The Lover's Children novel Chapter 83

KLEMPNER

Renberger lights a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one, taps out the stub in the saucer, inhales. “D’you get much out of Schauder?”

“Sweet fuck all.”

He nods and huffs. “He’s not good for much these days. Slow-cooked his own brain years ago with whatever he could snort, smoke, or shoot himself up with. His son runs the show now. Just keeps the old man on show for the look of the thing, I think.” He sniffs. “Don’t waste your time with Schauder anymore. He won’t help you because he can’t.”

“And you will?”

Ash glows red as he draws long, staring into space. “I'd be happy to help if I could. This maniac running loose is bad for business. The women are letting their imaginations run wild. Don't want to go out and work. Had to slap a couple of them around a bit before they behaved themselves. The others got the message after that, but it puts off the punters when the women look nervous.”

“Can I talk to your women?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I’ll take you up to the dorm.”

*****

The ‘dorm’ isn’t too bad, on the scale of things. I’ve slept in worse myself. Renberger and I enter a kind of lounge area, laid out with threadbare settees and a table. Beyond that, a dozen or so narrow beds line either side of the room, two of them occupied by a blanketed figure. A locker stands beside each bed. Clothes-rails lined along the centre of the room, apparently communal, are hung with outfits in Lycra, leather and black vinyl.

A couple of doors, one standing ajar, lead off the side. At the end of the dorm a bulky steel door is padlocked, a window slot at eye level drawn closed.

A group of half a dozen blank-eyed women of mixed appearance and ethnicities lounge, slouch or slump on the couches. As we enter, all stiffen up, eyeing Renberger. One, perhaps eighteen, is bruised across the cheek. Another has a black eye. It’s not obvious, since she’s heavily made-up, but no amount of cosmetics can hide the swelling.

Renberger claps hands together, voice and face jovial, like some inner-city Santa Claus. “Now then, ladies. I’ve a guest for you. You’ve been telling me you’re worried about what’s going on out on the streets. I’ve brought in Larry here to investigate it for us and see what we can do about keeping you happy. He wants to ask you some questions first, so he’s clear on the facts. You help him all you can, then he’ll be in a position to help you.” He casts around the group. “Where’s Janina? She’s supposed to be here.”

A woman of East European appearance enters from the door standing ajar, carrying a steaming mug. “Aš čia, pone.”

Renberger’s joviality withers. “In English,” he snaps. “You know the rules by now.”

She cringes. “Sorry...” Her voice is heavily accented. “…Now me here.” Circling wide around Renberger, she takes a seat by the table. Another of the women, of similar appearance, moves to sit by her, babbling away quietly, briefly pointing toward me. Janina brightens, offering me a tentative smile.

Renberger gives a small nod. “I’ll leave you to it then. Larry, I’ll be back in my office when you’re done.” He saunters out, leaving me with the group of warily waiting women.

Diplomacy’s not my strong point…

Are they here voluntarily?

Maybe…

Maybe not…

Renberger did business with me over several years, albeit via Bech. Just because I’m not supplying anymore doesn’t mean he’s not found another source of cheap labour.

Still, I don’t see any faces I recognise. “How many of you speak English?”

“Most of us,” says a crease-faced brunette. “We just don’t have much urge to talk to Renberger.” She might be thirty. It’s hard to tell. She’s got that used-up look that whores often get after too many years in the trade.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

She shrugs. “Shawna. What is it you wanted to know?”

I pull a seat from under the table, swing it around and sit, straddled across it, elbows resting across the back. “I’m helping in the hunt for the killer they’re calling ‘The Surgeon’. As I’m sure you know, he’s targeting sex workers. I want to hear anything you can tell me about any man you’ve encountered in the last year who rang alarm bells with you…”

Then, remembering some of Mitch’s tales of life as a pro… She has a pretty large grab-bag of you-want-me-to-what? stories. “I’m not asking about johns with weird requests. We all know that if someone can dream it up, there’s someone else out there who gets off on it…” Several of the women giggle and nod… “… I’m talking about any man who gave you that gut feeling there was something wrong. The kind where you knew in your gut that you wanted to get away from him…”

“… He could have been a client. He could have been cruising or kerb-crawling. Perhaps you saw some guy just hanging around where he shouldn’t have been. Or perhaps he was there for too long, watching. Is there anything any of you can…?”

It’s an outburst of noise, a cacophony, as all the women start speaking at once, each with a story of some crank, flake, freak or sicko.

“There man on street two nights ago. He say me he like play with knife…”

“He tell me make him cum in spoon then feed it to him…”

“Last week I had one. Said he wanted a fifteen-year-old. I said I’d be fifteen for him if he wanted. He didn’t like that. Took a swing at me…”

“He want me to call him Momma all the time we fuck…”

“He wanted me to crush bugs while he got himself off. Brought a box of cockroaches and a set of stiletto heels for me…”