The White Flamingo by James A. Newman Read Free Book Online Page A

remembered the steps, to recognize the problem, to come to believe in a power greater than himself, and to hand over his self-will to that power. Hotel rooms were like prison cells when one had a habit. Fish spas better. They were a sanctuary and a sentence, hotel rooms. The cruel joke was that one needed to indulge in whatever poison that kept one in the prison to have the strength to venture outside. Some needed alcohol, some coffee, and some needed to smoke six cigarettes before venturing out into the day.
    Some needed fish, nibbling.
    The fish, hundreds, of them fed on his feet and legs. The spa, no picture of Christ, no memory, distant, troublesome memory hovering above.
    Only fish.       
    The pill bottle was the best clue he had. At least the killer had a motive. Whoever was taking those pills was taking them for a reason and the reason wasn’t pretty. The drug was used in the early stages of the HIV virus. Tammy had been HIV positive, and had not been too vocal about it. The Detective figured that there were a few punters on the streets of Fun City who were in for an unhappy surprise sometime in the near or distant future. Most of the regulars that walked the Fun City streets were simply too scared to have themselves tested, and therefore let the virus grow until it mutated into the very thing that terrified them most.
    On the wall a widescreen television hung above the tanks. Four cops led a tall very thin man away from the front entrance of an apartment block. Joe could make out the reporter’s language. She spoke clearly.
    Name: Sebastian Bell.
    Age: Twenty-three.
    He had been seen with the deceased, Tammy, the night of her death, and was found to have disturbing pictures on his computer hard drive. The court had ordered a warrant to search his apartment. The news report showed some screenshots from the kid’s computer screen (murder victim’s photographs and images of road accident victims ) some pictures from the crime scene. Tammy’s mutilated body spread across the pool table in Slim’s bar. A knife had been found in the apartment. The camera shot, a close up. Like a fifty-piece jigsaw puzzle, it was easy and convincing. However, there seemed to a piece that was missing, motive. Perhaps the kid was mentally ill, or perhaps he had caught the virus. The locals would buy the story until the next victim or until the kid bought his way out of the can. For now though, the story was neat and impressive, like imaginary wars, and Indian hustlers that told your fortune for a dollar on the street.
    The mobile snapped him out of it.
    “Hello?”
    “Joe this is Hale.”
    “Where are you?”
    “In a bar.”
    “That’s obvious, Hale. Which one?”
    “It’s called The Corridor and does exactly what it says on the tin.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Limits your view on the world. Seventh Road.”
    “So you’re calling me to tell me you’ve found nothing?”
    “On the contrary, Sherlock. I found one of Tammy’s old, erm, lovers?”
    “Lovers?”
    “Well, customer, sponsor, spouse, spare part, loser, whatever you want to call it. You know the drill. His side of the coin was love and her side of the coin was the coin.”
    “I’ll be there in ten.”
    Frog-scratcher toweled his feet dry.
     
     
     
    ELEVEN
     
    LATE AFTERNOON .
    The Corridor Bar.
    The old customer was a bald-headed west country Brit named Bryan. Surprised that Hale had managed to track down one of Tammy’s customers, Joe sat on the bar stall next to them and ordered a soda water. He had heard these stories a million times before. Nowadays, it was an example of what happened when greed, vice, and money took over a beach and pushed a country’s traditions and tolerance to the limits.
    “ This is bad.. The girls are just trying to make a dollar.. The cops here can be absolute cunts.. And ever since the Russians have moved into Pattaya.. They have been treating the girls worse and worse.. Its like, we have the Russians now.. We dont need