So Strange and Wild Ch. 01: The Magician

Author's note: This is the second story in the series, though each could stand alone. Check my profile for my first: "The Fool."

Tuesday, July 4, 2023

"--a detective," I said through the door in the fence. "Lucia Visconti sent me? The lawyer? She said she'd call ahead, let you know I was coming."

The girl's voice was hesitant: "Yeah, she called. Do you have, like, a badge or ID or something?"

I leaned in closer to the flaking paint. "I can show you my driver's license."

"Just give me a sec, OK? It's early."

I glanced skeptically at my watch, for no one's benefit. It was coming on noon, though you wouldn't know it back here in the shade, by the dumpsters. The property was split-level, so the basement apartments looked out on an overgrown parking lot that was thoroughly starved of light. Pale moss thrived on the asphalt. An ancient, two-tone Mercury sedan cooked in the heat.

"No rush," I said. "Thirty minutes, tops, and I'm out of your life."

No response from inside. I stepped back to monitor the rear window, though I knew it was masked with heavy, mismatched curtains. A row of empty wine bottles stood on the sill, their labels steamed off. And someone had threaded dried flower stems in the necks of each. The display was surprisingly tasteful.

I wasn't worried the girl would bolt. I'd been here yesterday, way earlier than this, to scout the possible exits. There were just two apartments, left and right off a damp hallway. The stairs at the end of the passage might lead up and out, but the door at the top was locked. Landlord's idea, if I had to guess: keep the tenants in their appointed places--commercial above, residential below. At the near end of the hallway was a little-used entrance, huddled beneath a ragged awning. If the girl came that way, she'd walk right past me. That left the flimsy door in the fence they'd thrown up to frame her tiny "yard," beside which I was patiently standing. No, she wasn't going anywhere, not without me knowing.

Besides, she'd had more than a year to run--to flee this place--and she hadn't.

I heard a glass pane slide back and squeak to a halt. The pad of bare feet on concrete. Then the latch clacked and the wooden door swung outward. Before me stood Ayame Jones, 24 years old, 5'2" and 110 pounds, though some of that was bathrobe: the girl was drowning in the folds of one, plush and fawn and man-sized. The only thing it didn't cover was her toes, the nails of which were painted white.

She looked stunned to find me there, on her doorstep. Or perhaps that was just her face: she had a prim, plum mouth that conveyed perpetual surprise, only a little wider than it was tall; and the soulful black stare of a deer trapped in headlights, right as you jam on the brakes. Her eyes featured delicate folds at the inner corners--a gift from her mother, who was Japanese. From her father, some unknown white guy, she'd inherited a put-upon scowl.

"ID," she grunted.

"To check what? You don't even know my name."

"Lawyer said you were Rocky. Or Ricky?"

"Close enough," I said, digging out my license and handing it over.

"'Rocchi,'" she read aloud, correcting herself, though the pronunciation didn't change much. Her voice was high-pitched, vaguely nasal. "Says here you're younger than you look. I guess you got old in a hurry?"

Something like that, I thought. But I noticed how quickly she'd turned my date of birth into an actual age. She was used to checking IDs.

Out loud, I said, "Wears you down, detective work. You meet a lot of rude people."

She flashed a suspicous glare at that, to which I returned languid, innocent blinks.

"Maybe people just hate talking to cops," she said bitterly.

"Good thing I'm not one. Can we go inside?"

"Classic cop line. Precisely what a cop would say." Her speech had the stilted affect of someone who spent too much time online.

"I'm a private detective, Ayame."

Pistol-quick: "Oh, like a pretend cop? From motion pictures?"

I ignored her, pressed on. "Am I saying that right: 'Ayame?' Wouldn't want to mess up a person's name."

She wiggled her mouth in response. The tic read as irritation, but maybe she was covering a smirk; I'd have to see it again to be sure. Meanwhile, she was tilting my driver's license back and forth in the light, shaking her head in dismay.

"This isn't a good picture of you," she declared. Which was, by the most circuitous route possible, a kind of compliment: she was admitting I looked better in the flesh.

"Well, you can hand it back any time."

She did so with seeming reluctance, probably sensing this would rob her of power. "You're kind of sassy for a fake cop," she said, gathering her robe tighter around her. Intentionally or not, the move lent more shape to her figure; I could make out the extent of her shoulders, her hips. "No badge, no gun ... no warrant ..."

"Who says I don't have a gun?"

That bought me an eyeroll, but she also looked me over with growing interest. I was conscious of the gray in my hair and the gray in my beard; the last couple years had leached all my color. The cheeriest thing about me was a bright red shirt, unbuttoned over a white tee. Sleeves rolled, jeans rolled. Boots too heavy for this Southern summer. I'd dressed younger for this rundown college neighborhood, trying to seem innocuous. But I could tell from her gaze that I'd landed somewhere close to "intriguing."

"You said thirty minutes?" Ayame asked. "And I'm not in any trouble?"

"Not with me." Not yet, anyway. It would hinge on what she chose to tell me.

"OK," she nodded grudgingly. "You can come in, but take your shoes off." And she sashayed back inside, leaving me to close the door behind us. Her robe made her look like a proud moll in mink--the budget version.

Past the fence, the yard was just a cracked concrete slab. Scuffed plastic card table, cheap folding chairs. On the table was a cereal bowl, its milk pink with sugar; I took it she was done with breakfast. I tugged off my boots and stepped inside.

Through a sliding glass door was a dim living space, kitchen, and greenhouse: there were potted plants everywhere, well-tended and richly in bloom. Dahlias, geraniums, roses-of-sharon. It was much cooler in here, which explained the bathrobe, and it smelled like muddled perfume cut with bleach; Ayame kept things clean and neat, except for the bountiful flowers.

She shut the door and locked it. I caught a momentary hitch as she realized she was trapping herself inside with a stranger. To put her at ease, I flopped into a corner beanbag chair and fished my phone from my pocket.

"Mind if I record this?"

"I extremely fucking mind. Like that shit wasn't traumatic the first time."

"The real cops, you mean?"

She nodded. "Felt like they were camped out in the parking lot. Months of them dropping by without warning, trying to catch me out with stupid shit." She offered a mocking impression: "'You said you last saw him on the Friday, miss? Yet you didn't call for two days?'" She waved one hand angrily, clearing the room of her phantom police. "They kept carting out more of his stuff--clothes, photographs--and never brought anything back."

"That would be ... Jackson's stuff?" Her boyfriend, missing two years.

Another nod. Ayame opted to perch on a lone stool by the kitchen counter; amid all the flowers, it was the only other seating available. Her robe hiked up to reveal shapely, light brown calves. The fleeting shadow of a thigh.

"That lawyer, Visconti? She said you wouldn't grill me."

"That's right," I said. "Simple questions, easy answers."

"She also said this was about ... another case. That I shouldn't get my hopes up." The girl said it calmly enough, but her eyes were glued to her wriggling toes. I felt some measure of sympathy for her, then; she had thought this all over and done with. Or the interrogation part, at least.

"Your boyfriend, Jackson--"

"Jax," she said softly. "He hated 'Jackson.'"

I nodded, noting the past tense. "Jax disappeared the same week that ... another person ... was found dead in their home." I saw Ayame's thick eyebrows knitting in confusion, so I skipped ahead. "... which would be nothing, meaningless, except both persons had been seen, recently, at the same private club downtown."

"Club Fourteen," the girl whispered. She'd stilled her face quickly, but the effort had cost her, and the words crept out like a sigh.

I was guarding my own expression, too. "That's the one."

"So you think ... what? That Jax killed this other person? That's fucking stu--"

"I, we, don't think that," I said, cutting her short. "We're just pulling a thread."

"Well, it sounds weak as shit," snapped Ayame. Yet she seemed off-balance, and only one thing helped explain that: my mention of the club.

"Iris Braithwaite," I said tenderly, doing my best to keep my face plain. "Heard the name?"

The girl shook her head, freeing the dark French bob she'd tucked behind her ears. It was an easy, fetching motion, and I felt confident she was telling the truth.

But I had to push: "You're sure? Jax never mentioned her? Just Iris? Or something like that--a nickname, anything?"

Catching a rising note of frustration in my voice, I eased off. All I was getting back were more pretty head shakes. Honest--probably. But useless. I stirred uncomfortably in the beanbag chair, and Ayame must have sensed my mood, because she hopped off her stool and clapped her hands in the air, trying to dispel the tension.

"Guess we're about done," she said. Then, with a sudden sincerity: "I'm sorry about your friend. She was your friend, right? Iris?"

"You ever hear from Jax?" I asked, not moving. "Phone call, a text, something?"

Her shutters came down, hard. "Of course not."

"I had to ask."

"No," she said sharply, "you didn't. Guess you've got a little pig in you, after all."

Just then, there came a thump overhead and a faint metallic rattle--like pins being scattered on a metal tray.

I glanced up at the popcorn ceiling. "What was that?"

She shrugged. "Insurance place, I think. I don't ask. They don't visit."

I stood slowly, my gaze upturned. "An insurance broker? Working a holiday?"

This line of questioning annoyed her almost as much as the last: "I don't fucking know. I hear footsteps mostly, voices. No one bothers me."

"Except me."

"Except you," she confirmed, sounding sad, nearly.

"Listen, can I get a drink of something? Water? I got thirsty waiting outside."

She showed me another wiggle of her mouth. "How about a beer? It's nearly lunchtime." Definitely a concealed smirk.

"Beer works, if you're having one."

She headed to the cramped little kitchen, and I took the chance to stand and inspect the rest of the room.

She'd done the best she could with the dingy living area, drawing attention away from the low ceiling and pawed-over carpet. She'd strung LED fairy lights through the fronds of her plants and set antique mirrors in odd places, so you were never quite sure where you'd spy your reflection. There was a woven rattan wardrobe she'd likely rescued from someone's front yard. And charcoal sketches were pinned up everywhere, masking the yellowing walls. I had to admit they were good. Faithful.

A clink and a hiss from the kitchen. Top coming off a beer bottle. I stopped in the middle of the room, by the only thing Ayame hadn't made tidy: a brass-bound coffee table on wheels. Its top was laden with tealights, a wooden incense holder in the shape of a pentacle, a splayed Swiss Army knife--and a cordless wand vibrator.

A honeyed, floral scent filled my nose as Ayame reached past me to set down a sake cup of beer, right next to the sex toy.

"Ever used one of those, detective?"

I spun around, hoping my grin looked suitably guilty. She was watching me with her head cocked and a second cup in one hand. Her robe had fallen open on the way back from the fridge, revealing a Pearl Jam tour shirt that was older than she was, tangerine bike shorts, and acres of dusky thigh. She caught me looking and smiled. Didn't bother to cover up.

I picked up my cup of beer. "What did you say you do for a living, Ms. Jones?"

"I didn't, Mr. Rocchi. I'm a licensed massage therapist."

She took the moment to kneel beside the coffee table, settling her cup in her upturned palms. The new pose showed off more of her legs, and her left ankle flexed invitingly as she made herself comfortable. She was staring at me from under hooded eyelids and heavy lashes, no longer deerlike.

"You work out of ... here?" I asked. "Your home?"

"One table rolls away," she explained, "and the other folds up." Swiveling, she pointed to a brown leather contraption peeking out from the plants. "Next question."

I sat down again--on the floor this time, facing her. "Was Jax cool with your chosen profession?"

She took an innocent sip of her beer. "How did you think we first met?"

I matched her with a sip of my own. "A college dropout and the son of a state senator? I'm guessing it wasn't over margs at the country club."

She shook her head gently, the loose strands of her bob swishing at her cheekbones. The motion was both an answer and a rebuke: "You think you know everything, huh, detective?"

"Only what Visconti pried out of the cops."

She clucked her tongue. "And all I have is your name and fucking birthday."

"Dont worry, I'll be out of your way soon," I said, leaning forward. "Visconti said Jax's disappearance made the news. Last year is ... hazy to me, but I know the reporting can't have been easy."

Ayame pursed her lips tight. "Yet here you are, dragging it back up by the neck."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Are you?" She took another careful sip. "But yeah, you nailed it: shit sucked. I was never a suspect, not really. Not until they ran out of leads, got bored, got angry. But the TV--and fucking Twitter? It wasn't pretty. I'm thankful my mom's English is ... what it is."

"Still, you stuck around. Same city, same apartment." I didn't add: the same bed you shared with him, till you suddenly didn't.

"Where else the fuck would I go, Mr. Rocchi? Type my name into Google in any state, you'll get the same results. And employers look at that shit, trust me." She finished her beer and placed it on the table with a click. "Anyway, the clients I have are here."

"And business is good?"

"Very," she said, her eyes darting to my throat, my shoulders. "Would you like to find out?"

I smiled pleasantly, evading the challenge. "Last question: Fourteen, the club--you ever go there?"

Ayame reached for the lapel of her robe, preening it. Thinking quickly. "That was Jax's thing."

"Not what I asked."

She didn't reply. Just kept fidgeting with the cotton, as if it were itching her. She eased the robe off her shoulder and down, exposing more pleasantly thick brown flesh: the top of her arm, first, then her sculpted wrist and fingers. The bathrobe fell half on the floor, and still she wouldn't meet my gaze.

"Ayame, I don't believe you did anything wrong," I said firmly. "But I think you might know something that could help me. About what went on at Fourteen. Why Jax up and vanished."

She looked at me, finally. Held up a solitary finger. "I went one time," she said. "Once. Like I told you, that was his scene, not mine."

"He took you, I'm guessing? Why? What was the play?"

Warning lights flashed in her eyes. In the gloom, I couldn't tell iris from pupil.

"Sounds like you already know lots about Club Fourteen."

"Not the details. Not from you."

She slid the robe free of her other arm, shrugged it onto the floor. "You sure you don't want a massage? I promise I'm excellent."

Her body was exquisite, lean and supple, with powerful shoulders and thighs. She pulled back the fingertips of one hand with the other, stretching out the tendons in her wrist, and I saw the down of her arm catching in the light.

I took another swig of my beer. "Ayame, you're trying to distract me."

"Not you," she muttered. "Myself." Then she gave me a hard, inquisitive look. "You're right-handed, detective, but you keep using your left. Why? Something hurts?"

I gifted her a smile. "Tennis elbow."

"You don't look like someone who plays tennis."

"Golf elbow, then."

"You definitely don't play fucking golf."

"Then let's say that I strained it," I said, holding her gaze, "doing something silly."

"Now that I believe. Stand up. We're doing this."

"Doing ... what?" I asked, as I set aside my cup and stood.

"Taking care of your elbow," Ayame replied, already wheeling away the coffee table. She did it with practiced care, keeping the tealights from skidding onto the carpet. Then she went to drag out the folded massage table. Brown vinyl, light wood. It took her a minute to flip it open, set it upright, and lock the legs in place--during which I admired how her bike shorts clung to her butt, hiding very little.

"How much do you charge?" I asked.

"Varies," she said blithely. "Basic massage starts at $80 per hour. Number goes up for more, uh, demanding clients."

"I'm in trouble, then."

She gave me a meaningful look. "Yes, you are. Now give me your arm."

I offered it to her, and she took it with graceful fingers--probing the elbow joint, my funny bone, the tendons. "That hurt?"

"No."

Her warm, tan fingers searched deeper, urging my arm to straighten. A dull, familiar ache took over. "How about now?"

"A little," I said, breathing in her scent. Beneath her rosy perfume lurked something earthier--and arousing.

She released my elbow. "Like you said, it's probably lateral epicondylitis."

"Is that what I said?"

"Before I was a college dropout, Mr. Rocchi, I was training to be a physiotherapist. Or is that not in my file?"

"Maybe they didn't think it was pertinent."

She was watching my eyes, so I let them roam all over her face. Brows, earlobes, lips. She flourished under my gaze, tilting her head till she was looking at me sidelong.

"You should buy a brace," she said. "They're like eight bucks on Amazon. And do some light stretches. I can show you."

"I'd like that."

"Don't get cute with me, detective," she said, wiggling her mouth. "You want a massage or not? I'll give you a pretend discount."

I weighed her offer, its meaning. The risks.

"OK. How do we start?"

"Take everything off, then get on the table. You can keep your underwear on, if you like. Or change into a towel in the bathroom. But I promise I've seen all shapes"--another mouth wiggle --"and sizes."

While she went to the wardrobe to fetch her tools, I unbuckled my jeans and stepped out of them, newly conscious of the chill in the room. I pulled off the rest of my clothes and tossed them on the beanbag chair. Trunks, too: I wasn't about to back down from her challenge. When I turned around, naked, Ayame was clipping a kind of holster to her waist, loaded with bottles of oil.

"Is this weird?" I asked.

"Not for me," she said, without looking up. "Climb up. I want you face down, to start."

"If it's all the same to you, Ayame," crossing the room, "I'd rather lay on my back."

She glanced over. Paused to consider my nude chest and stomach, my muscled legs. Her gaze skirted around my soft, swaying cock.

"Detective," she said teasingly, "you don't trust me?"

A shrug. "I've been hurt before."

Her nod was sympathetic. "Fine. I promise to keep my hands where you can see them."

I clambered onto the table, wincing as the cold vinyl clung to my skin. Ayame held up a towel to shield herself from my nakedness, her head turned in a semblance of respect. If she snuck a look, I didn't catch her, and she folded the cotton across my crotch with the utmost professionalism.

"I'm going to start with your head."