Read The White Flamingo for Free Online Page B

down on it. He thought about a shot, but then decided to wait for her to leave before revealing this other, perhaps darker, side of his character.
    “Don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to end up like her?”
    “Like who?”
    “The girl on the pool table.”
    “Tammy?”
    “How did you know?”
    “I just know.”
    “You worked together.”
    “Sometimes.” She looked at her face in the mirror, watching The Detective in the reflection behind her own. “Maybe you are him.”
    “Maybe,” Dylan smiled eager for the shot, now wanting her to leave, willing her. “Maybe not.”
    “She worked the bar same as me. We lived together. Sometimes we worked together, I’m scared, mister, real scared.”
    “Well, whoever killed her will be found. I think they have him already. Don’t be scared. You are safe, for now.”
    “I don’t believe you. I think you are bullshitting me. I think you lie. Maybe you are the killer.” Kelly stood up and dressed quickly.
    “Maybe,” he repeated.
    He began to think of the hit of junk warm and calming; yet to watch her body being clothed was the saddest thing he had ever seen. She didn’t ask the Detective for money. She didn’t say goodbye. She put on her clothes and left the room quickly and before she disappeared, Kelly silently turned and stared at the Detective like a tiger staring at a caged bird.
    The Detective sat on the bed and thought about changing hotel rooms, knowing that she would probably be back, playing the long game. Bargirls were like cats ; grey at night, and in the morning their true colors became known. If she wanted to play the long game, then he would let her play it, on his terms; she would have to find him.
    He found his stash and cooked. He remembers the Old Sailor in Naked Lunch.
    With veins like that kid I’d have myself a time.
    He did.
    Hit one on the wrist and lay back on the bed. Warmth rushed up the back of his thighs and then his spine radiated his entire body with warm relief. A rose garden at dawn, wild strawberries and a girl with freckles, her parents did something vaguely artistic and were on the elementary school committee. Years later, the sun setting over a carp filled lake. He heard the sad piano music that played in an empty house, a sudden memory of being alone in a dark room with a framed picture of a man with a beard, which terrified him as a child. He lay in bed at night. That beard, those eyes.
    Later, he found out it was a picture of Christ.
    When he awoke from the nod, he felt a sudden fear. A new fear.
    Nobody was safe in the town.
    Kelly.
    He threw on some clothes and opened the door. He locked it behind him and jogged through the alleyway that led to the main street. He moved through suit pimps and shoeshine kids, a man with a python wrapped around his neck, past blind lottery ticket sellers and a crazed old transsexual naked from the waist begging outside an opticians shop. A woman dressed in rags sat crying in the street, or perhaps she was singing; either way it elicited coins from passing tourists. One tourist sat down and spoke with her, brokering a deal. His stomach turned as he walked through the Fun City streets. Everything could be had here for a price, but the ultimate cost was enormous.
    He saw her walking along the road, that beautiful behind swaying. Kelly, in the bright morning light, looked like what she was – a prostitute, a whore and a stripper trying to hustle during the day. He followed her. He kept a distance of twelve yards. She took a left on Beach Road and then a left onto the Eighth Street. She walked up to a doorway and took a key from her handbag. She opened the door. The Detective walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “Look , I can see that you’re scared. Can I come in?” Before she could answer, the Detective had pushed his way into the hallway. She looked at him directly and said:
    “You ’re crazy.”
    A statement not a question.
    He followed her in