Free The White Flamingo by James A. Newman Page B

kitchen draining unit and opened a cupboard. Inside , was a plastic lunch box. He opened it and picked up the slice of Tammy’s liver. He rubbed the two organs together. He smiled. Not yet. He needed more, before the ritual began. For the spell to work, the women had to have fallen, like harlots, and they had to have been one of the wenches that gave him the awful disease. Just a few more, to make sure. He had much more hunting to do. It had only really just started. It was easy. It was all too easy. Like shooting fish in a barrel.
    The organs were to be mixed together. A candle was to be fashioned using a wash of wax and letting the mixture dry. And then? Well, yes, then what? He walked to the bookcase again and opened the black book. The killer read the words to the spell once more. He opened the map. Seventh Road.    
     
     
     
     
    EIGHTEEN
     
    THE BODY had been removed from the crime scene. The blood on the sand was all that was left of it. If it were the second event in a string, then it wasn’t committed by the Pin-up’s son. The Detective spoke in the local dialect to a crowd of rubbernecks on Beach Road. They told him the victim was a transsexual known to patrol Beach Road. She was known to her friends as Lucky.
    “Fancy the chances of that. Lucky?”
    “I guess it ran out,” Joe kicked at a mound of sand. “Investigating a murder is like playing a game of chess. You have to know where all the pieces are. I know about Sebastian. I know about you. I don’t know about old Vern, Jim, the other members of the pool team. Both teams.”
    “Vern drinks on the beach during the day. It’s a sad fecking existence.”
    “Lead the way.”
     
     
     
    NINE TEEN
     
    OLD VERN was leaning up against the wall on a spot of shade near the pier. He was wearing a soiled and torn Hawaiian shirt and a pair of old combat shorts. He was shoeless. Hopeless. He was drinking from a tall red can that the detective remembered was six point five and went under the brand name:
    Cheers Extra.
    “Vern, how’s it going?”
    Vern’s expectant mug looked at them like the hybrid bastard child of anxiety and relief. The Detective guessed it wasn’t the visitors that Vern relished. It was the gifts that they might bring. Drinkers rarely remembered faces and names. They remembered peculiar gestures, nuances of conversations, cigarette brands, favourite sporting teams, hometowns, tattoos, humorous comments, and sensitive subjects. Vern drained his can and put the empty on the sand. 
    The Detective handed Hale a purple bill. “Hale, this man is thirsty, buy him a six pack.”
    Hale shrugged and headed toward a seven-eleven. Vern smiled painfully. He was over sixty years of age, give or take a few rivers of Tiger Sweat and draughts of self-hatred and delirium. His face was heavily lined. His cheeks a network of veins that reminded The Detective of the London tube map. Vern’s train was underground. Wrecked. He was like a battered suitcase abandoned at a lost property office in an old train station, never to be claimed. No hope of return. But there always was a chance. A slim one.
    Maybe.
    The Detective crouched. “Nasty business this morning.”
    “Every morning’s nasty, until I get the fourth one down,” Vern said slowly. “Then things get a bit clearer. The hallucinations, shit. Ants, spiders…I can tell by looking at you that you know what I’m talking about. You used to be a drinker, right? Seen a few insects in your time. I can tell an ex-beggar when I see one. Can see it in your fucking eyes, mate. I used to be a detective, see? Liverpool Street station. Seen a few boats in my time, mate.”
    “I got on the program. Killed the can.”
    “It was the vampires in the end. One huge bastard. Francis was his name. Beware the vampires.”
    “Sure, baby.”
    Hale came over with the cans of beer and handed one to Vern who opened it with trembling fingers and took a good, long, hard bite.
    “This morning, Vern.