Free The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon

made up into a pout, a tempting indifferent moue. It was rare I frequented whores, loath to catch syphilis. This time was different, somehow, Jack paying the piper and calling the tune, conducting a farce that might banish Laura from my thoughts. Always she’d played prude with me, during my failed courtship, but I’d suspected her nonetheless: she’d protested too much. Since last October, a good year ago, nearly anything might’ve happened. Who was she with at that dance Jack had mentioned? Where was she right now? I shook my head and looked over to my paid sympathizer. She looked back and blew smoke into my face.
    Bob rose and revealed a talent besides painting and armed robbery, laying down jazz on the piano, singing out in a nice tenor: “I’ve got some good news honey, an invitation to the Darktown Ball. It’s a very swell affair, all the highbrows will be there. I’ll wear my high silk hat and my frock tailcoat, you wear your Paris gown and your new silk shawl. Ain’t no doubt about it babe, we’ll be the best dressed in the hall.”
    Wine went ’round. A pair of the girls got up and turned a two-step together. The one next to me emptied her glass in a swallow. I leaned over to fetch some more, charging her goblet and then my own, following her lead by pouring it down my neck. Jack took down a pornographic engraving from the wall and placed it on his whore’s lap, the better to sniff cocaine from. My blonde went and joined them. Bob switched the player to a printed roll and the instrument churned out ridiculous hurdy-gurdy blather. Bob danced with the pair of trollops on the rug. My girl came back licking her lips.
    â€œHow much do you charge for a kiss?” I asked.
    She eyed me, took a puff, and exhaled more smoke.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked.
    A pause while she thought about it.
    â€œCeleste,” she lied at last.
    â€œHeavenly,” I said.
    I lit a Consul. Jack handed over the picture frame and I took some of the drug. The divine Celeste regarded me dully. The print on my knees showed a scene from the Satyricon, or the Bible.
    In my mind molecules began to break apart like Champagne bubbles. What was his name, the fellow who’d split the atom? A Cambridge man, from New Zealand. He’d taught at McGill for some time. Rutherford. All we needed was a calliope and a dancing bear to complete this circus with the pig-faced woman from county Cork to round it out. Science baffled! Zoologists stumped! A wonder to behold!
    â€œHey,” I shouted at Jack over the growing din. “The Midget King of Montreal has a son and heir. He’s showing himself and the bairn at His Majesty’s palace on Rachel, a nickel a gander. A toast!”
    I raised my glass. Jack guffawed.
    â€œI’ve seen him,” said Jack’s blonde.
    â€œThat so?”
    The devil was on horseback in my bloodstream now. I drank more wine.
    â€œThe most darling little man,” said Jack’s blonde. “He’s a count or a baron, I think. And his wife’s from Europe.”
    â€œThe Midget Queen?” asked Jack.
    â€œI believe so.”
    Here Celeste turned and gave me a strangely sweet smile, one nearly genuine.
    â€œHave you ever seen a ghost?” I asked her.
    â€œA ghost?”
    â€œYeah. Been busy tonight?”
    â€œI’ll say,” she said. “We had that fat baseballer in here.”
    â€œWho, Babe Ruth?”
    â€œYeah, him. They almost had to call the cops on him he was so drunk. What a pig.”
    â€œYou ever been to Coney Island?”
    â€œWhere’s that?” she asked.
    â€œForget it. Where’re you from?”
    â€œNot here, that’s for sure.”
    â€œWhat was your name again?”
    She sought it for a second, twirling her costume pearls.
    â€œI told you. Celeste.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWhat’s yours?” she asked, brightening.
    â€œMichael,” I