Chapter Thirty-Three

Dave looked at the pedestrians bustling to and fro, scandalously faster than the stream of cars of which he was part.

Something was inherently faulty with the mechanics of city life, when people on foot moved faster than people in hi-tech contraptions with hundreds of horse powers slumbering unused.

He hoped that someday this misunderstanding would be over and even during the hours of going to and returning from work, cars would again be faster than old ladies.

On a less abstract plane, he also hoped that the box of celebratory candy on the back seat would not melt before he reached the office.

The news on the radio was focused on the economy. Years ago Dave had gone through a brief period of straining to fathom the confounded processes that created and distributed wealth. He had followed articles on the matter and had even read half of a text book. He’d given up on the matter long since, but still he listened with half an ear.

As usual, he understood all the words that made it to his brain, but it was the same old salad of empty meanings. Perhaps even the voices on the radio did not fully understand what they were saying.

It went like this: “Blah blabitty blah substantial growth blah blah blah stronger push blabitty blah blah vitality blah boost consumption blah blah total consumption blabitty dynamics of consumption blah blah consumer index blabitty blabitty curbing excess blah success and growth blah blah economic rebound blah blah blah retail sales going upwards blabitty...”

It ended on an upbeat note. Then again, economic news tended to end on an upbeat note since he was teenager—without seemingly being influenced by, or at least mirroring, simple facts like him having more money, or less money, or no money, or it being easy for him to find a job where he was, or having to uproot himself and settle in far away Muhosransk.

The stream of cars inched forward another ten yards before bogging down; first reviving and then ruthlessly dashing to pieces the optimism that flowers tenderly during such short bursts of traffic movement.

The detective’s gaze brushed absently the foot soldiers of the city. The workers. The students. Serious men and women. Not so serious boys and girls.

All walking with a paraded sense of purpose.

Naturally.

In the city, in daytime, if you don’t walk with a sense of purpose, you begin to stand out. Unless you are an obvious tourist, standing out makes you either a criminal, or a crazy, or a junkie, or a loser, or a confused soon-to-be victim of a criminal, or a crazy, or a junkie. A future loser.

It was now late autumn and he believed the intensity of the erotic signals emitted by the citizens subsided significantly in this colder season. They retreating to boots, jackets, overcoats and the occasional leather skirt.

Leather pants.

Studded leather hats.

Chains hanging from belts and handbags.

Belts.

Oops.

Dave revised his opinion. It sounded like a nice logical observation and he already anticipated the jolly banter with Anton about it. Now that he thought it through, it just wasn’t right.

In the autumn the erotic signal are as present as ever, he thought now, only the amount of uncovered body shown is less, this is the only difference. The significance is transplanted from one’s own skin to some object covering it, but it is still there.

Oh well.

A honk from behind alerted him to another movement of the cars in front of him. Alert now, he too moved forward.

Twenty-three minutes later he was in his office, looking at Maldiva’s erotic signals. Completely automatic, he thought as he nodded at her and fumbled with the nylon wrapper of the candy box.

She is in a cocoon of erotic promises and hints, maintained out of mechanical fashion momentum.

How many times he had been disappointed as a teenager, that wretched feeling of having been cheated, each time it turned out that girls could dress and talk and gesticulate like whores, without actually being ones, even being honestly indignant at the very thought of them looking and talking and gesticulating like ones.

It was total discrepancy between the outer signals and the inner persona. However, that was then.

If Anton was right about porn influencing life in general, then the gap between the outer whore and the inner core was now almost completely closed.

“How lovely. What’s the occasion?” Maldiva asked when, after patiently waiting out the struggle between man and box to reach a decisive crisis, she was finally presented with the chocolate candy by a radiant Dave.

She took it with grace, even allowing her scarf—this otherwise silent accusation concerning her employer’s insane fascination with open windows-to slip a little.

“Another case solved. The world a better place.” Dave said with affable pathos, and Maldiva replied with an earnest smile, “which sex crime was it, Mister Cohran?”

He squinted manfully, “The case of the destroyed sex toys.”

He saw that his words precipitated a dwindling of enthusiasm in Maldiva’s eyes. Did she expect something more exciting?

Maldiva interpreted his lingering look as a desire for a pat on the back, “Congratulations, Mister Cohran.”

Since his only reply was a slight twitch of his mouth, she plucked a piece of candy with her thumb and forefinger, and bit off half with delicate feminine precision.

“Mmm, it’s very nice, Mister Cohran.”

“Glad you like it, glad you like it,” said Cohran, waking up from his short stupor, and turned to the coffee machine to fill up his mug.

As he turned again to go to his private office, he saw Maldiva looking at her computer monitor thoughtfully and slowly rubbing half a candy on her lower lips.

Dave rolled his eyes and slunk away.

What’s wrong with this woman? he asked himself as he switched on his computer, and why the emphasis on ‘sex crime’? Of course I solved a bloody sex-crime, I specialize in sex-crimes, and she knows it.

He imagined Maldiva telling her friends, and her husband, about where she worked. How did she manage to present it matter-of-factly? Or did she hide it? Or flaunt it?

Suddenly David laughed out loud. Well, what the hell do I expect, he admonished himself. The woman is working in a sex crime detective agency. She’s made her peace with that fact. Of course she will act like this. To her it’s only logical. Only appropriate. I should be grateful she is so detailed in her loyalty to the cause.

Dave typed in the password, had his palm read, and noted that there were no updates from the police. Which in itself was excellent, it meant that no crimes in his sphere were committed in the city yesterday.

Must have been the position of the stars or something.

Then Dave saw on his desktop the Season Girls folder and the ‘shit strangler’ folder and stopped flying in the clouds. It was time for some nitty gritty detecting. Time for some harsh realities.

He typed ‘shit suffocation’ into a search engine.

Scores of links to fiction blogs appeared in front of his eyes. Also a dozen links to major porn portals. Also links to file sharing and download sites. And, that was just page one.

At the bottom of the screen a blurred train of pop-ups flickered for a second, before being shut off by his firewall.

The detective clicked the first batch of sites open and took out his phone. He dialed Anton, knowing that in another half-hour he would simply forget to make his appointment with the albino.