Callisto was a bear, her father a wolf, and her son a hunter. What kind of dreadful world can lead to such a travesty of events? The same kind of world that breeds a father that would murder his own son to lay his flesh upon the table to test a stranger’s knowledge. The same kind of world that would see a woman cast out by her religious order for having the misfortune to be raped. The kind of world that has gods who think turning you into a bear is fair, and who think doing the same to your son is avoiding a tragedy.
Uncertain and pained about her future, she said this to me over coffee, no sugar. The shop we were in was loud with all of the sounds of the modern world; cell phones twittered, doors chimed, laptops chattered. I thought about all of the time that stretched between Callisto’s epoch and now, and how none of that had made the world less random or cruel, only more exact in its explanations. This caused me to remember Callisto’s tale as an explanation of the circumpolar nature of two constellations. I reminded my companion that, after transforming them into bears, the gods had hung Callisto and her son in the stars.
That would complete their cruel fate, she said, to be hung forever in the firmament, as something they never were.
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The walk home took me past featureless block buildings, warehouses that lined up in formation, once waiting by the river for some cargo to be unloaded. Now they waited for something like the Factory to come in and inhabit them again, to give them new life. Eventually I came to a space where the buildings had been demolished before they had reached their turn in that unemployment line. It left a huge flat space populated only with tarmac and the tall poles of parking lot lights. In the center rose the beginnings of a stadium, men already arriving at work to complete a modern Coliseum. I wondered for a time what it would be like to have a simple occupation like that for a living. I couldn’t really get my head around it.
It was too far to walk home but the trams were running again. After staring at the construction workers I felt more like the company of strangers than the close, enclosed silence of a taxi so I found a stop and hopped on the tram. I shouldn’t have bothered thinking about unknowns – it was still early enough that not most commuters were still at home with their breakfasts. I sat in the quiet emptiness of the tram, watching its rounded, polished plastic nose cut through town, moving from the abandoned warehouses to the medieval architecture of Old Town, like a spaceship traveling through time. I changed stations once to head north to Triaite, taking me forward in time again, away from the cobblestone streets and terracotta roofs to hard, flat pavement and high-rise tenements.
The elevator in the lobby remained unlit, the sandwich board still in front of it. I headed up the stairs. The walls were thin and the fellow tenants mostly quiet, but there was still the occasional family scuffle or love-making couple that produced enough muffled noise to fill the halls with something other than regret and poor choices. At this hour, though, the only sound was children up in the early morning playing and horsing around while their parents tried to get them ready for school. It was mostly happy sounds, because the children hadn’t known anything better than living here, I figured.
Letting myself into the apartment I was surprised to hear voices. I paused with the front door barely cracked, listening. Sophie spoke, clear and bright, without anything in her tone to indicate there might be trouble. To my surprise several voices followed hers, one sounding almost giddy another low and husky. They all were women.
I walked in, making enough noise that I wouldn’t take anyone by surprise. Down the short entry hall I passed the kitchen to find Sophie sitting on a chair she had placed catercorner to the sofa. She had pulled up another one in a similar position on the other end of the coffee table. There was another woman sitting in it and three more on the couch.
All attention was on the woman in the center on the couch. Bunched up with her legs tucked underneath her, she was shoeless and wearing a puffer jacket so big I couldn’t tell if he was wearing a skirt or just knickers underneath it. She appeared a little older than Sophie, perhaps in her mid-thirties, but dark haired. Her cheeks were stained as though she had cried through mascara or taken a beating. Possibly both.
The women next to her were obviously friends, leaning in for close support. The woman closest to me was a dirty blonde, wearing equally stained white jacket and skirt, her tan shoes promising to add several inches to her height when she rose from the couch. The woman on the far side of the couch wore a similar outfit of short skirt and jacket, these of mismatched color, her haired pulled back to emphasize the peculiarly angular and French beauty of her face. Her sympathy for the woman in the middle couldn’t hide her anger.
The last one I barely glanced at as I swept my eyes to Sophie. She was younger than everyone else in the room, too young for what I was beginning to suspect was everyone’s profession, which made me more uncomfortable than I already was. Someone had done a bad job of dyeing her hair red, staining her scalp. A cheap black vinyl skirt was stretched across her thighs.
I stepped into the doorway, feeling more like a roadblock than a man in his own home. All eyes turned to me. I nodded and said hello.
Sitting there Sophie smiled at me with a, “Buon giorno.” She gestured to the other women, hand held upright as if she were offering each of them a plate of hors d’oeuvre, saying their names as she went by each of them. I didn’t catch much of that but the bruised one in the middle whose name was Jardin. Eyes back on Sophie I noted she had been out, jeans and blouse slightly damp around their cuffs, a short rain slicker hanging next to the door.
I nodded and awkwardly said hello again. None of them said much or offered to shake my hand. The youngest waved and seemed very small and a little embarrassed. Jardin tucked her bare legs further underneath her and roller her shoulders in the puffer jacket trying her best to disappear into it.
Feeling weirdly parental I asked Sophie, “Could I speak to you in the kitchen for a moment?”
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The same giant bouncer from before leaned by the Factory’s front door, his bald head tinted by the orange light of the club’s entrance. Maybe sullen from having been pushed around by Sarti’s boys, he stopped me as I tried to move passed him. I leveled a gaze of disbelief at him, layered with the slightest bit of menace. “You saw who I left here with? And you want to charge me again?”
Unhappy that he couldn’t double his fleecing, he stepped away from me, exuding disdain. As if I was the one who was trying to soak him. Rather than just letting this go, I took out the dead Russian’s passport and folded it in half, covering up most of the text with my hand so only the picture showed. I held it up for the bouncer and asked, “Have you seen this man?” As soon as the question left my mouth I groaned at how cop-like it sounded. I made a note to myself that if I wanted to increase my chances of getting answers I needed to phrase it differently.
This idea was given some credence when the bouncer barely glanced at the picture before replying, “Non.” All the restraint my situation had forced me to show recently boiled away and I gave him a quick wrap on his balls with my knuckles. A sharp exhalation of breath caused him to bend forward a little and I used that moment to grab him by the throat. I pulled him closer and showed him the photo again, making sure he got an eyeful. ‘Take a closer look. I’m asking for the gouverneur.” Certain that I had his attention I asked again, “Have you seen this man man?”
Unsurprisingly, he repeated the same answer. If he worked the door frequently he probably saw hundreds of party-goers every night. I let him go and he coughed, returning to his standing position. He glared at me, the hostility in his demeanor making it clear he was deciding if he wanted to make this a fight. I waited, staring back, half hoping he might. He chose discretion over valor, though, and went back to staring out into the night.
I went inside. The crowd in front of the stage was smaller, but more intense, frenetic in its motion. They didn’t move in any kind of synchronous dance, but each person to their own thing. Between the dark shadows and garish lights, the dancers agitated like some kind of monster that had been stapled together.
I’d rather take on Sarti and all of his men than deal with that. I headed back into the Abattoir, the Factory’s private section, hoping to catch the Corsican and his voyous, maybe to burn off some of the residuals left over from disappointing discussion with the bouncer.
None of them were there. Starting with the booth I had found them in I roamed between the cages, hands buried in pockets, increasingly bent forward with each successive disappointment. It must have been getting close to closing time – most people were gone or had left for the dance floor. Out of frustration I began asking the staff, which at that hour was only composed of a few scarlet-haired waitresses. One, so pale she might have been an actual redhead, surprised me by popping her gum and taking an earnest look at the photo, then replying with a, “Oui.”
I was so stunned by a useful and honest reply I only blurted out, “When?”
“Mardi.”
Tuesday. Shit, what day was it? Saturday? Before I could figure that I out I began to ask other questions. Who was he with? When did he arrive? When did he leave?
To the first question, she only gestured to the Abattoir. She listened to the rest, but only shrugged, then glided away as if she were on roller skates. I almost chased her down but my movement towards her caught the attention of several bouncers. The rising of that pack told me Sartre’s weight wouldn’t protect me if I kept harassing her.
I was suddenly exhausted. I found an emergency exit and stepped out into the pre-dawn light. I tucked the umbrella under an arm, shoved my hands in my pocket and pointed my feet home.
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Placidly examining the corpse, Sartre told me, “Someone wanted him found.”
It was my turn to shrug. It didn’t look like I was getting out of this. I gave it one last shot anyway. “You’ve got to have some pet detective on the payroll, someone better suited to the task.”
“You work at my casino. Everyone knows this. Atwell thinks you work for him. Mitnick pays you now as well.” Sartre’s light didn’t feel like it was pointed at the corpse anymore, but straight at me. I tried to squint passed it to see the man holding it, but over my now thundering heartbeat I could only hear the words, “You are a neutral party, yes?” He rolled his fingers as if he held a cigarette that he was examining with a keen interest. “Besides, you already told Jasper you work for me.”
Hanging there on the steep embankment there was no way out but up to Sartre’s men, down to the river, or through the tunnel with the dead man in it. So I said, “It looks that way.”
“Good. You will find who murdered this man and bring him to me.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded.
“Have your boys move the body to some place cold. We might need it later.” Looking at the ruination of what used to be a man I couldn’t imagine how it might be useful, but you never can tell. Sartre said he would and we started back up the embankment, me even slower than the caution of my descent.
At the top, I noticed one of Sartre’s rooks on a cell phone, probably calling for their ride. Knowing I didn’t have long and uncertain of where to begin I asked, “The Russians hang out at the Factory a lot?” The corpse’s proximity to the club made everyone in it a suspect. At least this might mean I’d have an excuse to speak to the Corsican and his boys.
“Belarusian,” Sartre corrected. I knew that, of course, but for some reason it felt silly saying it. I nodded and he continued, “They go there when they want to live dangerously.” Sartre gave a charitable nod of his head. “I allow it.” He shook the early morning damp off his hands and gestured to one of his men who fitted a cigarette to Sartre’s mouth and lit it. Another handed me back the umbrella.
“Anyone you know have a reason to do something like this? Maybe one of your men doesn’t like foreigners?” There had to be a dozen reasons that violence could erupt between Sartre and Mitnick’s men, even if neither man had ordered it. I was more worried about it being something truly random, which would make it almost impossible to track down.
“Non,” Sartre replied, puffing on his cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but having anything to get the smell of briny corpse out of my nose sounded like a good idea. Rather than ask for one, though, I let Sartre continue. “We make much of our living off foreigners. They spend their money at the casino, the girls come from the East, our friends from South America bring us gifts.” He smiled, a cynical joke of innocence, “We’re globalists.”
“Right,” I said. I’m sure Mitnick thought of himself the same way.
Driving up from the south I could see a set of headlights, the blue of their Xenon telling me it was probably Sartre’s ride. I considered asking for a lift, then thought better of it. It was the only place to start so I might as well climb back up the hill.
We waited in silence only interrupted by the rustle of Sartre’s rooks furtively glancing around at every shadow. Out of the confines of the club and without so many escorting from behind now I could count them – six in all, plus however many were with the cars. Sartre really was worried about Mitnick.
With that realization and the shock of finding the corpse fading from my mind I asked, “How long ago did you find the body?”
The lead car swiveled around another bend in the road, coming level with us from the steep climb, its powerful headlights bleaching Sartre’s skin until his color nearly matched the man down in the pipe. Cigarette held in front of his mouth, he replied, “A few hours ago. I was rounding up men to tend to it when I happened onto you.” Taking the cigarette from his mouth he let smoke drift away on a warm breeze drifting up from the ocean. “Luck, yes?”
I watched the cars instead of smiling back, two black, sleek sedans that purred to a slow stop a few feet from the group. “You think he’s been down there since before your confrontation with Mitnick at the casino?” While that wasn’t long ago, the water made it difficult to determine.
Sartre only shrugged, admitting the possibility. His rooks dispersed, moving around the cars while one held a car door open for Sartre. He moved to enter, stopping with one foot on the floorboard, telling me, “Find who did this. Keep the peace. You will do something good, yes?”
He didn’t bother to wait for my answer, slipping into the car. I stood there, watching them drive off, memorizing the plate numbers. I would have preferred to watch him and Mitnick tear each other apart like the animals they were, but they might take the whole city with them. So I started back up the hill, my feet taking me back towards the Factory.
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“What the hell Sartre?” I decided the appearance of a dead body allowed for dropping any formalities.
“What? You’ve never seen a dead body before?” Behind the light he held in his hand Sartre was just a cutout in the darkness beyond. But I could tell he was smiling.
“Not one this ripe,” was my mostly honest answer. Wishing I had a handkerchief or something, I covered my mouth and noise with my hand.
Sartre shrugged with the dispassion of a butcher showing a customer a piece of meat that was a bit passed its prime. “He has been down here a few days.”
“Why are you showing me this?” I thought about his earlier comment regarding lessons and hoped this wasn’t going to be one.
Not for the first time that early morning Sartre surprised me by saying, “I want you to find out who killed him.”
“You didn’t?” I asked that question before I took any time to think about it. It didn’t faze Sarti, though, only producing another shrug.
“No. A local boy found him like this. His mother lives across the bridge and told one of my people.” I nodded. That made sense. She probably arrived at the same conclusion I did and called one of Sarti’s men hoping for a reward.
If that wasn’t the case though, “So get the gendarmerie on the horn.”
With his free hand Sartre handed me a passport, dry now but, like the corpse, warped and bloated with water damage. It was blue with the distorted Cyrillic letters on the front. “He’s one of Mitnick’s.”
I opened it, the documentation inside giving me an idea of what the man looked liked in life. “Yeah? Seems like all the more reason to have the police handle it.”
“If anyone else finds him they’ll make the same assumption you did.” I could feel Sartre’s eyes on me even in the dark. “If Mitnick thinks I killed him, then there surely will be a war.”
I was insulated from whatever seriousness Sarti was radiating by my own skepticism. “Going by the show at the casino the other night, I thought you wanted a war.”
“The display at the casino was calculated to exactly prevent such a thing.” Sensing my agnosticism in all things, but particularly in this, he continued, “If Mitnick continues his expansion he will leave me with no choice. Hopefully, he sees this now.”
I thumbed through the passport. Other than Belarus, Ukraine, Russia, and France, the dead man didn’t go many places. “So pull him through the grate and let the river take care of him.”
“With the currents he will most likely wash up on a beach. He will be found.” I thought about the body staining one of the city’s tourist dotted shores, how that would ruin their illusion of safety, what a scandal that would cause. The same thing must have occurred to Sartre who finished with, “Someone wanted him found.”
