The White Flamingo Read Free Page B

opened her handbag, took out her mobile telephone and sent a message. She turned off the telephone as the thin man turned around to face her.
    “Who are you calling?” he asked.
    “Nobody.”
    “I expect it’s your boyfriend or your pimp. Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”
    She forced a smile as he stood up from the chair. 
    Why couldn’t somebody give her a decent customer? One who dressed in smart clothes, spoke politely. Somebody normal. Somebody who had a job. Had a good job. Any job. Direction. Dreams. The answer was simple. Men like that didn’t need to go with women like her. They didn’t need to go to Fun City. They went with women who had gone to university, who had bettered themselves and had gone to work in offices high up in the nation’s capital sky. Tammy had only the street to work with. And the scum that used it were just that. This was work. Fucking work. She insisted, as all the girls did, that he showered first. To get rid of the smell, the dirt, the disease, the him, the person, the Sebastian. The act of showering made it acceptable to have an old, fat, skinny, diseased, retarded, wrinkled, violent, suicidal, paranoid, sensitive, artistic, autistic, deranged, remote, cynical, unholy, sadistic, crazed, socially awkward, mother-hating body inside yours. She had had all types. All shapes and sizes. She kept things remote and business like.
    The customer had to shower.
    The shower gave her time to check the room for weapons, video devices, bankbooks, cash, credit cards, photographs of competitors. Yes, the act of showering was always a prerequisite. It was just fucking work. “You shower first, okay, I wait you here,” she watched him pull off his shirt. He was the skinniest man she had seen. Like one of the beggars that sat on Beach Road. Countable ribs. Pronounced anatomy. Skeletal. His chest sunken. He dropped his pants and she looked away. Then she watched him walk into the bathroom. She listened to the sound of water splashing on his insect-like body. She opened her bag. The knife and the pepper spray were inside. Also, a pack of three condoms, some mouthwash, a pack of cigarettes and her mobile telephone. A bottle of pills. She opened the bottle and took two. She took out the pack of three. She placed one condom under the pillow of the bed the other two she hid in her bag. She checked his cupboards, drawers, bags. Her heart hammered inside her chest as she heard the bathroom door unlock.
    “There you are,” he said , his eyes widening.         
     
     
     
    FOUR
     
    FUN CITY EXPRESS
     
    December 6 th .
     
    Early this morning, a female casual migrant worker was found dead atop of a pool table on the upper road. The bar, known locally as Slim’s, has been closed to allow forensic investigations and detective investigations to be led by B.I.B Chief Kult. The woman known locally as Tammy, has been identified as twenty-four year old, Tammy YU, her address registered in New Town province. The woman with no fixed employment record is reported to have been hustling in the red light zone. Police have reported this as an isolated incident and have confirmed that they are following leads that point towards the arrest of the prime suspect, a foreign man living locally and known to frequent the local nightlife zones. Onlookers surrounding the scene this morning were too shocked to comment with any coherence.  
     
     
     
    FIVE
     
    TAYLOR looked older than his fifty-two years, and put this down to a cocktail of nervous exhaustion, a ten-year coke habit, and the five fiction manuscripts, half-started, half-hearted, half-hated, half-loved, and half-baked, slowly deteriorating in a drawer in the tropical heat that his fan cooled room did little to abate. Then there was the houseboat, another lifetime ago. A houseboat in a town in the Kentish countryside, the memories were cruel, kind, and comforting. He had a mane of curly brown hair, constantly matted with sweat, a pronounced roman