘The night fell a spoonful of diamonds . . .’

Stoner’s Stratocaster coughed a sliding chord.

‘The night fell a spoonful of gold . . .’

A cluster of minor harmonics sang from the guitar.

‘Just a little spoonful of your precious love . . .

‘. . . satisfies my soul.’

And Bili growled out her take on Willie Dixon’s most famous ballad, her eyes laughing at Stoner while Amanda swayed on her feet in front of the audience, staring at her very own personal guitar hero. Who delivered a succession of steady workmanlike single-verse solos until after the third sung verse, when Bili stepped back from the microphone and Stoner fingered the Fender into its most abrasive, sax-impersonating throaty roar and improvised on the two-note, two-chord Spoonful theme for maybe a half hour before resting back on his stool, muting the loud red guitar and letting Bili wind up the single-song set.

Before his newest and greatest lifelong fan could reach him, and while the applause was still gathering strength, Stoner hopped from the stage and headed fast for the bar. He snagged the key to the club’s upstairs apartment from the fingers of the ever-aware barman. ‘My next is a weak beer, Chimp, my last is on its way back to the ocean!’ And, almost laughing with the appreciation of the back-slapping audience, he ran the short stairs to the apartment and its private facilities.

As is the case with many basement clubs, the Blue Cube’s owner also owned the rest of the building, and the overground levels contained a decently-sized apartment, most often used for visiting musicians or other guests of the club. The apartment also offered a little personal privacy for performers and their guests, should they prefer to pee in peace, away from the stares of the well-meaning.

Stoner unzipped and took aim, humming disconnected guitar jottings as he awaited the flow and the relief.

‘Great solo, Mr Stoner.’

The voice was close beside him. He sighed. Gazed ahead and waited for the interrupted flow. Which, inconveniently, declined to arrive. He sighed again, more loudly.

‘Let me . . .’

A chubby female hand reached around and took hold of him. He stood still, concentrating on breathing steadily, silently; on the pattern of the wallpaper. The hand squeezed, gently; ‘Come along now. There’s a good boy,’ and stroked while squeezing some more. The inevitable erection overtook Stoner’s close inspection of the tiling, fascinating though that was, and the urge to piss retreated. The hand was dextrous, too, reaching inside Stoner’s pants to the base of his cock, squeezing firmly then running that squeeze out to the tip, which swelled and purpled obligingly, doubling both his urges while satisfying neither.

A face appeared at waist level, an eye winked at him. Lips moistened and she drooled spittle onto the end of his cock. Licked her lips again and muttered ironic encouragement; ‘Come along, you know what to do, little chap.’

Searing genius wit is never easy at times like this, and Stoner was rarely interested in appearing cool anyway, so he felt mixed feelings as the first pale yellow drips hit the bowl. ‘Thanks,’ he managed as the flow improved.

Amanda pulled herself between Stoner’s cock and its target, hoovering his cock into her mouth with impressive speed and drinking fast from it. Almost as fast as he peed, she drank. Impressive stuff. If messy, because capable though she was, his flow was initially uncontrolled and overflow was inevitable. But she swallowed heroically and with apparent relish; he eventually controlled his output, and balance was maintained until his seas were dried up. He looked down and raised both eyebrows, unusually at a loss for words at this point. The world of the gigging musician is always unusual; this was faintly extraordinary even by those standards.

Words came instead from Amanda, who removed cock from mouth long enough to suggest that she recalled that men’s personal prongs could perform more than one function, and remarked that his appeared to be up for further exercise at this
point, as indeed was unarguably the case. He nodded, words still strangely absent.

‘Control of the reed is key to getting a decent sound from a sax,’ Amanda observed, running her tongue under Stoner’s personal instrument to demonstrate her point. He leaned back against the wall; stared imploringly at the ceiling. There are many points of no return in a man’s life, and he could feel another of them fast approaching.

‘Umm . . .?’ he managed, with a faint hoarseness.

She played her tongue on the fleshy purpling reed with visible amusement, contrived to grin while squeezing him with her lips. Being the perfect gentleman, Stoner of course exaggerated his delight. Being a perfect lady, Amanda removed tongue from cock to suggest that the saxophone analogy could perhaps be replaced with something more flute-like, where the sound is produced by blowing across the hole nearest the end of that other brazen instrument. She once again demonstrated her prowess at this curious musical technique using the increasingly rigid instrument to hand.

‘Accurate fingering is crucial, though, particularly while extemporising,’ she announced, managing to simultaneously squeeze and rub the shaft in demonstration. Combining her manual skills with the tongue technique and breathy blowing had by now reduced Stoner’s world to a tiny place indeed. Maybe a dozen cubic inches contained all of it. He was considering neither music nor metaphor. Sex was all. Pure physical delight. The whole world contained just two folk propped in a bathroom above a club from which the steady bass beat provided an eccentric persistent background sound. She sucked, rubbed, squeezed, blew . . . he leaned, weak-kneed, and groaned a little. Hardly a fair division of duties, but currently acceptable to both.

‘Ummm . . .’ he managed again, feeling the typical male need to announce the next coming, mindlessly forgetting or ignoring that a player as proficient as Amanda would be well aware of
this. As she indeed proved by lifting her hands from his cock, resting the teeth of both jaws lightly upon it and sliding them his entire length, all the way back until her face was buried against his body and her teeth tightened to hold their grip, forcing the action end of his cock against the extreme back of her mouth. Which she opened as she swallowed the end of him, gulping hard as he penetrated her throat.

Surprise and his reflexes pulled him back, but she reached around, grabbed a buttock with each hand and growled, gargled almost and her throat muscles convulsed in their gag reaction at the intrusion. She jammed her face against him. He soared, stretched, cried aloud for salvation or something as he came, pumping pumping pumping, his hands gripping his own head as worlds exploded before him.

She coughed.

And again, overtaken by her gag reflex, and sat suddenly back from him, cock flying from her wide-open mouth accompanied by a shower of fluids as she spewed up most of what she had recently swallowed. Most of it found its way back to its donor, Stoner, hosing his groin and soaking him south of the waist. His cock squeezed out a final contribution to the mess and lost its tumescence rapidly, hanging increasingly limply in a swamp of semen, piss and beer, stirred in with other stomach contents which were probably best left unidentified.

Amanda leaned back against the bath, wiping semen and snot from her face, hair, mouth and eyes.

‘Came down my bloody nose!’

She burst out laughing.

‘Look at me, Ms Cool, snot and spunk running down my bloody nose! Fuck, Mr Stoner, am I sorry about that.’

The ingloriously yellow lumpy mixture dribbled down over her T-shirt, smearing the words ‘Jesus Saves – Devils Drink’ with presumably unconscious irony.

‘Oh I am so sorry; I wanted something special for you! Something really really special. Something you’d remember and something . . . oh . . . something to persuade you to let me play. Fuck. It doesn’t usually make me sick. I don’t usually throw up.’

‘Usually?’ Stoner stared at her in feigned disbelief. ‘This is something you do . . . a lot? Only with strangers? Guys you meet on trains? Close friends?’

‘No,’ she was still beaming desperately. ‘No. I wanted . . . wanted to . . . impress you. Oh shit.’

A voice interrupted. Bili, from the doorway.

‘Well done. You passed the audition, girlie. Earned your moment of fame. Bring an alto next time. Tongue that as well as you tongued JJ and you’ll do good. Won’t she, matey?’ She stared, expression flat, at Stoner, who nodded, limply.

‘And put that thing away; poor little jobbie’s trying to hide anyway. Dear Christ, but you have seriously fouled your britches. Gonna look good for the last set. I’d play sat down if I were you.’ Bili, practical to the end. Wiser than she was old.

Stoner shook his head, speechless, mopping ineffectually at his groin with the second towel; the first he’d passed to Amanda, who smeared her face some more, mumbled what sounded like a mean mix of expletives and apologies and ran from the room, stopping briefly in front of Bili, looking into her face but saying nothing before fleeing downstairs to the club.

Stoner sagged to the edge of the bath and sat, wiping at himself, tucked tackle and zipped up.

‘I’m soaked. Holy shit, Bili. I wasn’t expecting that. I came up here to get away.’

‘You certainly came. That was a sight to behold, my friend, and will be a source of blackmail for years to come. Wish I’d filmed it. You’d have been an instant overnight internet sensation. Well . . . she would have been. Yours was just a bit part, a supporting role, of course. A little bit part. We gonna close the
show, or do you want just Stretch and me to handle it? Sorry.’