Howard Moon, Colon, Investigator

Category: The Mighty Boosh

Characters: Howard Moon, Vince Noir

Pairing: Howard Moon/Vince Noir

Genre: Action/Adventure, Fluff

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Smut (graphic sex scenes)

Status: Complete

Length: 20-30k words

Notes: Thanks to Plain_jane08 for betaing for me, and conansgal for her marvelous title.

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Howard Moon, Colon, Investigator by Colour_Me_Troll

[nextpage title=”Chapter One”]

Chapter One

I take a long drag on my cigarette, and stare out my window. The busy street below is distorted through heavy rain. I sigh, blowing the smoke back out of my mouth. The phone hasn’t rung for weeks.

My office is neat. For once I’ve had the time to tidy. But I haven’t been able to take the pleasure in it that I normally would. My old cases are stacked against the wall in dull yellow folders, accumulating dust. Soon they’ll be grey like the rest of the room.

The kettle clicks, and I wander over to the bench, putting the tea on to brew, my fag hanging from my lips, flicking stray flecks of ash into the hot water.

If things were going right, my main concern right now would be the worry that my job is going to get me killed.

Things aren’t going right, so I just scowl when I open the mini fridge and there’s no milk.

Pulling my trench-coat on, I walk to the door, and pause before turning the handle, hoping that in these next few seconds the phone might ring.

It doesn’t, and I walk into the musty hallway and close my door behind me, glancing at the peeling letters on the small square of glass. Howard Moon, P.I.

It’s raining even harder than I thought, and within seconds I’m soaked to the bone. But that’s London for you. I push through the crowded streets to the supermarket, where I linger, hoping the weather might ease off before I have to get back to the office.

The girl at the register doesn’t seem to even notice me even as she feeds my money into the till. She’s a small girl, probably looks younger than she is. I must look old to her. Just another geezer in a moth eaten brown coat.

“Have a nice day,” she mumbles to me, and I walk back outside into the rain, armed with a carton of milk under my arm.

Pushing through the crowded streets once again, I’m freezing by the time I get back to my building, and climb the creaky stairs up, up, up to my office.

After locking the door behind me, I move across the room and pour myself a whiskey, which I swallow in one long gulp. Its warming, or maybe numbing, its hard to tell. But either way, I feel vaguely better for it, and better still when I see my answering machine blinking its red eye at me.

I try not to feel too optimistic, after all its probably just a tele-marketer or maybe my mum checking up on her forty year old boy. I press the button, and the tinny voice announces that I have one new message.

“Hey,” crackles the caller, “I need help.”

My heart leaps as the voice fills my tiny room. I lean in closer, straining to hear every word through my old and crackling machine.

He continues, “I don’t much want to go to the police.”

Then there’s a pause, and when he speaks again, he just recites his address. Somewhere in Camden Town.

Then there’s another pause, and he says, “Vince, by the way. Vince Noir.”

And the message ends.

Immediately I grab my coat again and hurry down the stairs and into the rain. But now, finally with a purpose, it doesn’t feel so cold.

Standing outside the apartment block, I try and make myself look presentable. The rain has eased off now, but I still look like a drowned rat, which isn’t ideal. I can’t miss out on this job.

The stairs in here aren’t dank and musty like the ones leading to my office/apartment/hole. They’re warm and sturdy, the walls lined with brick. Incandescent lights glow on the ceiling at regular intervals, giving everything a hint of yellowy gold.

I climb seven or eight stories before I find the house number I’m looking for, the penthouse.

I press the bell, hearing it echo musically through the hall, and wait.

“Come on in, Mr Moon, It’s open,” calls a voice, and I walk inside.

The apartment is very modern; not entirely my cup of tea. Paintings line every wall, all by the same artist, as far as I can tell. They’re brilliantly coloured and surreal. I can see smartly dressed wolves, abstract portraits and hounds with Freddy Mercury’s face. A smile twitches at the corner of my mouth as I look around the room.

Mr Noir promises to be an interesting character.

I walk up the hall to where I can see the lounge begins, and lean on the frame of the door.

On the couch lies a woman, her long black hair framing her angular face, and a long silver coat sweeping over her reclined body. Her legs are long and slender, and covered with tight red jeans.

Her eyes are rimmed with black as she looks at me. Her face seems unaccustomed to frowning, but it is.

“Where can I find Mr Noir?” I ask, trying not to make eye contact with her.

She chuckles, and stands up, gripping my hand firmly.

“Sorry to disappoint, mate.” The deep voice that drawls from her is surprising, and it is a moment before I realise I’ve heard it before.

“Mr Noir,” I greet, feeling my face heat up, “I’m very sorry.”

He shrugs, just a rise and fall of one shoulder, and puts his weight on one hip, giving the illusion of curves.

He watches me expectantly, and I can tell he’s uncomfortable. He shifts nervously, and curls his fingers through long strands of hair.

“Here’s the thing,” he announces eventually. “Bad stuff doesn’t happen to me.”

This isn’t hard to believe, just looking at him. It’s impossible to tell how old he might be, there isn’t a single crease on his bony face. The skin around his eyes is smooth, like he’s never had a worry in the world. Until now.

“Then why did you call me?”

“Something went wrong.” His voice is steady, but the look in his clear blue eyes is afraid.

I take out my trusty note-pad and a ball-point, seating myself stiffly on his velvet lounge. He sits down next to me, crossing his legs and leaning in close to glance at my blank paper.

“Mr Noir,” I begin, clicking my pen into action. This is the most important part of the procedure. The details, the stationary.

“Call me Vince,” he says, cutting me off.

“Alright then. Now Vince–”

“Can I call you by your name, Mr Moon?” Vince asks, interrupting me again.

“It’s Howard,” I say, “Now are you ready?”

“Howard…” He echoes, trying out the word on his tongue. He blinks, focusing himself. “Yeah, I’m ready. But I got some questions first, yeah?”

I nod, and he seems to sit up straighter, as if he’s in his element. In control. No, not control: In the spotlight.

“First,” He says, placing his hand firmly on my leg, “You’re not part of the cops, right?”

“I’m freelance,” I reply, unable to break my gaze from his, which is searching.

“And it’s all confidential, yeah? Just me ‘n you?”

“Of course.”

He leans back, assured, and sinks into the couch. Through my stiffly pressed trousers, I feel cooler for the loss of the contact of his hand on my thigh. Arms spreading across the back of the sofa, he grins.

“Anything else?” I ask him, “I charge at a daily rate of–”

Flicking his hair back, he cuts me off. “I got money.”

Suddenly, it dawns on me how disconcerted I am. Admittedly, Howard Moon is no stranger to being disconcerted, but there’s just something about this boy that feels odd to me. Maybe its the fact that he hasn’t let his gaze slip from me since I arrived, or maybe it’s just his general demeanour. He reads like a book. His emotions seem to bubble on the surface, but right now they’re all over the place. He has no idea what he’s meant to be feeling.

“So what do you need me to investigate?”

He leans forward, and the way he whispers to me seems a little too dramatic, but it sits perfectly on him.

“Leroy’s missing,” he breaths, and sits straight again.

There’s a long pause, in which he gazes at me as if he’s said all he needs to.

“Uh huh,” I say, and click my pen again. Leroy missing, I print at the top of the page, and look up at Vince, who seems impressed. “Anything else?”

“Not really.”

I stare at him. “Nothing else?” I prompt, “Like, where you last saw him? Who he was with? Shady operations he may be involved in?” I pause, and add, “Who Leroy is?”

“He’s my….” Vince begins, but cuts himself off. “Well, he’s Leroy. This is his house, really. At least, one of them. I’m supposed to live here for, well, show I guess.” He chuckles to himself at this and props his sparkly booted feet on the coffee table.

Yeah, he’s certainly showy.

“So,” I begin slowly, wary of his glittering eyes fixed on mine, “Last heard from him…?”

“A fortnight ago. He called me and told me that he’d come to visit the next day, but he needed to do some things first. He was always busy. Suppose it was something to do with his job. He works in the laser copy centre up the road. He’s got to travel a lot, do business with lots of people, you know.”

“Because he works at a laser copy centre?”

“Yeah.”

He blinks at me innocently. I just stare at him blankly.

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly, “Leroy, who has gone missing in mysterious circumstances, works at a laser copy centre. A job that requires him to travel a lot, do business with people around the country, and allows him to buy multiple luxurious houses?”

“Yeah,” says Vince, as if I’m an idiot.

There’s a long pause, in which we stare at each other. I’m trying to gage whether he knows more than he’s letting on, or whether he’s just as naive as he seems to be.

He must be hiding something.

He stares at me, unblinking, like he’s expecting me to walk into the loo, and walk back out with Leroy under my arm.

Eventually I sigh. “Do you have a photo of him?”

He stands up and walks into the connecting room, which I assume is his bedroom, from the glimpse I get. Like the rest of the house it’s practically fluorescent, but with a bit more silk.

After a minute, he wanders back out. He’s taken the time to discard his jacket, and how he’s just wearing a short sleeved green t-shirt, and his pale arms swing confidently by his side.

He stands in front of me, close, and hands me a photo. I inspect it. When I look up, he’s still standing in the same spot, looking down at me.

Uncomfortable, I move to my feet and try to step away from him. His nose is practically touching my chin he’s standing so close.

“I think I’ll start by checking out the laser copy centre,” I say. It’s not like there’s anything else to go on.

“Thanks,” He says gratefully, and doesn’t move. I’m trapped between him and the sofa.

“Uh,” I say, “Excuse me…”

His eyes sparkle like cunning crystals, and he steps back, laughing an insincere apology.

At the door, he moves to shake my hand again, and holds it tightly with both of his.

He looks for a moment like he’s trying to find the right words, but he quickly settles on, “I trust you, Howard Moon. You seem like a top bloke.”

I give him a tight lipped smile, handing him my card with my address and contact details, and edge my way out of the door, drinking in the smell of the stairwell as I try and force his proximity induced scent out of my senses.

I walk from Vince’s flat straight up the road to the laser copy centre. It’s small, it’s dark, it’s dingy. Like everything I work with. Like my apartment.

Inside, its even worse. Dust seems to hang in the air, it’s practically empty except for a single photocopier and a greasy bloke standing at the counter.

He scratches his stomach as I stand in the door way, wipes his nose on his sleeve as I walk towards him, and rearranges his package while I’m at the counter.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I begin, “But you wouldn’t happen to be able to tell me whether Leroy works here, would you?”

“Nah,” He slurs.

“‘Nah’ he doesn’t work here, or ‘nah’ you cant tell me?”

He scratches his head as if he’s got fleas, and thinks.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, nodding.

“You cant tell me?”

“What?”

He sniffs deeply as a glob of snot stars to seep from his puffy nose. I have a feeling this conversation might go on for a while.

Leaning on the counter, I look into his eyes, and say, as clearly as possible, “Does Leroy work here?”

“Course,” He says.

“Good. Is he around?”

“What d’ya wanna know that for?”

“So that I can talk to him.”

The guy picks up a biro, and goes back to carving a hideous design in the wood of the bench. A mermaid with fangs eating a steak with the face of a puppy. Nice.

“He’s not around,” he mutters.

“Can you tell me when he might be?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me, but I cant see how thats possible. It’s dead quiet in here, and I have very good voice projection and clarity.

“Can you tell me–”

He looks up sharply and scowls. “He’s not come in for a few weeks. Now get lost.”

I turn to face the door, and as I walk out, I can hear him punch a number into his mobile.

It’s growing dark outside and I turn the collar of my coat up against the bitter wind.

The traffic rushes past, and people hurry down the street on their way home from work. Everyone seems to be on a mobile phone, and I try to get my bearings as I’m buffeted from left and right as people push past me.

I can hear snippets of halves of conversations, “I’ll meet you down Totters–” “Roast pork with champagne?!” “Gladly…. I haven’t in ages–” “Hold on, creepy trench-coat guy–” “Alright, love you, bye, love you… no, I love–” and thats all I feel like I’m getting.

Half a conversation, delivered to me by idiots.

I slip into the alley behind the laser copy centre.

There’s an empty van parked next to the reeking dumpster, and the wall is dripping with the sort of damp moss one expects to see on the bottom of a pirate ship, not the brick wall of a small business in Camden.

It’s hard to tell whether its shifty, or just plain disgusting here. I decide it’s both.

I lurk in the shadows, and wait.

Five minutes pass, then ten, then half an hour, then a man walks out of the back door of the shop.

I can’t see his face in the dark, but I can tell he’s tall, and seems to be wearing an ornate hat. He’s carrying a large metal box from one hand, which catches the light. It must be a trick of such a light thats making it seem as if it’s moving of its own accord, shaking occasionally, and swinging out of time with the tall figures movements.

The guy from the counter stands at the back door, watching this new player load his box (still rattling) onto the passenger seat, and then climb into the van and drive away.

Still leaning against the weak hinges of the screen door, and scratching himself, he makes another call.

I can’t hear what he says over the peak hour traffic, but now I’m pretty damn positive I know one thing for sure.

This shop doesn’t do much business. At least, not much business by way of laser copy.

It’s properly dark by the time I turn the corner into my street. It’s one of those days when I’m not sure I can be bothered climbing all those stairs to my bed, and I consider just curling up in the doorway and going to sleep.

But I climb those stairs, all those stairs, and no time seems to pass between turning the key in my lock and stumbling mumbling and, yawning, through the door, and being woken up the next day by the buzzing of my alarm.

I drag myself up, and pull a pair of cords on as I walk into my office, shoving a fag into my mouth.

My note-pad lies on my kitchen bench, and I lean over to look at it, struggling with my lighter. Nearly out of gas.

Same as yesterday, there’s just the title, “LEROY MISSING” followed by three words, “LASER COPY CENTER” and a photo of Leroy.

I’ve never had less to go on in my life, and I must have worked a hundred cases.

I grab a clean shirt from the back of my chair and pull it on, cigarette and notebook between my teeth.

Picking up my keys, and then my very light wallet, I’m reminded why I need to persevere.

Trench coat on, I exit once more into the hallway that smells of damp and old pipes, and lock my door.

“What time do you call this?” Vince asks, his arm sliding up the door frame as he blocks me from his apartment.

“Eleven thirty, Mr Noir,” I reply, sweeping my eyes down his bare chest to his low riding silk pyjama pants. “Not that you’re dressed for it. It’s practically afternoon, sir!”

“Yeah,” He says, moving aside and letting me in, “But to cool people, afternoon is morning. That way, evening can be afternoon, and night can be evening. By the time to get home at five in the morning, its only just after midnight. It’s genius.”

I step inside, and he watches me for a moment before pushing past me, tugging gently at the lapel of my coat and leading me into the lounge.

Like yesterday, he stretches out on the couch like a bald otter. His eyes are still fixed on me. They rove over every part of my body like he’s assessing me. The cheeky smile playing at the corner of his mouth makes me think he is.

“How goes it?” His voice is light and casual, like he’s asking me about my trip over, rather than whether I know where his friend has gone.

“I went to that laser copy centre,” I reply, “But I don’t think it really does much laser copying. I think it’s probably a front.”

“You’re kidding,” he says, not as an exclamation but as a fact. “It’s got a sign out the front. ‘Laser copy centre’. What else would it do?”

“Well, thats why I think it’s a front.”

I have this feeling, constantly when talking to him, that we’re not on the same level. I kind of doubt we’re even talking to each other.

“Course it’s a front,” He replies, and I wonder if he’s just been playing me this whole time. Is this ignorance all put on? It it all this boy’s sense of humour? “Where else would they put the sign? They’d hardly put it round the back, no one would read it!”

I sigh.

“Lord,” he says, chuckling, “are you really as good as your creds say?”

Glaring at him, I try to speak on a level he’ll understand. His finger is twirling coyly through his jet black hair, and he’s grinning now, with amusement.

“Mr Noir–”

“Vince,” he corrects sternly.

“Mr Noir, I believe that the laser copy centre Leroy works at, does not do very much laser copying. I believe that it performs some other service out the back door. The laser copy service is, as they say, a ‘front’.”

He blinks at me, the grin wavering, and being replaced by an expression of bemusement.

“No way,” he says, “Leroy’s worked there for years, he would’ve noticed.”

I groan, and I can see the clogs grinding against each other beneath his intricately straightened and boosted hair.

“Oh,” he says, clicking finally, “I get it.”

He stands up, and turns his back on me. For a moment my gaze slips to his crimson clad rear, and I shake my head sternly, reminding myself that, despite his mannerisms and dress sense, Vince Noir is male.

He wanders, hips swaying, across the room to the mini-bar in the corner, and looks over his shoulder at me.

“Want a drink, Howard?” He asks, taking out a pair of fancy martini glasses.

I arch an eyebrow. “I thought it was morning for you,” I reply. “In fact, it’s only eleven forty five. Not even quite sun up. Not really the time for alcohol.”

He laughs, and pours me a clear drink.

“I didn’t go out last night,” he says, holding out the glass for me. I reach up, and he slides it between my fingers, his hand lingering on mine, and his eyes on mine. “I was hoping you’d pop by today. Wanted to be up in time to make sure I looked my best.”

“Should I have come a bit later then?” I smirk, eying his state of half undress.

Vince smirks back and takes a sip of his drink, while I follow suit. Straight vodka.

“What?” He runs his free hand down his slim, bare torso as he lowers himself onto the lounge next to me and crosses his legs, “You don’t reckon I look my best?”

I gulp as his sparking blue eyes peek up through thick lashes into my own.

He’s sitting close, not too close, but close enough that I can smell him, and feel the air around me heat up.

I scoot back on the couch. “Mr Noir–”

“Vince!”

“Mr Noir,” I reply, searching for the right words. “I don’t think you’re being particularly business-like!”

“What’s the matter? I’m not allowed to think you’re cool?” His lips form the words a touch (or not quite) too close to my own, and I can feel them inching their way into my mouth. I turn my head away.

“It’s not ideal, no.” I reply.

“Why not?”

I stand up, moving to the other couch and sitting down, watching him.

Relaxed as ever, he sinks into the couch, and watches me intently, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips.

“I like to keep my work and social life separate, Mr Noir.”

His hand rises to stroke a path down his pale neck as he rolls his eyes. A long finger traces its way across his collarbone, sliding up and down, up and down.

“And also I prefer women, I’m not some sort of… gayist.”

He laughs again, but this time at me, and shrugs, pulling a dressing gown from the arm of the couch on.

“No reason to be cold then, I guess,” he says. “What d’ya think of my gown? Leroy got it for me in Kyoto.”

“It’s lovely,” I reply automatically, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. “Speaking of Leroy…?”

“Oh yeah,” he laughs, and picks up a small notebook from the coffee table. “You might want this.”

“What is it?” I take the book from his fingers as he stretches across the gap between the two couches. It’s a thin and scrappy leather bound note pad, about four inches tall.

“Leroy’s address book,” he answers, and I’m proud of him. He’s given me something useful.

“Something useful at last,” I mutter, echoing my thoughts. He stands up and sits himself down next to me. My immediate reflex is to stand up again and move, but his fingers pry the notebook from mine and he flicks it open to a certain page and hands it back to me.

“Try giving Naboo a call. Him and Leroy were like that,” Vince crosses his fingers in front of my face to demonstrate their relationship. Is everyone in the business bumming? “And he’s a good guy.”

“That’s nice,” I say, standing up to show myself out, “I don’t get to deal with too many good guys in my line of work.”

I move towards the door, and from the couch he calls out to me, “I’m a good guy.”

I glance at him over my shoulder. I still reckon there’s something he’s hiding from me. At the very least, there’s something a little off with him, and it’s not all to do with this little crush he seems to have. But he gazes at me with wide, honest eyes, and sincerely I reply, “I’m sure you are, Mr Noir.”

I walk back up the hall, and I can hear him fiddling with the stereo.

“Make sure you shut the door!” He calls, and then the room is filled with the Human League.

---

I slouch in my hard chair as I wait for the call to connect. The address book lies open on my desk, and many of the names, like Banoo and Saboo are leading me to believe there is a pseudonym thing going on here. Secret societies? Or just business that could go foul if their real names were known?

Eventually, someone answers the phone with a deep, gruff voice.

“Hello, is this Naboo?” I ask, and the voice coughs violently before replying.

“No. This Bollo,” he says. Strong voice, small vocabulary. Bodyguard, perhaps.

“I want to talk to Naboo,” I say, and Bollo tells me to hold on, and the line goes silent.

I wait for a few minutes, longer than I like to be kept waiting, and finally the phone is picked up with a sigh.

“So, what d’ya want?” Naboo asks with a lisp.

“I want to talk to you about Leroy,” I reply. There’s a pause, and I can hear him take a drag on something.

“What’s your name?”

“Moon,” I say, “Howard Moon.”

“Private eye, yeah?”

I sit up straighter in my chair, and lean forward to rest my elbows on my desk.

“How’d you know?”

“Just did,” He replies in his flat, nonchalant voice. “Do you need to talk in person?”

“I’d prefer that,” I say.

“Right, I’ll be over in a few.”

The line goes dead next to my ear, and I stand up, beginning to pace. He’s not going to turn up, he doesn’t even know where I work. I’ve made sure it’s not listed anywhere; just my phone number.

I cant decide whether to call him back or not, and I pick up and put down the phone a few times in the ten minutes I stand there, unsure. In the end, I decide to call him again, and I’m half way through dialling the number when there’s a knock at my door.

I hang up the phone, and I notice the shadows of the Venetian blinds are casting shadows of stark dark and light contrast onto my phone, note-pad and ashtray.

On my way over to the door, I tug the blinds up to let the sun in.

I peek through the peephole, and a short man stands there in a blue robe and turban. His arms are crossed and he’s looking casually side to side as he waits for me to open my door.

I do, and look down at him as he pushes past me to walk inside.

“Hey,” he greets.

I cant help but stammer as I lean against my desk and say to him, “How the hell did you know where I live?!”

I half expect him to say he read my address in a crystal ball, judging by his get-up. And I admit I’d probably believe him if he said that.

“Gave Vince a call,” he replies. “Assumed it was him who hired you.”

“And how did you get here so quickly?!”

He smirks slightly, and holds up a travel-card.

Public transports not that good in this city, but I don’t question him. I don’t take my eyes off him either.

“Take a seat,” I offer, and he does. I slide into my desk chair to face him. His face is expressionless as he watches me, and I feel like he knows everything I’m going to say.

“Leroy has gone missing,” I say, “I hear you were close.”

“You could say that,” responds Naboo. “We worked together a long time.”

“You’re in the laser copy business?”

His eyes search mine, and finally he relaxes slightly and smiles. “Nah,” he says, and immediately we’re on the same page. “I wouldn’t dig too deep into this, if I were you. Tell Vince that Leroy went on a skiing holiday. In a few weeks I’ll break the tragic news to him that he died in an avalanche. It’ll be better all round.”

“He’s dead?” I ask, and Naboo’s expression still doesn’t change, doesn’t give anything away.

“I didn’t say that,” He says, “But I doubt he’ll be coming back.”

“Why not?”

Naboo adjusts his turban and scrunches his nose in distaste.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not privy to all this stuff. But I know Dennis wants Leroy gone, and if Dennis wants him gone… just trust me. Vince won’t be seeing him again.”

“Who’s Dennis?” I ask, but even as the words lave my mouth, Naboo stands up and begins to move towards the door.

“You needn’t ever know,” He says, his back turned to me, “But if you really want to… I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough.”

Then he walks out the door, and leaves me sitting in my dusty office with more questions than ever.

I frantically flick through the address book as soon as the tiny magician is out of my door. The names aren’t listed in any order, so I just scan page after page after page for Dennis.

But hardly any of the names are normal in this book, except Tony Harrison and Kirk, and I’m aware that I could have glanced past his address or phone number already, under a disguise.

Reaching the last page, I sigh and throw the address book onto my desk. I glance over to the window, where the light was shining in so recently, giving my bleak surroundings a sunny glow. Now its become overcast, and once again my office is a dusty shade of grey with no relief.

What I’d give for just a splash of colour. I could buy a pot-plant, but it would die in here. Wither and die. Is that what’s going to happen to me? Deprived of sunlight, will I just crumble up, grow ashen and fade away?

Maybe I ought to buy a painting. Something exuberant and modern. Something bright and colourful, depicting something pointless, like the ones in Vince’s apartment.

Vince.

I bury my face in my hands and groan. He probably knows Dennis. He probably knows of Dennis at least. He’s probably fucked Dennis.

I’m safe, I tell myself. Here, alone, I’m safe from him. Is it a bad sign when I’m more scared of my client than my case? No, I’m not scared. Howard Moon will not be intimidated by some flirtatious lady-boy. I’m wary, I’m cautious, I’m on my toes. But I wont let myself be scared.

None-the-less, it will probably be wise to communicate with him by phone from now on.

I look up between my fingers, and glance at the clock. It’s only three in the afternoon, but the day feels like its dragging on into evening. Moving no part of my body except my right arm, I grab the phone and punch in Vince’s number.

It rings two or three times before he answers enthusiastically.

“You know Dennis?” I ask, anxious to end this call as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, I know Dennis,” he replies. “Kinda. Bald bloke, snazzy headdress?”

“Wouldn’t know. Where can I find him?”

There’s a moment of quiet, and I can hear Vince swallowing something. He lets out a gasp of refreshment, and says, “Are you in a hurry?”

Yes, I’m in a hurry to get off the phone to you. “Yes, I’m in a hurry. I have to go check out a lead.”

“What lead?”

I glance around my apartment, and my gaze settles on my scissors. “A sharp lead, sir,” I reply, and smirk.

He seems satisfied. “Oh, cool,” he says. “Call me later and tell me how it goes.”

“I may have to stake out,” I stammer. “All night.”

“Call me tomorrow then.”

Cringing, I reply, “Yeah, of course Mr Noir.”

I can hear him moving around on the other end of the phone, and I can picture him. He stands up and walks over to the bar, fiddling with bottles. He wanders towards the couch and settles down, arranging himself artistically, before standing up and inspecting the bookshelf. It’s making me dizzy just thinking about him and his constant, unrelenting movement.

“Dennis,” I remind him, trying to conclude and, more importantly, end this conversation.

“Odd bloke,” Vince says, “Only met him once. As I said, bald, snappy dresser. Looks a bit like you, actually. Dunno anything else. Leroy–” he pauses as if he’s correcting himself, “Leroy doesn’t talk to me too much about his work.”

“Alright,” I say, “You got nothing else?”

Vince hems and haws, thinking. “Just one thing,” he says finally, slowly, “And I dunno if it’s worth anything. But I overheard Leroy in one of his meetings one time, talking to this old bloke who seemed quite outraged about something. They kept talking about this ‘Head Shaman’ guy and Dennis. But the way they were talking, sounded like they meant the same person. So it might be a nickname or something. You know what these Laser Copy characters are like.”

I scribble ‘Head Shaman’ onto my note-pad as I groan into the phone. “Mr Noir,” I say, “I told you, I don’t think it’s a Laser Copy Centre.”

“Come on Howard, call me Vince, yeah?”

“Talk to you later, Mr Noir,” I reply, and hang up.

I slide into a stool at the Pub, order a pint, and stare into its amber depths before drinking deeply.

“Howard,” Lester says, trying to rest his hand on my shoulder, but placing it on my head instead, “Stop being so hard on yourself, you’re old enough to have the wisdom you need to sort this case out. Why are you wearing a fur coat?”

Every private eye needs a go-to guy, and Lester knows a whole lot more than most about this city’s underbelly through his seedy jazz clubs.

“Old men like us, Howard, we’re tough like a birds biceps. We’re grizzled.We see a mystery, we demystify a mystery, you see what I’m saying here?”

Though sometimes, I feel like my go-to guy could have been somewhat less of a blind, slightly senile nut-job.

“I see what you’re saying Lester.”

“Good, good Howard. Now what was it you wanted to ask me?”

He leans back in his rocking-bar-stool, and I’m somewhat impressed.

“You bring that with you?” I ask.

“It’s attachable,” he replies, “I can adapt any type of chair.”

I nod, impressed, and take another long draught.

“You know of Dennis?”

“Hoo boy!” Lester exclaims, going pale, “The Dennis?”

“How would I know, only just heard of him this afternoon.”

Lester lets out a short wheezing laugh. “How long you been in this business, Howard? And you never heard of Dennis?”

I scowl. Lester is being too noisy. The bartender, and several of the other customers of the establishment have their eyes trained on us.

Growing ruddy, I lean in and hiss, “Keep it down Lester, and tell me. The Head Shaman?”

Lester’s eyes widen and he stops rocking.

“Oh Howard, how did you get yourself tied up in this?”

“Caught up in what?”

He leans in close to me, and I can smell the peanuts on his breath as he says, “Dennis is the least kindly of all the cats running this joint. He’ll cut your head off in an instant, Howard. And him and his folk, they got powers snazzier than a Lemming poon-tang.”

He sits back, and his dark sunglasses glint in the dull light.

“Watch yourself, Howard.”

“Where can I find him?” I ask, and Lester scribbles an address onto the wood of the bar next to a pad of paper. I copy it down, and smile apologetically at the annoyed looking barman.

“He’ll be there tomorrow night,” says Lester as I stand up, “He’s always there on Friday nights. Likes to get away from the missus if you know what I mean.”

“Thanks Lester,” I say, dropping coins onto the counter, and patting his shoulder in farewell. Once on the street, I pull my coat tighter and snort. “‘Powers’“, I huff, “The old git.”

It’s dark now, and I wander to the train station flecked by drops of rain, bordering on snow, emerging from the night sky. My face goes numb with cold, and I lower my cap over my eyes, and shove my hands into my pockets. Pushing my way home through the crowd, I think of sleep.

I unlock my door, and groan as I wander inside. I have lethargy, like it’s a disease. It’s this high stress, high risk business. I glance at my note-pad again. LEROY MISSING. LASER COPY CENTRE. HEAD SHAMAN. And the address. My one lead.

Settling down into my sofa, I throw on some Weather Report, the instrumental stuff, and Chinese burn myself lazily. What kind of a P.I are you, Howard Moon? Marlowe would be snogging the girl by now, and be well on his way to throwing the perp behind bars.

Yawning, I lean back into the couch, my hand still gripped loosely around my forearm and close my eyes.

Snogging the girl. I chuckle. Yeah, there’s the difference between Marlowe, and Howard T.J Moon. He gets a girl. Hell, he gets a host of girls. Me? The closest thing I get to a girl is Vince Noir.

And, like a symptom of lethargy, he’s contaminating me now too. Every note of the saxophone and Jazz piano holds his pale blue eyes to my mind, now, in this half asleep state. Every pause holds his smile, that cheeky grin. Every drawn out note holds his laugh.

With an unwilling recognition of the fact that he’s going to be in my dreams tonight, I drift off slowly to sleep.

I awaken to a silent apartment, a silent city, early in the morning.

But not to an empty apartment.

“This is my abode, sir,” I say sleepily to the clear eyes staring at me from the other side of the room. The eyes wobble as the body attached shrugs.

“Sorry,” He lisps, as I sit up. “You didn’t take my advice.”

“What advice?”

“Telling Vince that Leroy went on a skiing holiday.”

“I’m a man of good moral fibre, Naboo” I say, as the little man rolls his eyes, and puts my kettle on to boil.

“Yeah,” he replies, “but I know whats best for my friends, you jerk-off.”

“Come now, there’s no need to take that hostile tone! In a mans own house. At 6:30am.”

“S’not much of a house, is it?” He pauses, getting out a pair of mugs. “Your kettle takes a while to boil, don’t it?”

I stare at him as he makes himself at home, standing on his toes a little to reach my tea-bags.

“Oh yeah, sorry bout this,” he says finally, noticing me watching him, “I got pretty fucked last night, need a cuppa. So I take it you’re going to the Obsidian Blackbird tonight then?”

I furrow my brow for a moment before it clicks, and I glance at the address on my notebook beside me.

“The place on McKnight street?” I say, running a hand down my unshaven cheek. “Yeah, probably.”

“Thats the one,” he replies, as the kettle finally clicks, and he pours out two drinks and carries them over to the couch, settling down next to me. “I’ll pop along then, keep an eye on you ‘n Vince.”

I take a deep drink of the hot tea, and raise an eyebrow. “Vince isn’t going,” I say, and a shadow of a smirk ghosts over Naboo’s perpetually blank face.

“Okay,” he replies, simply.

“Why would Vince be going?” I ask, irritated at the slightly higher pitch my voice has taken.

“Well he likes to get out of that apartment sometimes, you know.”

We sit in silence for a moment, drinking.

“Can I trust you?” I ask after a length of time, and he shrugs.

“If you want,” he answers. I’m not sure if I’m satisfied.

“What’s with the get up?”

He blinks at me, his turban wobbling slightly.

“I’m a shaman,” he says.

I smirk, “Naboo the Shaman?”

“Naboo the Enigma, actually,” he replies.

“Is this a code?”

“It’s my name.”

He stares straight ahead at my wall, and I frown, and follow suit.

After a while, he finishes his tea and stands up. “Better get going,” he says, dropping my cup next to my sink. “Next time I give you advice, don’t be an idiot. Take it. You never know how much shit you might be in by now.”

“Uh, oka–” Before I can even finish my confused wave, Naboo clicks his fingers and disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Standing up, I sniff my tea, checking for hallucinogens of some sort.

Outside, it’s overcast, but there’s no wind and the air is tepid. I leave my trench-coat in my apartment, and wear a loose blue shirt and a black, light jacket. On the street, which is practically empty of people, I check the address in my pocket. The club, the Obsidian Blackbird, is down in Camden, not too far from Vince’s place.

Slipping my notebook into my jacket pocket, I wander towards the train station. The suns not even very high in the sky yet, but I figure I may as well go check out the place. Entrances, exits. You never know when a scuffle could unfold, and I would rather not be involved. Though, if all goes well tonight, I might be.

As I pass the corner shop, I spot a man who looks familiar, like I’ve seen him in an old black and white film, through layers of video noise and cigarette burns.

He has a long black beard that seems to spray out from his chin like water from a tap, and eyes that have seen their fill.

He watches me as I pass him, over the top of a magazine, and I know he’s not even trying to hide from me. He’s trying to scare me.

I keep walking, slowly, and pull my phone from my pocket, taking a quick photo over my shoulder as I walk.

He’s left the shop, and he’s walking behind me, about a block away, eyes trained on my back.

I speed up my pace, and keep to the main streets, where people are. I don’t want a confrontation yet, not before I’ve had my breakfast.

Presently, I arrive at the train station, and wait with my back to the wall, watching the entrance. As expected he comes in a few minutes after me. He waits at the other end of the platform, but watches me unblinkingly. I watch him back.

We wait like that for five minutes, eyes glued to each other, before the train arrives.

I get into a carriage, and watch him out the window, expecting him to follow. Instead, he stands on the platform, smiling snidely at me. With one last prolonged moment of eye contact, he turns away and vanishes into the crowd, as the train pulls out from the station.

I can’t settle down, as I watch the people around me read their tabloids and listen to their Ipods. Someone’s onto me, and any of these people could be the next person in a relay of stalkers.

I disembark at the Camden Road rail station, and walk onto the street, scanning for a coffee shop as my stomach starts to rumble. I have all day to kill, after all.

The place I find is small and old fashioned, how I like them. It seems to be a hidden secret, or shame, on this trendy high street. The tables and chairs are a mix and match of wood, plastic and checker patterned, with chequered cushions. The only other inhabitants are two elderly men and their coffees, and a plump waitress who is chalking up the days specials.

Beans on toast, bangers and mash, fish’n’chips. Everything comes in pairs, and they’re the same specials they’ve had for years, I assume.

“What’ll you have, love?” She asks me, wiping her chalky fingers on her slacks, and pulling a pencil from its hiding spot in her mane of curly hair.

I look at the board and consider my choices.

“What do you do for breakfast, other than beans on toast?” I ask, and she shrugs.

“You can have bangers and mash if you want.”

I order beans on toast and a cuppa, and she totters off into the kitchen, where a skinny balding man is greasing pans.

I eat slowly, savouring the home-cooked breakfast, but keep my eyes trained on the street, just in case I’m still being followed.

It’s nearly ten o’clock now, but the day still hasn’t quite started round these parts, and the streets are quiet, and the shops only just opening now, by yawning young girls with bleached asymmetric hair, and bleary eyed young boys with bleached asymmetric hair.

The two old men, sitting by the window, and muttering to each other over yet another coffee glare out at the street, and one of them says loudly to the waitress, “Good on you, Liz! This is the only place round here folks like us can go anymore!”

Liz’s already rosy cheeks flush, and she pours them each a mug of tea.

“Weren’t for you guys,” she says, “I doubt we’d even stay open.”

Suddenly, a mane of black hair bobs past the window, and Vince Noir doesn’t even glance inside this cafe, his gaze locked on a coat in a shop window across the street.

I pick up a paper lying on the table, and hide behind it, in case he spots me.

I pick up my fork and stab two holes in the paper, watching the skinny young boy, one of many in this area of town, cross the road and walk into the shop. Vince’s face appears briefly in the window a minute later, with a shop attendant, as he talks animatedly, and pointing what he wants. The shop girl climbs into the window and pulls the coat, green leather with brown trimming, off the mannequin. She and Vince disappear for a few minutes, and presently Vince walks out of the shop, pulling the jacket on, and admiring himself in the shop window.

I watch as he walks back across to this side of the street, and bounces happily up the street.

Sighing, I put the newspaper down on the table, only to see Liz watching me, eyebrow raised.

“Avoiding Vince, eh?” She chuckles, refilling my cup, “He leave you then? Funny, you don’t look like his usual type.”

“Ah, no…” I say, and glance down at the eye holes I’ve made in the newspaper. “I just really don’t like how the economy is looking.”

She picks up the wrecked paper, glancing at the chart I’ve pierced, and nods. “Yeah, I hate it when it goes well, too,” she replies, and drops my bill onto the table.

It’s not easy to find the Obsidian Blackbird. McKnight street itself is easy to find, but I walk up and down twice before I find the club. Its just a thin black door with a tiny peephole, and the name printed in steel letters. Above the door there is a row of three lights, still on, but barely visible in the daylight. The ones on either side are blue, flanking a purple one.

Curiously I head into the back alley, and find the back door, also black with steel lettering and the three lights. However there is a small window in this door, through which I can see a long, dimly lit hall, lined with doors, leading to a large curtained archway.

I look around, and spot a camera mounted under the middle light. I’m standing right in its path.

I swear, and pretend to look like I haven’t found what I’m looking for, moving along the alley to the next door. Once out of the camera’s range, I give myself a quick Chinese burn for carelessness, and head back onto the main street, and walk to the train station, hoping the trip home is uneventful.

Back in my flat, night slowly approaches. When it hits six thirty, I stub out my current cigarette, and stand up, stretching. I look out the window, and the street is dark, except for house and business lights, which glow like the flickering on an old film reel.

I open the drawer of my desk, and pull out my pistol, just in case. I slide it into the holster on the inside of my trench-coat, and pat it cautiously. I cant stand carrying a gun. I can barely shoot. I pull it out again and double, triple check the safety, before carefully putting it back into its holster.

Into my inside pocket on the other side of the coat, I slide my mostly empty notebook and a pen, feeling properly armed.

Walking into the bathroom, I inspect myself in the mirror.

“Howard Moon,” I say to my reflection, “Do you look like the young trendy sort to go to a club in Camden?”

No, I concede, I don’t. But then, I was never very good at undercover work.

I call a taxi, and lock up my office. The stairwell is as decrepit as usual, and I try not to listen to whats going on behind thin doors as I descend the stairs to wait in the bitingly cold street.

Rain is flecking down softly, and I feel quite dry until the taxi pulls up and I climb inside, and touch my hair. The rain has wormed it’s way into me, into my clothes, under my skin.

The driver mumbles something to me, and I assume he said “Where to?”

“McKnight st,” I reply, “Camden Town.”

I stare out the window as we slip and slide through the rain and through traffic. Some parts of the city, depending on what suburb we pass through, are slowing down, come nightfall. Others are speeding up. Chav kids and scene kids lurk on street corners. Twenty-something girls stagger into bars in heels they cant walk in and tiny black dresses, pretending not to shiver. Men in suits sit in pubs, and drink, and drink, and smoke, and drink.

The night goes on like every other London night, and soon enough the taxi driver pulls up in McKnight street, and I swipe my card into his EFTPOS machine, hoping there’s enough in my account.

I climb out of the taxi and shiver in the cold wind, feeling like a twenty-something girl. I stagger up the street, head bowed to the wind, until I reach the Obsidian Blackbird.

I half expected the door to still be closed, and I quarter expected to have to whisper a secret password into the peephole.

But no, the door is wide open, flanked by two bouncers who dubiously let me in, and I wander up a short, dark adjoining hall before reaching the main club.

I push my way through lush velvet curtains, and its nothing like I expected. It’s more like a cabaret theatre than anything. A long bar lines one wall, with three tall bar-men standing behind it at intervals, one arm folded in front of their stomachs, draped with a cloth, and the other hand folded behind their back. Their hair is slick, and they wear white shirts and neatly pressed black trousers.

Scattered across the floor are tables, small circular things designed to seat four or five people and their drinks. They’re clothed in dark table cloths, and the people seated at them all seem to be producing more smoke than an old steam train. The older men, of which there are quite a few, puff on cigars like they’re life support machines, and every inhalation is all thats keeping them breathing. The younger men smoke smooth cigarettes, more emphasis on the exhalation of the thick clouds of smoke, streaming from them in tall, perfect columns as they tip their heads back. The girls of the room all laze next to what are clearly their men, smoking slender cigarettes, some of them in long black holders. These women speak with their legs, which they cross, and uncross, and sweep along the floor as they walk.

Thankfully, I pull out a cigarette, light up, walk over to the bar and order something, anything, on-the-rocks.

The waiter nods, and starts mixing my drink as I pull my attention to the huge stage at the front of the room. Its a dark wooden stage, with gold trimming, and at least three layers of heavy curtains. It’s bare at the moment, unless one counts the band in the pit at the fore, who play a steady stream of classy jazz, which spills into the Obsidian Blackbird like a calming force.

Uncomfortably, I’m aware that I like it in here.

“Here you are, sir,” says the bar-man, handing me my drink.

“Thank you, sir,” I reply, paying him.

“My pleasure, sir,” he says, and I shut up, because this conversation is only going to get more polite.

Trying to keep my mind on the task at hand, I gaze around the room for a man who fits the description of Dennis. Bald, snazzy headdress.

My eyes fall on a beautiful woman at the end of the bar.

I take a few steps towards her, trying to seem casual. She turns her head and watches me, smiling.

I smile back, suddenly self conscious. I’m smiling too long, too widely. Quickly, I force my face into a look of serious contemplation, and her brow furrows quizzically. Better smile again.

I smile at her, and she smiles back once again, letting out a short laugh. I take another step closer, leaning on the bar. She flicks her head, inviting me over. I feel my heart thump in my chest, and I tense up, freezing mid-step, mid-smile. Once again her brow furrows, and I quickly force myself to relax, doing a short jive along with the jazz, letting out a very quick scat, along with the music. Her laugh this time is even shorter, and still accompanied by the crease in her brow.

I smile again, and she smiles back, tight lipped, and turns away.

Obviously she doesn’t appreciate good jazz.

I take a long drink, and a long drag of my smoke, and decide to venture into the maze of tables.

I walk across the room, and then back across the room by a different route, and then up the room towards the stage, and then through the tables back to the bar before I spot someone who could be Dennis. He’s tall, about the same height as me, and bald, with a snazzy headdress on. He has small, pale eyes, with tiny pupils, and some fancy tattoos down his cheeks and forehead, but Vince was right, he does kind of look like me, in a slightly less charming way.

I watch as he walks slowly into the mass of tables, finds an empty one and sits down. He’s wearing a robe with a huge fur trim, and as soon as he’s seated he looks like he owns the place. Not taking my eyes off him, I order another drink, and carry it over to a table behind this ‘Head Shaman’, where I can watch him.

His table is soon filled by a handful of strangely dressed people, and I hear him address one of them, a small boy, only seven or eight years old.

“Where is Tony?” Dennis booms, and his voice carries around the room. It could be because it’s deep and theatrical, or it could simply be that when he entered, everyone else seemed to quieten.

“Mrs Harrison wouldn’t let him out tonight, Dennis,” replies the boy, and Dennis nods.

“I can sympathise,” says Dennis, and the small group begin to talk in quieter tones.

I watch them intently for a solid twenty minutes, trying to conceal myself in a cloud of smoke as I work my way through fag after fag, at which point the group seem to finish their discussion, and Dennis stands up. The room, which had slowly been growing in noise and movement, quietens again and Dennis makes a signal to a man near the stage.

The man near the stage makes a signal to someone behind the curtain, and almost immediately there is a swell in music, and what I assume is tonights performance begins.

“Welcome,” echoes a voice through the rooms sound system, “To the Obsidian Blackbird, Gentleman and Gentle-woman’s club. Let me introduce to you now our beautiful, classy, sexy, sexually confusing star you’ve all been waiting for…”

Around me, everyone’s eyes are fixed on the stage as the announcer pauses. I overhear a young man at the table next to me whisper to his friend, “More like the Head Shaman has been waiting for,” and his friend snorts into his drink.

A deep breath rumbles through the sound system as the announcer prepares to announce, “VINCE NOIR!”

I feel a wave of nausea wash over me as, true enough, Vince makes his way onto the stage, followed by ten or fifteen scantily clad men and women, who take up positions at the back of the stage. Vince is wearing tight silk trousers and a black silk shirt with lace flowering out from a vest beneath.

He swishes his way to centre stage, eyes sweeping over the audience, cheeky smile glittering through the room, and takes up position as the music starts in earnest.

His eyes fall on me.

He’s not a fantastic dancer, but I don’t think anyone cares, as it slowly dawns on me what sort of a club this is.

The boys and girls in the back rows dance beautifully together, twisting themselves into obscene yet elegant positions as Vince sways and twirls, his hands briefly rising to his throat and tugging at the cord holding his lace to his throat.

It falls, exposing a long strip of creamy skin to the audience, from the base of his neck to just above his navel.

As I watch, he slowly unbuttons his satiny shirt and slips it off, letting it slide, along with his vest, to the floor.

I’m glad I chose a seat so close to the back of the room, as I try to stand up, suddenly becoming aware of the effect this show is having on me.

Quietly as I can, and thankful that everyone seems captivated by his “performance”, I slip out of the gathering of tables, and head towards the toilets, risking one last glance over my shoulder, as Vince slides down the zip of his trousers, revealing a leather clad crotch, and fishnet coated thighs.

I am all too aware of how… ridiculous he looked on stage, standing there in nothing but a posing pouch and stockings, as I lock myself in a cubicle and cup my hard-on. But I think of his eyes, the way they scanned the audience as he came on stage, and picked me from the crowd, and stayed on me. Not once, as he rid himself from later and layer of slippery fabric, did those clear blue eyes leave mine.

I’m not sure whether to feel aroused or sickened, but I know what my body is telling me, and with the uncomfortable feeling that I’m not the first person to do this, here, I unbutton my trousers, free my erection, and lean against the wall. I close my eyes and try (unsuccessfully) to picture nothing as I jerk myself off in the pristine toilet of a glorified strip club.

“What the hell?” I mutter to myself, slipping in the back door of the club, and lurking in the shadows.

I watch round the corner as a stream of “performers” spill into the corridor from the stage. I watch as they spread themselves out between dressing rooms, and keep my eyes peeled for that mop of black hair.

He rounds the corner into the hall, wrapped in a dressing robe and a grin. He very nearly doesn’t see me, until just before he walks into his dressing room. His eyes fall on mine, standing in the corner where the light barely reaches, and I jerk my head to the back door and leave.

I wait for seven minutes, eyes locked alternately on the door and my watch, before he wanders out, in a pair of black drainpipes and a white shirt.

“Alright?”

In less than a second, my hands are gripped tightly on his collar, and I’ve pushed him against the wall.

“What the hell?!” I spit into his uncertain face, feeling my stomach tighten.

“Get off me, Howard!” He replies, turning his head away and struggling uselessly. “What is your problem?!”

“WHAT THE HELL?” I yell, and he flinches. I can see a speck of my spit land on his cheek, and he seems to be either about to cry or knee me in the balls.

He does neither, and instead wraps his fingers in my hair, and tugs. A wave of pain breaks through my scalp, but I don’t let go of him. I push him harder against the wall, lifting him up slightly, and I can feel him wince in pain as his back is grated against the rough brick wall. In amongst my disgusted anger, I ask myself why I’m doing this. But he pulls harder against my hair, and I forget the answer, if I ever had it.

“Alright!” I yell, letting him drop, and he loosens his grip on my hair, but doesn’t let go as he regains his proper footing against the ground.

I can’t form the words, I can barely form the thoughts of why I’m so angry. All I know is that he’s caught up in this now, and he didn’t tell me. We’re both in danger.

We stare at each other for a moment, not blinking and breathing heavily. I feel a wave of shame wash over me.

I’m sorry, I begin to say, but I cant get the words out as he speaks over me.

“Blokes gotta have a job,” He says quietly, seriously.

I don’t have anything to say to this, so I simply stay silent.

The silence stretches on, unbearable, and I cant bring myself to look him in the eyes.

“I’m offended,” he says, and I glance at him. There’s a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You went to the loo halfway through my show.”

He’s inched forward slightly, and I cant move back with his fingers in my hair, holding me in place.

“I thought it was… uncouth, sir.”

“Course you did.”

His impish smile is even closer to me, and his fingers tighten where they hold me, pulling my head down.

“Ow–” I gasp shortly, as his mouth closes in on mine.

The second our lips meet, my mind flashes back to the girl inside somewhere, and the way she’d smiled at me at the bar. Bright, uncertain, disturbed, and then with her back turned.

I’m vaguely aware of Vince leaning forward and pressing himself against me, tilting his head back, but my mind is on Ms Gideon, from back when I worked at the police station, and the way her eyes went completely blank whenever she chanced to look at me.

I think of Sylvia, back in grade 8, as my hands fall to Vince’s slim hips, and his hands move to cup my face, rubbing briefly at my stubble with a short giggle. Sylvia who I’d convinced to kiss me at a party. She was drunk, and I was tipsy, and she was sitting on the couch where I was perched.

“Hey Harvey,” she’d said, in a happy slur, “You’re a guy.”

“Yeah,” I’d said, and inched myself closer, already puckering up. I’d heard what Sylvia was like when she was pissed.

She wriggled herself forward and snuggled against me, where my arm was resting on the back of the couch.

In a rare moment of confidence, probably caused by the booze, I’d looked into her glazed over eyes and said, “Well, give us a snog then.”

I crash back to the present as I realise that I’ve been standing here for a good five minutes, tongue halfway down Vince’s throat.

I step back abruptly, another wave of aroused sickness crashing through me, and it’s almost comical the way his tongue is still halfway out of his mouth as he comes aware of my absence.

“I was enjoying that,” he says, pouting, and I can feel it beginning to rain again.

Standing in a strip club’s alley, snogging a stripper in the rain, next to a dumpster. Howard Moon, this is your finest moment.

I’m not aware I said that out loud until Vince replies.

“I’m not a stripper. Not really.”

“You just take you’re clothes off for an audience then?” I reply, rolling my eyes and turning my back to him. I’m facing a wet wooden fence, and it occurs to me that the fence didn’t really need an eye-roll.

“Its a new art form,” he says to my back, and I can hear him step closer to me, his boots splashing in a growing puddle, “Leroy suggested I give it a go. Said I was good at taking my clothes off. S’called Twirlesque. Combines modern dance with classic stripping. It’s becoming well cultured.”

“Oh yes,” I reply, and the wall gives me no reaction, “Course you shagged Leroy.”

There’s silence for a moment, and he steps closer again, before saying quietly, “Well, a blokes gotta have a job, yeah?”

“Great, now you’re a hooker too. Well done.”

I expect a slap, or an angry retort. I feel like I deserve it, too. But instead, there’s just a chuckle from behind me, and I slowly turn around.

“S’not prostitution if you just do it with the one bloke,” he says, eyes begging something. Acceptance?

He steps forward, his hands reaching out to take mine, a gesture of friendship.

“Don’t touch…” I begin, but stop myself mid sentence at his look, which is half amusement, half hurt.

“Please Howard,” he says, and I turn my face away as he slides himself against my body for a one sided hug.

“I miss him,” he says, and, reluctantly, I lift one arm up and rest it on his head, feeling the stiffly hair-sprayed hair underneath.

“He was my best friend,” he says, and I can feel him shaking slightly against me, either from cold, or restraint against tears.

“I’ll find him,” I reply, and he looks up at me, and I groan inwardly as I see what’s coming next.

“Don’t kiss me,” I say, and he doesn’t, grinning.

Hesitantly, I smile back, and a cough echoes through the alleyway.

I look over Vince’s mane, and see the man standing at the open door of the Obsidian Blackbird.

“You,” I say, and he shrugs.

“You’re a very easy man to find, Howard Moon,” he says in a deep, vaguely monotonous, voice, “How are you going to be when it comes to the Crunch?”

I glare at him, those same eyes that watched me so intently at the train station this morning.

“I’ll do just fine when it comes to the Crunch, sir,” I reply, “I’ll come at the Crunch like an enraged beaver, it’ll be one big dam when I’m done with my flapjack tail.”

“You cant just build a dam on the Crunch!” He chuckles, “The Crunch is un-tameable.”

“Just who are you,” I say, “and what do you know about the Crunch?”

Vince is standing next to me, fingers curled around my wrist as he watches me and the man with keen curiosity.

“I’m Saboo,” he replies, “Of the Shaman Council, and I know more about the Crunch than you ever will.”

“So you’re one of Dennis’ lackeys then?”

He glares at me.

“I’m not a lackey, I am a powerful shaman.”

“And what’s Leroy got to do with all this?”

“That’s it, Howard,” Vince whispers excitedly in my ear, “Don’t let him sidetrack you!”

“I’m not!” I hiss back, and Saboo smirks.

“Ready?” He asks, “Or do you need to consult you’re girlfriend before you try to interrogate me?”

“I’m ready.”

Vince’s hand slips into mine, giving me a warm squeeze.

“You’re not my girlfriend,” I whisper, keeping my eyes on Saboo, who rolls his eyes as Vince scowls and lets go of my hand.

“Ready?” Saboo says again, and waits a moment before continuing, “Leroy got in the way. Got himself in too deep.”

“The way of what?” I say immediately, as Vince says, “Where is he?”

There’s a pause, and I repeat myself.

“The way of our business,” says Saboo. “He was trying to do a deal, and turned out to be an idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot!” Vince shouts at Saboo, who raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t judge that, you’re higher on the scale of idiot than him. You must think anyone smarter than you is a genius. You admire pigeons.”

Vince turns to me, shocked. I smile pityingly at him and shrug. “He’s got a point,” I say.

“Any dope that tries to rip off Dennis when it comes to the Shaman Juice gets what’s coming to him,” Saboo says, with finality, “As does anyone who digs too deep. You two will be where Leroy is yourselves before long if you carry on the way you’re going.”

“Shaman Juice?” Vince says incredulously, “So this is all about drugs? Drug deals?”

“What is Shaman Juice?” I ask him, and he looks sickened.

“Dunno really, never used. Leroy would sometimes, though. It wasn’t pretty.”

I look back to where Saboo was standing, but he’s gone, leaving nothing but a fading column of smoke in his wake.

“Come on,” says Vince, “I have a driver out the front, he can give you a lift.”

---

[nextpage title=”Chapter Two”]

Chapter Two

Like most things in my life, the lift doesn’t really go as planned, and before I know it I’m sitting once more on Vince’s couch as he fixes some drinks.

“I really have to go home,” I announce, and he laughs.

“Sure you wanna catch the train home this time of night? It can be well dangerous.”

“I’m a roughened private eye,” I reply, and he sits next to me, handing me a beer and sipping at his flirtini.

“Still better to hang round here for a while.”

We arrived here twenty minutes ago and he’s already changed his outfit to drainpipes in a slightly different shade of black, and a long see-through green/blue shirt.

“Mr Noir,” I say, “You have an amazing ability to progress into steadily skimpier clothes when you have company.”

He shrugs and swirls his umbrella in his drink.

“Nah,” he replies, “It’s just for you. I wouldn’t even bother changing my shirt if I was having my mum’s sister round for dinner.”

“Well, it’s probably good that you don’t progress in nudity for her.”

He stands up with a grin and wanders over to the kitchen, pulling a tray out from the fridge.

“Leftovers okay?” He calls over to me, and I consent. To the leftovers.

He sticks the tray into the oven, and perches on the bench.

I take a long swig on my beer, staring at the wall.

I can’t help it, my mind just won’t stop dwelling on Vince, and that kiss. That long, deep… slightly distracted kiss.

I hazard a glance at him, and he’s staring at the oven, watching the timer tick down. As if sensing me watching him, he looks over his shoulder at me, with that same, almost constant grin.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to him, putting my beer down on the coffee table, “Where’s your toilet?”

Vince nods his hair to an adjoining room, and I hurry into the loo and lock the door, pulling out my mobile.

“Lester!” I hiss urgently, when he picks up, “I kissed a man, and I think I’m in love.”

There’s silence for a moment on the other end of the line before a wheezing laughter begins.

“Oh, Howard,” Lester says, between chuckles, “Is this like the time that cat licked you on the cheek and you tried to marry it?”

I scowl, and turn the tap on to hide my voice.

“That was a mistake,” I whisper, “It was dark.”

“You crack me up,” Lester says, “you sure haven’t slowed down in your old age!”

“I kissed Vince! My client! Lester, I need your help, does this make me gay?”

“Well,” says Lester slowly, ponderously, “I’d say so.”

And then he hangs up.

I flush the toilet and walk back into the lounge-room.

There’s a tray of re-heated bruschetta on the coffee table and a welcoming looking Vince on the couch, picking bits of fetta off a slice. I stand in the lounge-room archway, and contemplate.

Best to proceed with caution. One kiss doesn’t necessarily have to mean love. Even when I haven’t had one good kiss in as long….as I have.

I walk over, and sit next to Vince, who puts his bruschetta down on the plate, staring at his cheese covered fingers, trying to work out what to do.

“Wipe them on your jeans,” I say, picking up a piece and taking a hungry bite.

He looks at me with absolute horror.

“Lick it off?” I suggest, trying to backtrack, “What’s wrong with fetta anyway?”

“Do you have any idea how fattening cheese is?” He replies, cautiously poking his tongue out and touching it to a glob of cheese on his forefinger, then pulls back, looking concerned.

I look down at my stomach, rounded over the top of my trousers.

“Nope,” I answer, and he points his finger at me, moving it towards my mouth, and pressing it gently against my lip.

“You’re safe from the calories,” he says, “it’s too late for you.”

“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically, and push his hand away, “Just go grab a napkin.”

“Can’t be bothered,” He shrugs, and an image flashes into my head of me grabbing his wrist towards me and sucking that perfectly manicured finger into my mouth. My tongue would slide over every inch of it as I lick away ever single particle of the offensive cheese, and he’d stare at me with those huge, blue eyes, that evil grin on his lips, while I–

I stand up and walk over to the bench, grabbing him a tissue. He pouts as he takes it from me, wiping himself clean. Moments later, he stands and walks over to the kitchen, chucking the tissue in the bin, and pouring a couple of drinks.

“Drink this,” he says, handing me the martini glass.

“What is it?” I ask, staring into its milky depths.

“Baileys,” he replies. “Drink it.”

I drink it down, blanching slightly as it burns its way down my throat.

He stands up, and pours me another, taking the bottle back to the couch.

“Come on, Howard,” he reasons, “You need to relax a bit.”

We sit on that couch for a long while, eating and drinking, and Vince sits there looking steadily more alluring.

The bottle is already half gone when we start, and between us it doesn’t really go far, but by the time it’s empty my mind is happily foggy, and a realisation comes with the blurred clarity of this state of mind, as I look at Vince, and his chest and stomach, barely concealed at all by his “shirt”, and that realisation is that I don’t love him after all.

This thought strikes me like an epiphany, and in many ways it is, as I look at him, curved against the curl of the couch, moving closer and closer to me with every happy fit of giggles that bursts from him.

I don’t have to be a swan, I realise, and have one mate forever, sir. He laughs at some joke he’s just made that I didn’t bother listening to, and his head ducks down, and looks up, eyes sparkling. I reach my hand out, and I don’t even feel bold, because it’s just too easy just to cup his smiling face and kiss him.

And I know that I’m not going to be met with any resistance, and he kisses back eagerly, moving onto all fours on the couch, one hand heavy on my leg.

I pull him closer, and he breaks away, crawling closer, and kneeling, one hand balancing himself on my shoulder, the other against my chest as he starts to kiss me again, deeply.

The plate of bruschetta goes cold as we sit there, him and his practised mouth, me exploring every inch of it.

Eventually, we break apart to grab our breath, and he drops his head back to look at the ceiling as he grins.

“Told you you needed to relax,” he gasps, and quickly straddles me, moving in for another brief peck before smirking, flicking his hair back.

“Is that a gun in your pocket?” He asks huskily, “Or are you just happy to see me?”

He leans forward, and my pleasantly aching erection nestles between his thighs, becoming aware of Vince’s own.

I grab him by the back of the neck, and pull him into a hard kiss. He moans, and presses himself bodily against me, arms wrapping around my neck before I freeze, and push him away.

“What now?!” He gasps, exasperated, as I quickly pull off my jacket, and unattach my holster, throwing it, and my gun, onto the other couch.

“There was a gun in my pocket,” I explain, and pull him back close to me. For a moment there’s a flash of something I think is fear in his eyes, but I quickly realise I’m wrong.

His voice is low and husky when he says, “That is so hot,” and kisses me hard, mouth closed, before climbing off the couch, and standing up.

“Where are you…?”

He winks at me, and pushes the coffee table out of the way, before kneeling between my knees.

And then the world blurs for a second as I realise.

“Vince…” I say, and he smiles even brighter than I’m ever seen him.

“You called me Vince!”

“Don’t get used to it, Mr Noir,” I reply as he laughs, and runs a hand firmly over my clothed hard-on.

I groan, and my head falls against the couch back, rushing.

“Vince,” I say, that blush creeping back into my cheeks, “I’ve never… had, you know…relations, with anyone.”

His eyes widen. “What? Never? Not once? Nothing?”

My face is burning.

“I’m a swan,” I say lamely.

As his fingers fumble around the buttons of my trousers, I feel my eyes glaze over. This doesn’t feel like its happening to me, it feels like its happening to someone else, and I’m just watching from an incredible vantage point.

Vince pulls Howard Moon’s trousers slowly down, gazing up at him under a thick fringe, and I feel my breath get trapped in my throat.

“Don’t worry,” says Vince, “I respect that you’ve not gone beyond the kiss.”

His tongue slides up my cock, and I realise I’m trembling, even as I go light-headed with pleasure.

I feel like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what to do, so I just wrap my fingers through his hair and moan. Moaning is what I should do when someone is sliding their wet tongue around the head of my cock, right?

I think he’s encouraged, because he’s looking up at me again while licking his lips and smirking.

“You cool?” Vince asks, his lips pressed lightly to the tip of my erection.

I just… well, I just groan. He knows I mean it as an affirmation.

His lips open, soft and damp and slide down, enveloping me in his mouth.

It’s obscene, and my eyes squeeze shut as my hands curl in his hair. All these years. All these years of “Don’t touch me”, and “Forever, sir”. All these years, and this is what I’ve been missing. This obscene, warm, perverse, incredible feeling.

It’s only been a couple of minutes, but a sound escapes my lips that I didn’t know I could make (and I’m not positive is entirely sexy), and I can’t stop myself bucking into his mouth, and letting go.

He swallows around me, and, eyes locked on mine, licks me clean.

I’m painfully aware that I’ve barely moved or made a sound other than groans and gurgles, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just flicks his tongue out around his lips, and stands up, sitting next to me. He plants a swift kiss on my cheek, and winks.

“‘M just off to the loo,” he says, and walks into the adjoining room, un-zipping his jeans as he goes.

I stare at the door he’s behind, and don’t move except to tuck myself into my jeans. My eyes are slightly unfocussed, and my brain seems to be functioning at half its usual capacity.

I hear Vince let out a sound through the thin wall, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and I shut my eyes.

What have I got myself into? The question pounds through my head with the alcohol, questioning every aspect of my life. Drug rings, gentle-men’s clubs, sexual encounters that wouldn’t be out of place in ancient Greek theatre.

Howard Moon, I challenge myself, what ever happened to the quiet nights in your bed with some Gogol and a photo of Ms Gideon?

In a few short days, they’ve seemed to walk straight out the door with a swish of the hips. Much like the way Vince is walking back into the room, and wandering back over to the kitchen.

“You look worried,” he says over his shoulder.

Worried? Yeah, I guess. Maybe I’m just over thinking. Maybe things’ll be back to normal once this case is over.

Maybe, as Vince seems to think as he comes back to the couch, holding a pair of glasses, I just need another drink.

I hold my hand out for one, but he doesn’t give it to me.

“C’mon,” he says, “It’s cold ‘n here.” He turns his back and walks into his bedroom. I follow cautiously.

“Don’t worry,” he laughs, “I’m not going to bum you or nuffin’.”

I step into the room after him, and he hands me the drink and closes the door. He turns an electric fireplace on, and I look round the room.

It’s not messy, but there are clothes everywhere. It’s like stepping into a jungle. In addition to the walk-in wardrobe on the far wall, which he seems to have run out of space in, there are beams across the roof that have coat-hangers covered in jackets and accessories hanging off them.

I duck and weave through the canopy of garments, and sit on the bed, the only object in the room that isn’t wearable apart from the mirror lining one whole wall.

He pauses in front of the mirror, pulling off his shirt. Switching it for a fluffy white dressing-gown, he shimmies out of his jeans.

I glance at the clock; it’s nearly three in the morning.

Vince grins at me and climbs onto the bed, crawling past me to the side that’s against the wall. He sits up against the pillows, takes a drink, and puts his glance on the windowsill.

“Get comfy, Howard,” he says, kneeling up and pulling me properly onto the bed. I put my glass down next to his, as his soft fingers slide up my shirt and unbutton it, helping me shrug it off.

He plants a brief kiss to my lips, and settles down again, motioning for me to lie too.

I do, and he passes me my drink. I gulp some down, and prop myself up on my elbow, looking at him.

“Have enough clothes?” I ask.

He laughs. “Not by a long shot. This is just this season’s stuff. Last season’s gears packed away in boxes under the bed. Some of it’s nice; I’m hoping it’ll become retro soon.”

“Won’t you have to wait twenty or thirty years?”

“Nah,” Vince says, “Fashions speeding up. I’m giving it six to nine months.”

My brain slows down to a near sleep pace as we talk, and I feel myself drifting off. Vince’s voice carries on as I make sounds of assent and interest, but eventually he quietens, and as the sun begins to peek over the buildings of Camden, we both fall asleep.

It’s one in the afternoon, according to the ridiculously fluorescent digital clock on the windowsill, and my gaze is trained on the ceiling. One of my hands is going to sleep where they’re both nestled behind my head, and one of my legs is going to sleep where Vince’s has it pinned down.

I sigh, and Vince stirs. One of his arms is draped across my stomach, and his fingers tap against my ribs as he grins and hoarsely mumbles, “Alright?”

“Yeah,” I yawn, unsure. “I should get going…”

“Where to?” Vince asks, stretching and rolling away from me.

His dressing gown was tossed to the end of the bed last night, along with my jeans, as we climbed under the blankets and fell asleep. My practically naked body seems cold from where his practically naked body has relinquished contact.

“I reckon I’m going to go home, make a few calls from that address book, maybe pay Saboo a visit, but later I think I’ll head by the copy centre. I reckon the guy there knows more than he’s likely to admit… at least without a little ‘encouragement’, if you know what I mean.”

Vince snorts. “Your tough guy talk is terrible,” he says, laughter in his voice.

My mouth twists into a scowl and I sit up, reaching down the bed for my trousers. I turn away as I pull them on, conscious of his eyes on me.

His hand slides around my waist to rest on my stomach. I lift myself off the bed briefly to pull my jeans all the way on, and focus on doing them up, as his hand moves up and around my chest, and he wriggles forward till he’s sitting right behind me.

His lips are on my neck.

“Look, Mr Noir–”

“Oh come off it!” He snaps, and his hand stops moving, but instead presses hard against my chest, pulling me against him.

“Okay,” I say quickly, “Sorry, Vince. Can I just… I don’t entirely… What’s going on here exactly?”

“Who cares?”

“I care.”

He sighs, warm air exhaling against my skin.

“I’m just having some fun,” he says, his hand going back to tracing careless patterns on my skin, “with someone who’s doing something good for me. What’s going on here for you?”

I look at the floor, pretending to look for my shirt.

“I don’t know,” I reply, “I’m just…” You’re the only person who’s ever shown interest in me, and I like it? That’s not the right answer. “I’m just having some fun too.”

“Good!” He says, and moves away from me, jumping off the bed, only to stand in front of me, nudge my chin upwards and kiss me.

He tastes like morning and a hangover. His lips are dry and cracked, catching against mine, which are too. I hold his face, roughly stroking my thumbs down twin cheekbones.

He climbs onto my lap, straddling me. His tiny black pants leave little to the imagination, but I try not to imagine. He’s moving against me though, rubbing that skinny little body hard against my crotch, obviously vying for my attention.

I break off the kiss with him, and he takes a deep breath, grinning.

His lips immediately drop to my neck, kissing and sucking, tongue darting out to… what? Taste me?

“Vince,” I say, “I really have to go.”

“Nah,” he replies. “Not yet.”

I lower my hands to his hips and urge him to stand up. Reluctantly he does, and folds his arms petulantly as I pull on my shirt.

“You’re so serious,” he says, rolling his eyes. Leaving my buttons undone, I walk over to him. His eyes, so electric blue, are surrounded by smudged eyeliner that he’s slept in.

“I’ll be back later,” I say, and consider kissing him. He’s standing in front of me, head angled up, and eyes half closed, and I know he’s expecting it. Awkwardly, I lean forward and peck him on the lips.

He chuckles. “I’ll come with you,” he says, while I move towards the door. “I’ll just get dressed.”

“I’ll be back later, Vince,” I say, and he stops in his tracks by the wardrobe. With a sigh, he lies down on the bed.

“I’ll be waiting.”

I walk towards the door with a laugh, navigating my way through coats and skinny jeans, and he calls out, “Howard!”

I turn, and he’s buried himself back under the blankets.

“See ya,” he grins, “Good luck.”

“Will do,” I reply, and open the bedroom door.

There’s a plate of bruschetta growing stale on the coffee table.

I’m back in my apartment, forcing nicotine into my lungs, and feeling myself relax. I hold my fag in my lips, as my hands untie my shoes, and I lean back into the couch, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling through my nose.

It’s three in the afternoon, but I feel like it’s only the start of the day. My head is thumping dully, and I don’t want to eat, but it doesn’t disturb me. It’s the soft hangover of a night filled with company and…. I guess there’s a small part of me that could be a little bit gay.

There was that time I was watching Indiana Jones, and couldn’t stop looking at Harrison Ford. And then I dreamt about him for a week. They weren’t sexy dreams or anything, just me and him adventuring and exploring together, man and man.

But that final night, in my dream, when his lips grazed mine, stubble rubbing against my chin, and he told me that our explorations were over….

I never watched Indiana Jones again. But I did grow a moustache.

I stand up, stubbing my fag out in the overflowing ashtray on the table and walking into the adjoining room. Time to get to work.

I sit down at my desk, pull the phone close and open Leroy’s address book. I know I saw Saboo in here sometime, and, sure enough, I flick through the worn pages and my eyes quickly fall on his name.

Punching the accompanying mobile number into the phone, I wait for him to pick up. There’s an address too, lucky me, but politeness dictates I should call before dropping by.

However, as the phone rings against my ear, the same repetitive tone over and over, I begin to suspect he isn’t going to answer. Finally, a woman’s voice, devoid of humanity, blandly tells me to leave a message. I sigh as the phone bleeps me my permission to talk, and hang up.

I left my preferred (if there’s such a thing) gun at Vince’s, I realise. And I’m not going over to some shaman-mob type’s dwelling without protection. I open my drawer and grab my second pistol, a heavier, aimless thing, and drop it into my inside jacket pocket.

I need to get a car, I admit to myself. Calling a taxi is a sure-fire way to lose a feeling of confidence.

I wait in my apartment, smoking, until I hear the tooting of the taxi’s horn out on the street.

The day is starting to grow duller (than usual) as I watch the city whip past through the car windows. I’m nervous.

It’s not that I’m scared of this Saboo guy, or The Crunch that he seems so acquainted with. It’s just… confrontation. I’m never ready for confrontation. It’s all very well to investigate shifty and dangerous mysteries. Just, until it actually gets dangerous. I’m of the opinion that this is about the time one should call the police.

But, of course, I never do call the police. Partially because most of my cases are over in a day or two with little or no danger to my person, and partially because I think Ms Gideon still works at the station. And I couldn’t bear it if I had to run back to her or Fossil for help.

It took me quite a while to leave after Tommy died, and Fossil took over the force. I couldn’t stand the guy, or the pointless and amateur cases he put me to work on.

But in the end, being called Harold, or Harvey, or whatever name Gideon took a chance on every single day… I lost the only thing as a cop I’d been loyal to.

Except the sense of justice. Which the force seemed to be losing that on it’s own with Fossil in charge.

So here I am. Taxiing into possible danger, intentions just, but nervousness engaged.

My stomach drops as the car pulls up in front of a terrace house.

Third ring at the doorbell, and there’s still no answer. I can’t see much through the windows; the blinds are shut. But it’s dark, so he must be out. I move around to the side of the house, and squeeze my way into the narrow gap between this one and the bakery next door.

Eventually I find another window, through which I can see Saboo’s lounge. It looks like it would generally be relatively homey. Comfortable furniture, a bit ragged and sparse, but comfortable nonetheless.

But today the television has been smashed and an armchair has been knocked over onto its back. A painting has fallen from the wall and lies face down on the clean wooden floor.

I crouch down and search through the overgrown weeds for something heavy. The ground is damp and filled with insect life; I make a face as a small spider crawls up my arm. Brushing it away, I find half a brick, covered in moss with a colony of ants living underneath it. I stand up, and throw it through the glass, ducking out of the way.

The window shatters, leaving glass pooled on both sides, and across the lounge room floor. Carefully, I climb through, feeling guilty. Before investigating, I pull out my chequebook, and leave a cheque that will hopefully cover the cost of my damage.

But, as I walk through the deserted house, I have a feeling Saboo isn’t coming back any time soon.

Everything is trashed. Food is left on the counter. The hall walls are recently marked with fingernail scratches, and what seems to be burns.

Whatever happened here, both parties certainly weren’t happy with it.

“‘S your fault, you know.”

I spin on the spot, staggering back a few hasty steps as the familiar voice speaks from directly behind me.

“Naboo,” I greet, clutching at the door frame. “Nice entrance. Very abrupt and mysterious.”

“I just came in through the window,” he says, nodding his head to the lounge. I follow him through as he continues. “Just with slightly less smashing and disregard for people’s homes.”

“I did leave a cheque.”

I watch him sit himself down on the couch, and I pick up the armchair, sitting opposite him.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I don’t really reckon Saboo’s going to care that much.”

“What happened to him?” I ask, leaning forward. Naboo rolls his eyes.

“Can’t work anything out for yourself, can you?” He says.

“He’s been taken somewhere,” I reply. “Who’s taken him?”

“Dennis,” Naboo answers, “Obviously.”

“Right, obviously. Why?”

“He told you too much, I reckon.”

The room is silent, and I feel quite uncomfortable.

“How long have you been following me?” I ask. He looks relaxed, slouched in the couch, and he kicks his feet up on the footstool in front of him.

“I wasn’t following you. I figured you’d still be at Vince’s. I was just sent here to do some cleanup.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I can see a large black shape appear in the doorway.

“Who’s that?” I ask, jabbing my thumb in the direction of the shape, not taking my eyes of Naboo.

“That’s my mate Bollo,” Naboo replies, and the shape walks slowly forward. It takes only a second for me to jump to my feet and crouch behind the couch for protection.

“That’s a gorilla!” My voice is trembling far more than I’d like. Naboo looks at the gorilla.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

The gorilla walks over to me, and holds out its furry hand.

“Call me Bollo,” it grunts, and I cautiously shake hands with it. Him. He pulls me out from behind the couch, and sits down next to Naboo. He’s carrying a sack over one huge shoulder, which he drops on the ground with a flump.

“Clean up Howard’s mess, will you Bollo?” Naboo says, and with a groan, Bollo gets right back onto his feet. He picks up the sack and lumbers over to the window, crouching down, pulling out a dustpan and broom, and sweeping up the glass.

“Where were we?” Says Naboo.

“I’m kind of hoping you were about to give me some useful information.”

Naboo rolls his eyes, but a slight smirk appears on his face.

“Don’t have much more information to give,” he replies, standing. “I just know Saboo’s gone, and I’ve been sent here to tidy up. They’re not telling me everything.” He looks me in the eyes, deadly serious. “Look,” he sighs. “I wanna help Vince, I do. I wanna help you, too, sort of. But I’m part of the Shaman Council myself. I’ve got loyalties. There’s only one more thing I can tell you, Howard.”

He falls silent, and I lean forward slightly in the armchair, raising my eyebrows.

“Which is?”

“They’re onto you. And Vince. Now, help me carry this telly outside.”

I knock so hard on Vince’s door that my knuckles graze. I’m panicking, I know. My heart race has sped up, and I’m sweating despite the cold. But I have to get him somewhere safe.

He doesn’t answer the door immediately, and with every second that passes, I get more and more anxious that they’ve got to him, that I’m too late.

I knock again, louder, and relief floods through me as I hear him from the hall.

“Alright, Alright, hold your horses!”

The door swings open, and he looks up at me, grinning.

“Inpatient, aren’t we?” He purrs, batting his dark eyelashes.

He looks beautiful. So ridiculously beautiful I can tell he’s been preening since I left this morning.

“We have to go,” I say quickly, grabbing his wrist. He digs his heels into the ground and raises an eyebrow.

“What, right now?” He’s wriggled out of my grip, and seems to be searching the table in the hall for something.

“Yes, right now!” Looking left and right, I huff in irritation, and dive inside, closing his door.

“Come on,” I say, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find me keys,” he snaps, rummaging around in a bowl full of coins, buttons, boxes of matches and other odds and ends. Finally he pulls out a key-chain, and slips it into the pocket of his jeans, squeezing his fingers into the tight denim with effort.

Stepping into his boots, he looks up at me as he zips them up.

“What’s goin’ on?” He asks, eyes worried. I didn’t realise how tense I was until I feel my expression soften.

I lean against the wall, and let out a long breath. “Saboo’s gone,” I say, “I had a chat to Naboo, apparently we’re next. They know where you live, we’ll go back to mine.”

“I thought Saboo was on their side?” He asks, standing up and pulling a jacket over his netted top.

“Yeah, he was,” I reply, opening the door again, and reaching out to pull at his hand, “But he did something wrong, clearly. Naboo reckons he told me too much. Come on, there’s a taxi waiting downstairs.”

Pushing Vince out into the hall, he glances over his shoulder at me with a half grin.

“This is proper dangerous, innit, Howard?” He says, as if he’s excited. I roll my eyes, and walk to the stairs, slipping an arm companionably round his shoulder.

“Yeah, little man,” I reply, “It is.”

As we sit in the taxi, the sun shining in through the windows, part of me wishes I hadn’t rescued Vince from almost certain capture.

“Hey, Howard,” he whispers, leaning over and moving his lips practically against my ear, “D’you reckon the taxi driver could be one of ‘em? He looks pretty shifty, don’t he? He could be driving us to our deaths!”

I crane my neck to check out the driver in his rear view mirror. A hunched over, pale man, shadows ringing his eyes.

“No,” I reply.

Vince sits back in his chair, looking out the window. “Well, maybe he’s just got bad hair,” he murmurs, loud enough for me to hear, but not the offending taxi driver.

He’s shivering a bit, light jacket not really doing much to warm his chest, clad only in black netting.

He watches the street whiz by moodily for a minute, before his face lights up and he turns to me.

“I think that cars been following us!” He says, jamming his thumb towards the back window, eyes twinkling.

“Which one?”

“The blue one!”

I swivel around in my chair, and scan the road, trying to work out which blue one he’s referring to.

“Oh wait,” he says, sitting back down, “It turned into that last street.”

I sigh, and face forward again.

“You make everything harder, don’t you?” I grumble.

He winks at me.

Finally, the taxi driver pulls up outside my apartment block, and I pay him as I get out of the car. Behind me, I can hear Vince talking to him, and I turn around.

“Don’t you try anything, punk,” Vince growls at the taxi driver, leaning into the open front window, and pointing at him threateningly, “Or Howard’ll be onto you faster than flares go out of fashion.”

I can’t help laughing, and grab his hips, pulling him back. He stumbles away from the car, and shimmies out of my grip, standing by the letter-boxes, adjusting his clothes in the reflection of someone’s window.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” I say to the driver, and he pulls away without acknowledging me.

I turn and walk towards the building and Vince follows me, falling in with my step.

“I shoulda told him I’d get my cousin Jahouli onto ‘im,” he says in a chav voice, chuckling.

“This is serious,” I say as we start to climb the stairs, “You do realise that, right?”

He makes a face as he looks around the stairwell. “Ew, it’s well rank in here. You’re apartment better not be this bad, I won’t be able to sleep.”

We reach the first level, and I pause in my step.

“Did you even listen to what I sai–”

“What was that?” He cuts me off, looking around, panicked.

“I said, we’re in danger Vince. Do you have any concept of how much–”

“No, no, not that!” His eyes dart left and right frantically, “I thought I heard something, like a gun shot or something…”

“What? I didn’t hear any–”

Suddenly, the window next to us shatters as a bullet flies through, and Vince drops to the ground, pulling me with him.

“Will anyone let me finish a single sentence?!” I yell, and Vince clamps a hand over my mouth.

We lie like that for a minute, and when nothing happens, I slowly crawl over to the window, and peek over the ledge.

There’s a blue car on the street, a gun poking out of the partially wound down window.

Ducking back down below the window, I look at Vince, eyes wide.

“What do we do?” He says, voice quieter than strictly necessary.

“Go up to my apartment and call the police?” I suggest, shrugging, and we begin to crawl towards the stairs.

“Shouldn’t you go out there and like, shoot him up or something?” He hisses.

“My aims terrible,” I reply, “I’m here to solve mysteries, not kill people.”

“You don’t have to kill him,” Vince says, “Just…. maim him a bit.”

“Just get up the stairs,” I snap, but fling an arm out in front of him as I hear feet clomping down from above, “Or don’t,” I add as I hear a voice yell a few stories up.

“Oi, Kirk, they’re down this way!”

Vince is staring up the stairs, eyes wide and fearful as the footfalls get closer and closer.

“Run!” I yell, and we both stand up, turning and bolting down the stairs. The clomping above us gets faster and louder, and another gun blast echoes through the stairwell, now accompanied by the shouts and screams of other residents.

Vince dives towards the front entrance door, but I grab his wrist and pull him towards the side exit.

Pressing ourselves against the wall, we pause for a moment, looking for somewhere to run to.

Almost immediately, Vince grins and runs forward, leaving me with no option but to follow him.

A woman is getting out of her car on the street, and he jogs towards her, flicking his hair, leaning in close, and saying things to her I can’t quite hear, with open and honest eyes. She smiles and hands him her car keys, and he jumps into the front seat, gripping her hand gratefully.

He hurriedly beckons me, and I climb into the passenger seat, as he turns on the engine.

“To the police station?” I say, and he accelerates abruptly, crashing out onto the, thankfully empty, road.

“Cool,” he replies, trying to gain control of the vehicle as it zooms down the road.

“Can you drive?” I gasp, as I grip desperately at the door handle. The street seems to swerve in and out of focus as he shakily speeds down the road, swerving left and right.

“I’m doing it, yeah?” He says casually, narrowly missing a telephone pole.

“Pull over,” I say, “We’ll swap.”

He asks me how to pull over as my phone starts ringing in my pocket. Fumbling, I pull it out and hold it to my ear, signalling him to pull over.

“Howard Moon,” I greet, as Vince raises both hand in an expression of query. “Hand on the wheel!” I shout at him, voice an octave higher than usual. Into the phone, I say, “Sorry, this probably isn’t a good time.”

“We need to talk,” says a familiar voice, and my brow furrows.

“Saboo?”

“No shit,” He says, “I have things I need to tell you.”

The car is still veering all over the road, and I ask Saboo to hold on, before pressing the phone against my shoulder and turning to Vince.

“Look,” I say, “Just hold the wheel straight, unless there’s an actual corner, then you can turn it. Okay?”

“No time for that,” he replies, into the rear view mirror, just before the car jerks forward. It takes me a second to realise that it’s not Vince’s bad driving, and that the blue car has followed us. A bullet shatters one of the side mirrors, and the car swerves particularly sharply as Vince jumps in his seat.

I hold the phone back to my ear. “Saboo,” I say, voice strangely calm, “Think I can give you a call later?”

“I’m on your side, and we need to work together if we–”

I hang up, and twist around in my seat as Vince turns a corner.

“What was that?” He asks, looking at me.

“Eyes on the road,” I reply, “Saboo says he’s on our side. Turn into the next street.”

“Do you still want to take over?” He asks, and I see the blue car turn the corner, and speed up towards us. I can just make out the man behind the wheel; the guy from Leroy’s Laser Copy Centre. He leans out the window as he drives, aiming his gun at us.

“Turn!” I yell at Vince, as the next corner approaches, “Turn now!”

Vince spins the wheel hard, and manages to swerve into the street, just as a bullet flies past us.

“I actually think you should take over,” he says, holding his arms straight in front of him, trying to control the car.

“Not right now, Vince,” I say, digging around in my jacket, “We’ve gotta get rid of this guy.”

I finally manage to pull my gun from its holster, and Vince’s face lights up.

“Are you going to shoot him?” He asks, as the blue car gains on us.

“How bloodthirsty are you?!” I say, taking aim out the side window.

“M’not bloodthirsty. But this is like a proper car chase with guns and everything. The gun really adds to your look Howard, you know…. oh, there’s a car coming towards us by the way. What should I do?”

“Don’t crash into it,” I reply, my finger on the trigger. I’m aiming at his front wheel, hopefully it’ll stop him, if I can hit the target.

“Just shoot already,” Vince says, pressing on the horn, “I don’t wanna swerve till you’ve shot.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, as our other side mirror shatters. Squeezing my eyes closed, I pull the trigger.

My eyes stay shut, and I can hear tyres screeching, and horns honking, and people screaming, and I say to Vince, “Did I hit it?” Just as I hear a loud crash, and my eyes burst open.

“Yeah…” He says, slowing down, “I reckon you did.”

The blue car has swerved into a brick wall; the bonnet is completely crumpled, and the roof seems to be half collapsed. Glass is spread all around on the ground, and there seems to be quite a lot of smoke, and more than a little fire.

It doesn’t look like the Laser Copy Centre bloke will be walking away very soon.

Vince pulls over, and looks at me, worriedly.

People are crowding around the crash, but no one seems to have noticed us yet.

“Swapsies?” Vince suggests, and I climb out of the car as he crawls over into the passenger seat.

Climbing into the driver’s side, I start up the engine, and drive out into the main street, heading back towards my apartment.

---

It’s only when we reach my flat, and Vince lets go of my hand, that I finally realise he’s been holding it. Losing that contact somehow loses an anchor for me, and I collapse against the door as I dig my hand into my pocket, searching for my keys. Tears well up behind my eyes, and I will them not to fall.

“You alright?” Vince asks, resting a hand on my back.

“I just killed a guy, Vince,” I reply, blindly forcing the keys into the lock.

“You dunno that,” he replies, trying to sound optimistic. Knowing him, he probably is optimistic. “He could just have a couple of bruises. Maybe not even that. It wasn’t that bad a crash.”

“The car caught fire,” I say, finally pushing the door open. I wander inside, collapsing onto the couch and bury my face in my hands.

“Nice place you got here,” Vince says, and it’s then I know how much he feels the need to cheer me up.

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

I feel the cushion on the couch sink, and he’s sitting next to me.

“C’mon,” He says quietly, pressing his lips to my shoulder, “He was trying to kill us. You did the right thing. And he may well be fine. Don’t you go all suicidal till we know he’s dead, alright?”

I don’t reply, and I can feel his arm sliding around my waist, and his lips move up to my neck.

“You need a cuppa tea?” He asks, and I pause before nodding.

He chuckles as he stands up and I look up through my fingers, wiping my eyes with my sleeve while his back is turned.

He wanders over to the bench on the far wall and puts the water on to boil.

“Cups up here?” He asks, pointing to the cabinet.

“Yeah,” I try to say, but it just comes out as a choked sound. I cough.

“Yeah,” I say, and he opens the cabinet and pulls out two mugs.

Even though it’s not warm in here, he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of one of my two rickety dining chairs, standing next to the kettle in that ridiculous not-really-a-shirt, and smiling kindly at me.

With a groan, I push my tired body to my feet and wander over to him holding those skinny hips in my hands. I look into his eyes, and he smiles at me, bringing a hand up to cup my cheek.

Leaning forward, I kiss those smiling lips, pushing him slightly against the counter. I mean it just as a grateful kiss, but he brings a leg up, wrapping it around one of mine and pulling me closer, letting out one of his pretty little half moans into my mouth.

Our tongues dance together softly, and he sucks my bottom lip between his, nibbling oh so lightly at it. I feel myself go light-headed, and slide my hands down to where his arse meets his legs, and lift him up onto the counter. He wraps both his legs around me and I kiss him just that bit harder, and he responds just that bit more eagerly.

Then the kettle clicks itself off, and I pull away, blushing.

“That is,” I stammer, “I meant to say, thanks. For the… offer of tea. So thanks.”

I sit down at the table, achingly aware of my erection, and that he’s probably just as aware of my erection as I am.

I hear him laugh, and pour some water, fiddling around with my tea pot.

Setting a mug before me, he sits down in the opposite chair with his own and takes a drink, eyes locked with mine.

“Not a problem,” he says, and I blow into the slightly too milky tea.

We drink in silence, which I think is odd for Vince until I notice how intently he’s inspecting his nail polish, but I’m grateful for the quiet. The tea is warming, and the guilt I feel settles to a dull twinging in my stomach, nicely offset with the dull twinging in my cock as I watch Vince’s practically bare chest rise and fall with each breath.

Shaking my head, I finish my tea, and rinse the cup out at the sink. This isn’t the time to be thinking about… whatever it is I’m feeling. This is the time to take action. Or at the very least, plan to take action.

I sit back down at the table, and he takes tiny sips of his drink, looking at me unblinkingly over the rim.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say to him, “First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll go over to Lester’s place. We’ll be safe there. There, I’ll call Saboo, see what he has to say. Hopefully that’ll give us somewhere to go, some action to take. Worst case scenario, we lay low till Friday, and go back to the Obsidian Blackbird. I don’t think you should go back on stage, but if we’re lucky, Dennis will show up, and I can follow him. Find something out. How does that sound?”

Vince drains his cup, and sets up down on the table, ruffling up the back of his hair.

“What about tonight?” He says, and I shrug.

“We can’t leave tonight; Lester won’t be home till much later. It’s blues fusion night at the Jazz club. We’ll have to risk staying here.”

My gut is wrenching at the thought; they obviously know where I live. My only hope is that the Shamans will think it would be so amazingly stupid to come back here that they won’t bother checking.

That’s not really what I’d like to be basing my safety on.

Vince doesn’t look worried, though, and he just smiles, and says, “Alright then.”

“Locks don’t bother them, do they?” I ask him, scratching my rough beard.

“Who?” He replies, looking confused.

“The Shamans,” I say, an idea slowly forming in my head.

“What are you on about?”

“Naboo,” I reply, opening Leroy’s address book, and pulling my mobile out of my pocket. “He just came into my apartment the other morning, when it was locked.”

I punch in his number and hold the ringing phone to my ear as Vince starts to chew on his thumbnail, still looking bemused.

“What is it now?” Says Naboo into my ear as he picks up his phone.

“Hey, Naboolio,” I greet, trying to sound cheerful and welcoming, “How are you?”

“What do you want?” He replies.

“Just a little favour, nothing big.”

He sighs dramatically, and groans, “Yeah?”

“I was just wondering,” I say as pleasantly as possible, “If you’d be able to do a little shaman something to stop those other Shamans that want me and Vince dead from getting into my flat tonight?”

He sighs again, tells me he’ll be right back, and the phone goes silent as he wanders off.

Vince raises an eyebrow across the table at me in query and I shrug.

A few minutes later, Naboo picks up the phone and says, “Alright, you’re safe till sun up.”

“Really?” I ask, “Just like that?”

“What do you expect? A magic circle? Don’t sleep in,” he snaps, and hangs up.

I look around the apartment, putting my phone down on the table.

“Apparently we’re good,” I say slowly.

“No one can get in?” Vince asks. He’s standing up, and there’s an inflection to his voice that doesn’t sound quite appropriate to our predicament.

He wanders over, and perches on the table in front of me.

“Yeah,” I answer, “It would seem so.”

“So we have the place to ourselves all night?” He purrs, leaning back and draping himself across the table in front of me.

“How many levels of function does your mind actually have?” I ask him, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms. But I chuckle as I say it, and he grins.

“Dunno,” Vince answers, “Never learnt to count.”

I stand up, and look down at him. He’s running one hand down his torso, his other resting at the top of his thigh.

“Subtle,” I remark.

A cheeky grin lights up his face, but still I shake my head.

“Look Vince,” I say, dropping my hand down to stop his in its track, and hold it. “I don’t think I can… I might have just killed someone, not an hour ago.”

“Oh, you’re still hung up on that,” He replies, not maliciously, or insensitively, but as if he’s honestly surprised.

He sits up, dropping his feet to the floor and stands close to me. His hands rise to my shoulders, and he pushes gently at them, urging me towards the doorless arch that leads to me bedroom.

As I walk backwards, he slides his hands down my chest to unbutton my shirt and pushes it off as we pass through the door.

“Vince,” I say, but he plants a kiss to my chest.

“Chill out,” he murmurs, and I feel my knees bump against the corner of the bed. “This’ll help. I promise.”

He pushes me down, crawling up my body to plant a hard kiss on my lips, tongue darting out, and flicking against mine, where my mouth has opened to try to protest.

“Just wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into my lips.

I can’t get myself in order. Hell, I can’t even get myself in agreement. “Okay,” replies my mouth, but some part of me, (not my brain, which seems to be preoccupied on his hand that’s slipping between our bodies to fumble with my trouser buttons) some small part of me, (not my crotch, either, which is firmly stating its opinion that it approves of what’s going on) twinges with guilt.

This part of me, which must be somewhere near my stomach because it’s making it writhe, is telling me that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t deserve this. I certainly don’t deserve to feel good, not after what I’ve done.

Vince sits up, and my head jerks forward, trying to keep contact with his mouth. He’s kneeling next to me on the bed, and telling me to take my trousers off, as he pulls his shirt over his head.

I pull myself to sitting, and that part of me is given room to breath, and is screaming at me that I can’t do this, that Vince is a boy, that I don’t love him, and I still have time to stop and save myself for the person I’ll be with forever.

But I pull my trousers down my thighs, and my cock is also given breathing room, and it tells that indefinable part of me to shut the fuck up, and though I’m not keen on his language, I’m inclined to agree.

And it does, and I don’t know whether I’m being strong or being weak, so I just pull my trousers right off my legs, and turn to Vince, who’s still kneeling and trying to wriggle out of his drainpipes.

I crawl over to him, feeling vaguely (but less than I expected) self conscious in just my underpants, and lower my head to kiss his hip bones, just for something to do.

This is it, I think to myself, as Vince manages to pull his drainpipes down most of his thighs, leaving just his bulging underpants at my eye-line. This is it, I’m about to be obscenely close to another man’s nether regions.

“Gimme a hand?” Vince gasps, and I look up at his face, which is twisted with the effort of pulling his trousers off.

“Need lubricant?” I joke nervously, moving my hands to join his at the waist of the drainpipes, and pull down hard.

“Yeah,” he says, “But not just yet.”

Heat spreads up my neck and across my face, so I look down, hoping he doesn’t notice. Together, we push his trousers right down to his ankles and he wriggles out of them, stripping off his underpants as well. My blush deepens and I’m not sure how my blood is sustaining both ends of my body, but my cock isn’t giving up that easily, and stands proudly in my pants.

With a happy sigh he climbs onto my lap, facing me, his legs flanking either side of my torso.

He’s grinning, and I forget to close my eyes as he leans in to kiss me. His hand is sliding down my chest, and I’m staring at his heavy eyelashes, coated in black mascara. His make up smudging now, and leaving a black ring around each eye.

I suck in breath as his hand strays down to my pants, dipping under the waistband. His hand is moving unsteadily, twisted at an odd angle and trapped between our two bodies, but I couldn’t care less as it wraps around my cock. His brow is furrowed slightly with concentration. I’ve still got my eyes open.

I let my eyelids fall shut, realising that I’ve barely been kissing him back these last few moments, as I fight to keep my breath steady. His lips are moving against mine, trying to entice me to move with them, but I’ve been oblivious. A fingertip slides up the underside of my cock, and comes to rest on the tip.

“Ready?” He asks into my mouth, and I nod dumbly. “Knew you were ready,” he adds, moving off my lap, and bringing his finger away from my cock, and up to his lips. There’s a glistening drop of pre-cum on the tip of that digit, slipping down his nail like nail polish. He flicks his tongue out, and his finger is clean.

I can’t help but make a face. He rolls his eyes.

He mutters something, it could be “Come on,” or “Alright then”. It’s something mundane, and he slips his thumbs under the elastic of my pants, pulling them down. My hands join his, and he lets go, letting me pull off my knickers clumsily.

“Lookin’ good, Howard Moon,” he says. I can’t move from where I’m sitting awkwardly on the bed.

“What now?” I ask.

He grins and turns around, on all fours, as he rummages through the bedside table.

He seems to be presenting his arse to me, and I’m daunted more than anything. How’s that going to fit in there? I think, looking down into my lap.

I can hear him scrambling round, and I look up to see him facing me, holding a tube. He squeezes a generous amount of the KY Jelly onto his palm before coating his fingers with it.

Up on his knees, his slicked up hand slides down behind him, while his other wraps round his own cock, pumping slowly. I watch him as he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Leaning to the side, I peek around behind him.

One finger has disappeared up to the knuckle into his arse, and my vision goes blurry for a moment. It looks hot. Mimicking him, my own hand grips my erection and I touch myself as I watch him bury a second finger in there.

“Enjoying yourself there?” He asks, voice slightly forced. I tear my eyes away from the entrancing sight before me, and look up at his eyes from my bent over position, which are glistening as droplets of sweat slide down his face.

“Need a hand, at all?” I offer, trying to sound as casual and helpful as I can.

“Not really,” he replies, “But you can take over here, if you want.” He lets go of his cock, nodding at it, then at me. Tentatively, I reach forward, making a loose fist around his erection. It’s a familiar gesture from an unfamiliar angle.

He lets out a groan as I jerk him, and myself, off, slowly growing more confident, and I can hear the tube being opened again, and a dollop of lube fall onto his palm. My eyes are closed, and my head buried against his damp neck as I concentrate. His knuckles brush against the back of my hand, the hand around my own cock, and I let go, only to have my hand replaced with his slippery one.

Minutes pass, more than are really necessary, as we kneel together, hands wrapped around each others erections, but soon enough he lets out a short breath against my neck, and lets go of me. I pause, before doing the same. With a slight sense of loss, I kneel on the bed, disconnected from him.

But his lips smack against my cheek briefly, and with a wink he turns around, on all fours again.

I’m about to lose my virginity, I vaguely realise, moving forward. My hands shake slightly as one sits on his hip, the other closing around my lubed up cock to guide it home.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he says, apparently oblivious to my defining moment, and I push forward, into his arse. Slowly I thrust against him, each push burying me deeper inside him. He’s moaning wantonly like a porn star, but I’m not making a sound.

My eyes are closed, head lolling back, and all I can feel is my cock enveloped in this tight and warm tunnel. He’s wriggling against me, back and forward, back and forward, and I know I’m not going to last long.

Remembering my manners, I open my eyes and move my free hand over his smooth hip and around his erection. My eyes are now trained on the beads of sweat on his neck, and I’m growing louder. I can hear my heavy breathing in the quiet, dusty room, along with his moans that seem to be quieting to just whimpered pants. Suddenly he stills against me, briefly, and I can feel him come, letting out a long groan of “fuuuuuuuuuck”.

With one last thrust, I spill myself inside him, eyes squeezing shut.

After a minute, his breathing becomes louder than the thumping of my own heart in my ears, and he slumps forward onto the bed. My softening erection feels cold in the air now, and I crawl over to lie next to him, exhausted.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into the pillow as I drift into sleep. “Forgot the condom. I’ll be oozing all night.”

Light is beginning to shimmer through my thin curtains when I wake up. My foggy mind becomes aware, first, of the fact that I’m nearly falling off my bed. Face buried in the crook of my elbow, I grin. Vaguely, almost like in a dream, I can remember Vince curling up closer and closer to me through the night, only to push me away, and then wriggle closer again, light snores breathing warm air against my neck.

He’s not beside me any more though. He’s apparently rolled onto the other side of the bed, presumably taking the quilt with him. I don’t move, even though I’m cold, naked except for my thin sheet. Blindly, not opening my eyes, I reach down with one hand, trying to pull it tighter around me for more warmth.

Suddenly, my mind registers the other thing that’s keeping me so cold. The sheet seems to be disturbingly damp. My grin fades, my brow draws together and my curiosity takes over, pulling my eyes open.

I sit up, and look down at my palm, which is covered in whatever is dampening the sheets.

All my foggy brain sees is red, and my heart stops. Blood. The word floats through my mind, making no connections to anything. I bring my clean hand to one eye and rub it, trying to work out what I’m seeing, because there’s a shape at the end of the bed, and it isn’t making any sense.

Those are Vince’s eyes, but Vince isn’t in them. Those are Vince’s lips, but they’re as pale as the rest of his face. And… that’s all I can see. Where’s Vince’s body, that bony, soft body?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rid this image from my head. Lying before me is a decapitated head, and it looks like Vince, it’s shaped like Vince, but it isn’t Vince.

Not anymore.

Shocked tears fall down my cheeks, and my hands curl through my hair, coating it with sticky blood.

“Oh fuck, Vince,” I whisper, opening my eyes.

Vince’s lifeless eyes blink.

“What was that, Son?”

Everything takes a moment to register, as my sleepy vision clears, and things fall into place.

“Who’re you?” I stammer at the head at the bottom of my bed. The tentacles at the bottom of his neck wriggle as he laughs, his bi-domed head quaking.

“Lordy,” he says in a raspy old voice, “You look like you’ve shit your willy off.”

“I think I might have, Sir,” I reply, glancing to the other side of the bed, expecting to see Vince curled up with my brown doona. But he isn’t there. “What have you done with him?”

“The ugly bird? Dennis wanted ‘im. I’ve just been left ‘ere to finish you off. You’ve been stirring up some wonky shit mate, that is, quite simply, an outrage!”

In my drowsy confusion, I’m still having trouble processing everything.

“But where did all this blood come from?” I mutter.

“What blood, you dingbat?”

“The sheets are sticky with…” I look down, and inspect the blanket. The sunrise shining in through the window is making the substance look red, but it isn’t.

“Look,” rasps the head, “I don’t even want to know about that.”

“Where’s Vince?” I ask as I swing my legs out of bed and grab my pants and cords off the floor, pulling them on.

“Dennis’ place, I already told you! Aw, don’t get up, I need to off you, before you run and tell the police about Dennis getting Leroy killed!”

“What?” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the pink head, which is shuffling slowly towards me, across the bed.

“You are in for it!”

I let out a short derisive laugh, devoid of actual humour, and lift him up by one tentacle.

“Where does Dennis live?”

“Oi, get off, you Meat Cleaver! I’m a powerful Shaman!”

I carry him over to the window, pushing it open and holding him out through the curtains. He calls an address out to me.

“Thanks,” I say, and pull him back inside, shutting him in the wardrobe on my way out the door.

Impatiently, I stand outside my building waiting for the taxi, holding my phone tight to my ear. I’m gripping it so hard I can feel my knuckles tensing up. I’m never going to be let go of this phone, I think as I wait for the ringing to stop. It’s going to become part of me. I’ll spend the rest of my life with an old Nokia clenched in my grip, and all the trendy kids will think I’m an old fogey who won’t buy an iPhone. Not that I’d usually care. However, Vince is one of those trendy kids. Not that it matters, if my taxi doesn’t get here soon.

“Lester, I need you,” I snap as soon as the phone is answered.

“Look, I told you Louis, its over between us.”

“What? No, it’s me, Howard.”

“Oh, sorry Howard,” Lester replies, chuckling into the receiver, “You do sound an awful lot like Ol’ Mr Armstrong; you’ll have to forgive an old man his desires. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to meet me at Dennis’. I don’t want to go in without backup,” I say hurriedly as the taxi rounds the corner. I jog towards it, waving.

“You really are one crazy motherfucker Howard Moon,” Lester says, and I can hear his rocking chair cease to squeak in the background.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, you in?”

“Does a Polar Bear wear shades?”

“Good man,” I say, climbing into the taxi and pulling the door shut behind me. “Also, hasn’t Louis Armstrong been dead for over thirty years?”

“I’ll admit,” answers Lester, rocking again, “It did put a dampener on our relationship.”

“Bye Lester,” I say and hang up, feeling ill.

The taxi driver twists around in his seat to look at me, a young man, grinning with hopes and dreams. “Where to?”

---

The taxi driver slows as we approach the house. It’s a terrace building, two stories, skinny. The lace curtains are drawn, but in the bottom right hand window, I can see people moving about as black and white silhouettes. I tell my driver to pull up around the corner. He does, and parks and I pay him slowly, trying to prolong the moment till I have to go up to that door and knock. Do I knock, or do I just kick it in? I don’t think I’d be able to kick it in.

“Thanks,” I mumble as the lad at the wheel hands me my change, and I open the car door. My hand is shaking. The driver is watching me carefully, ready to start driving as soon as I step out the door.

I’m scared. I’m more scared than I’ve been in my life. I’m more scared than I was when Tommy told me to go for it and tell Ms Gideon how I felt. I didn’t go for it, though. I just stood outside her office door writing conversation starters in my note-pad. I was too scared.

But this time, I can’t rehearse and I certainly can’t back out. I need to help Vince, because Vince… I’ll admit it. I like the little tart. So I am going to move. I am going to move now, and I am going to walk right around that corner, and through that gate, and up to that door, and I’m going to do the heroic thing.

Right. Now.

My feet feel like they sink into the pavement as I walk, and with every step that skinny brick building gets closer, and my stomach gets tighter. My sweaty palm slips on the gate as I push it open, and step through. Heart pumping in my ears, I approach the door. I can see every pore on the bricks surrounding me, and every ant crawling on the wood of the window frame. It would be tactical to just take that step to the side and peek through the front window, wouldn’t it? Not cowardly, no sir! It would be a clever move portraying good planning and initiative.

As soon as I look through the window, part of me wishes I hadn’t. I don’t really feel angry, seeing Vince curled up on Dennis’ large lap like that, twirling his hair and laughing. I guess I just feel disappointed. And betrayed, and hurt, and then he wraps that arm around the back of Dennis’ headdress, and pecks his cheek like some tart, and oh. There’s the anger.

Without a second thought, and without looking away from the window, I feel around for the door handle and knock. Dennis looks up, clearly surprised and irritated, and Vince jumps off his lap, letting Dennis tap his arse and point for him to go upstairs. Then he leaves the room, and I can hear footsteps approaching the door.

“Good day, sir,” I say as the door swings open, menace tinging my words, I hope. Pale eyes look down at me, and an eyebrow arches.

“Mr Moon,” Dennis replies pleasantly, “Come in.”

I step over the threshold, eyes trained on him. He’s a tall man, and looks down at me quite easily as he motions me through to the living room. I step into the room, and take a seat where he was sitting not a minute ago. The cushion is still warm, and the air smells of Vince.

“Would you like a drink?” Dennis offers, his voice reverberating around the room. “I have some Ice Tea, how about a glass?”

I glare at him, as he stands tall and proud, trying to gage where I am standing. “No thank you, sir. I think there is a more important issue at hand.”

“If you want your final moments to be un-refreshed,” he replies, reaching into the deep folds of the purple cloak he wears, “So be it.”

He’s completely casual as he reaches into the folds of his cloak and pulls out a long sword. My gun in heavy on my hip, and it would take barely a second to draw it and pull the trigger, but instead I jump up off the chair, and dive behind it. I press myself against the cool wood, facing the wall, and draw in a deep breath, contemplating the fact that this possibly isn’t the best hiding place ever. Especially since, not a second later, I can feel the cool steel of his sword against my throat.

“At least tell me what this is about,” I say shakily, hoping to keep him talking.

My neck immediately warms as the blade is withdrawn, and I look up at Dennis, already reaching for my gun. I need the upper hand, but most of all I just want to hurt him. Hurt him badly for touching Vince.

I have always been a little possessive.

But he’s gone, and when I stand up, I catch sight of the edge of his cloak disappearing around the corner of the archway leading to this room. I move to stand in the centre of the room, holding the gun by my side. There’s a loud knocking on the front door, and Dennis yells that he’s coming.

I look around the room, feeling awkward, and at the top of the stairs I think I can see some clear blue eyes watching me. But it’s dark up there, and in a second they’re gone. With a disgruntled sigh, I walk forward and look out the room, where Dennis is just opening the door.

“Howard,” Lester says as he barges right into the house, quickly reaching out towards Dennis face, who flinches back, “I came as quick as I could. But seems like you’ve dealt with the bastard already, haven’t ya? Good job, my friend, knew you could do it. I always believed in you. Now show me where you’ve got him, we’ll dispose of the sonofabitch.”

Dennis looks at Lester, who is standing heroically and expectantly in the doorway, with a furrowed brow and a tight frown. “Excuse me,” He says, “I am in the middle of some business right now,” and raises his sword, bringing it in an arch towards Lester’s neck.

“NO!” I cry, darting forward, but I’m too slow. As I watch, the sword slides freely through my oldest friend’s neck, sending his head flying up the hall. Dennis simply sheaths himself again, and turns to face me.

“Where were we?” He says, but I don’t give him time to finish, my gun already raised and finger on the trigger. Before I know it, there’s the sound of a gunshot, and he falls forward, blood seeping into the carpet. But something is wrong, I haven’t moved. My finger hasn’t moved, it wasn’t my gun that fired.

“Mr Moon,” Saboo says from behind The Head Shaman’s fallen figure, slipping his gun back into his coat, “Did you remember that I wanted a chat?”

I still haven’t taken in what’s happened as I look at Saboo, then back down at the ground, then up the stairs where Vince has moved out to stand on the top story, watching carefully.

“But,” I stammer, and Saboo crosses his arms. “…. But, what?”

“‘But what’ what?” He replies sarcastically, with a smirk.

I stare at him. “But what just happened? I’m pretty sure I was meant to have revenge of some description there.”

Saboo just shrugs, and indicates Dennis’ groaning figure. “He’s still alive,” He says, “You can kick him if you want.”

I look past him, to where Lester’s head is trying to shuffle towards his body. “No, I suppose it’s alright,” I say, ignoring where I can see Vince coming slowly down the stairs towards me, “I guess I should take Lester to the hospital. Or something.”

Bending down, I pick him up, nestling him into the crook of my arm. Vince is on the ground floor with us now, standing a few meters away. “Hey, Howard…” he says, and I turn to him.

“It’s been nice working with you, Mr Noir,” I snap, and address Saboo. “Leroy?”

“I was sent as his replacement, a few weeks ago after he was murdered, to infiltrate this Shaman Ring.”

“Replacement what?” I ask, and Saboo grins.

“Leroy was a spy,” He says, and Vince’s jaw drops.

“He’s a what?” I can hear him laugh unbelievingly, as I leave the house, taking Lester with me. “He works in a Laser Copy Centre!”

Back in my apartment a few days later, I close the case on this one, so to speak. More accurately, I open a case, write up a report, carefully leaving Vince out for the most part, and then close the case, shoving it towards the bottom of my dusty stack, filling the room with a musty smell as the dust flies up into the air and settles again.

I put my pen back in its rightful place, and with that one movement feel life go back to normal. Or the way it was, anyway, since I’m not sure what’s normal anymore. It’s growing late, I realise as I look at the old clock hanging on my wall, and so I stand up and walk to my bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt on the way. The simple movement sent a jolt of a reminder through my body, and I can almost feel Vince’s hands pushing my shirt off my shoulders.

Suppressing the memory, I throw my shirt into my laundry basket and lay down on my bed. The past two nights in this bed have been agonising, and I know this one will be as well. My dear bed, my familiar bed, seems awash with memories and meaning now. My sheets remind me what it feels like to connect to another person, and my pillow smells like the fear of losing Vince.

I snort at myself, feeling angry, and chuck the pillow off the bed, closing my eyes and forcing my mind to go blank. It takes hours of tossing and turning to slip into an un-restful sleep, and when I do I dream of sharp blades stabbing me in the back, only to be held my manicured, manly fingers.

I’m woken up by my phone ringing, and realise that I’ve over-slept, not that I have a schedule to keep. The midday sun is shining into the room, and I yawn, sitting up and fumbling to pick up my mobile.

“Howard Moon,” I mumble as I answer.

“Hey,” Says Vince, and he sounds chirpy and bright as usual. I’m a little surprised that I can already recognise his voice from just one word.

“What do you want?”

He pauses for a moment, and I realise how harsh I must have sounded. But I’m angry with him, and I can’t be bothered softening my voice. Finally he speaks, sounding meeker than I’ve ever heard him. “Just wondering why you hadn’t given me a call. Thought we could…”

“It’s nice to know you haven’t completely forgotten about me.” I groan into the receiver, flopping back onto the bed tiredly.

“Forgot–!” He repeats, chuckling slightly, “Why would I forget you? Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, I was waiting for you to make the first move.”

I roll my eyes at the roof and feel tempted to simply hang up on him. “Dennis,” I say instead, hearing my voice come out half choked.

“What a tool, eh?” He laughs, but there’s something fake about his laughter, and I don’t reply. “He’s a tool, inne Howard?” He adds after a long moment.

“Well, I thought so,” I say, gripping my mobile tightly, “But somehow I got under the impression that the only tool you could see in him was his dick.”

He’s silent for a long while. Eventually I hear him let out a long breath, and he says, “Can I come over?”

“No,” I reply.

“Wanna come over here, then?”

“Vince,” I say shortly.

There’s another long pause, and he says, “Fine, I didn’t tell you something about me an’ Dennis. But it was long in the past, he never got over it. I was just trying to stay in one piece. He has a sword, Howard.”

I listen to him but don’t really bother listening to his excuses. “Bye, Vince,” I say into the phone, quieter and softer this time.

“I’ll call you again,” he replies, and I hang up, turning off my phone.

I consider turning my phone back on many times over the next two days. But I don’t, scared of what I’ll find. Either there’ll be an onslaught of messages and missed calls from him, or there’ll be nothing at all. I don’t know which one would be worse, but I sure as hell don’t want to find out.

So instead I read, and I listen to music, and I play music, and I smoke and I mope. I’m back to square one.

It’s about lunchtime, and I’m just slicing some cheese to grill onto toast, when there’s a knock at my door and a call of “C’mon, lemme in!” I shake my head even though he can’t see me, and shout back, telling him to go away.

“Fuck off!” He yells in return. “Not going anywhere ‘til you open the door. And when you open the door, the only place I’m going is inside. Or coming inside. Or just coming. S’up to you.”

I stare at the door, put my knife down on the bench and wander over, standing with my back to the thin wood. I think he hears me come closer, because his voice is quieter when he says, “Come on Howard, you can’t be that mad.”

“I’ll assure you,” I reply softly, feeling my resolve crumbling, “That Howard Moon has the capacity to be quite mad, sir.”

“Howard Moon has the capacity to be a massive tit box,” He teases through the crack in the door and I turn the handle, stepping forward and letting him push it open.

I wander over to the other side of the room, taking a seat on the couch and watching him. He stands just inside the doorway, looking impeccable, which is obviously very deliberate. But it’s a different sort of impeccable than I’m used to. Instead of some glittery, see through number, he’s just wearing black skinny jeans and a checkered shirt, which is unbuttoned at least half the way. He’s wearing very little makeup; just a smearing of eyeliner, and is looking at me with his abnormally large eyes with absolute sincerity. “Sorry,” he says.

“Right,” I reply, and he cautiously makes his way over to the couch to sit next to me, sitting down with a heavy thump. We both look at the door, avoiding eye contact, and he carefully slips his hand down into mine, curling our fingers together. I glance at him, and he doesn’t turn his head, just looks at me slyly out of the corner of his eye.

With something approaching relief and/or exhaustion, I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder, slouching to do so. Me, I intend to sit like that for a long time, maybe go to sleep, maybe never get up. Vince seems, for once, to be content to just stay still and quiet as well.

However, the world has other ideas, and almost as soon as I lay my head down, there’s another knock on the open door, and a woman pops her scarf-wrapped head inside.

“Hellooooooooooooooooo,” She purrs demurely, through heavily lipstick covered lips, “Howard Moon? I saw your advertisement in the local paper, and I was intrigued. My husband is deceased, and I was wondering if you would be able to,” She pauses, inhaling a long drag of smoke from a cigarette protruding from the tip of a long black holder and exhales around her lips, letting the smoke waft around her round face, “Assist me.”

I stand up, letting go of Vince’s hand with a twinge. “What’s your name, Ma’am?” I ask, and she takes a seat in front of my desk, running a long-nailed finger down her full breast.

“Eleanor,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes at me. She purrs a long story out from defined lips, detailing some cliche story of inheritance, distant family members and conniving neighbours, slipping her widowed status into the narrative more times than is strictly necessary, and certainly with more pouting and lip licking than is even loosely necessary.

She finishes her story, and taps cigarette (maybe her third) ash onto my note-pad with a long, blood red nail. “So, Mr Moon… may I call you Howard? Howard, darling, would you be so kind as to investigate this lonely woman’s… mysteries?”

Before I can answer, there is a hand on my shoulder, and Vince says, “Sure we will, right Howard?”

I glance up at him, and he’s grinning. “Yeah,” I say to Eleanor, and to him, pulling a yellow file from the drawer under my desk, “I’ll just need to take some details.”