Howard Moon, Colon, Investigator

Posted on by
Howard Moon is a down and out private eye. Leroy has gone missing and Vince gets him on the job. Together they get absorbed in the seedy shamanistic underbelly of Camden. AU.

Category:

Characters: ,

Pairing:

Genre: ,

Rating:

Warning:

Status:

Length: words

Chapter One

Contents

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.”