EIGHTY THOUSAND EYES

by Richard Cross

By day, RICHARD CROSS, disguised as a mild-mannered desk jockey, lives and works in a small market town near Cambridge, England. At night he roams Noir’s jaded streets, looking for a woman like Lauren Braeder – and a damn agent.
Contact Richard

CHAPTER ONE

 

Early Wednesday morning the heat wave – which had laid siege to the city for five days now – showed no sign of abating. Once again, the sun’s warmth had seeped like oil into crumbling brick and fractured concrete so that, at night, the fabric of the city radiated mellow heat like burned skin; occasional pallid breezes, too frail to offer any genuine relief, drifted like forlorn ghosts through indifferent streets, and served only to emphasise the tacky stillness of the night air. Sounds travelled further on that early-morning stillness: they echoed and resonated, so that the cry of an angry drunk some three streets away could fool a wary man into dipping his head and glancing nervously over his shoulder.

Frank Lassiter, parked beneath a dead lamppost on a dusty Hackney side street, thumbed sweat from beneath his eyes and slumped deeper into the seat of his battered Granada. He wished he had thought to bring a fresh pack of cigarettes; he had smoked his last barely twenty minutes earlier, but the boredom of waiting for Caroline Bradley to leave Mr. Sammy’s had him craving another within minutes.

Before pulling up outside the club he had toyed with the idea of enjoying a drink or two inside – maybe catch a glimpse of Caroline with the muscle-bound builder she was supposed to be screwing; satisfy himself that Michael Bradley’s suspicions were correct – but he was quickly dissuaded by the pounding music and spinning lights, and the raucous tide of voices that spilled from the club each time the heavy-set bouncer with the Japanese Akita held open its doors.

Anyway, it had been quite pleasant in the car earlier on, and Lassiter’s mood had been buoyant: the night’s single prolonged breath of wind had gently riffled the pages of his Racing Post, and stirred the faded awning above Mr. Sammy’s door; that afternoon, a twenty-five-to-one shot had sauntered past the post at Haydock Park with a score of Lassiter’s sitting on its back, courtesy of a tickle from Vinnie the Book. A half-bottle of Ireland’s finest, which Lassiter had purchased to celebrate his good fortune, had nestled patiently on the seat beside him, and at ten o’clock – when he had assumed his post – he had still been hopeful of ending the day in some warm and undemanding embrace. All he had to do was bag some snaps of Caroline with her bit of rough and he was out of there.

Now, three-and-a-half hours later, his legs were slabs of dead meat, and someone had rammed a screwdriver into the small of his back. For a while, his old friend Jameson had held at bay the incipient ache that corkscrewed from his shoulders to his neck, but visions of flashing blue lights and disdainful uniforms instructing him to blow had discouraged him from diving too deep into his stock. And any hopes of finding some perfumed plaything to help him spend his winnings had been extinguished long before his last cigarette.

Normally, he would have quit by now – after all, he hadn’t seen the Bradley woman enter the club, and he only had her husband’s word that she was spending the evening there – but Bradley had struck Lassiter as a man anal enough to hide in the shadows to ensure the job was done.

"Terry Carver built an extension to our property back in April," Bradley had informed him that afternoon, sweeping imaginary dust from the knee of his made-to-measure suit and glancing dubiously around him at the sparse and ageing contents of Lassiter’s office. He was still a young man – about thirty-five – and sharp-looking, but he possessed the weary, fastidious manner of one much older; his type, everything – even the brushing of spotless fabric – was done for a reason.

"Not only did he do a particularly shoddy job, he has also since then, I believe, been… fucking… my wife."

The way he pushed the word out, as if he first had to recover it from some forgotten corner of his mouth, reminded Lassiter of a man trying to talk around ill-fitting dentures, and he would have laughed if the smell of money hadn’t distracted him so much. It was in Bradley’s oiled hair, his polished shoes, his gold tiepin: the strongest of colognes.

"I only do straight detective work, Mr. Bradley," Lassiter told him.

Bradley stared blankly at him for a moment before catching on. He favoured Lassiter with a pained expression.

"Photographs, Mr. Lassiter. Only photographs. Something to bargain with come the day, eh?"

So here he dutifully was. He knew Bradley was feeding him a line; rich guys like him didn’t hire down-at-heel investigators like Lassiter unless they had something to hide. But when he’d accepted the job – and Bradley’s generous advance – the Haydock winner had still been in the paddocks, and his only other assignment had been dreaming up new ways of distracting himself from debts that were sprouting like mould on week-old pizza.

As Lassiter blinked and yawned the club’s doors were thrown open, unleashing a solid blast of sound that crashed onto the street like a twelve-foot wave. The Akita bared its teeth and snarled as a bouncer emerged from the flickering darkness, white shirt plastered to his back and one sinewy arm spanning the chest of a drunken youth. The bouncer, a shaven-headed black man, had the boy’s arm clamped to his side, and was whispering urgently into his ear. The boy left placidly enough, but turned to hurl lusty racist abuse at the bouncer as soon as he had retreated a safe distance.

Lassiter was observing the scene with gloomy resignation when someone climbed into his car and pressed something hard into his ribs.

The something was a small, gleaming pistol, and its owner, though slightly dishevelled, could have stepped straight from a catwalk. Sharp green eyes and finely sculpted cheekbones, coloured by the exertion that had left her breathing fast and shallow, averted the hint of blandness often created by such flawlessness, and lent shrewd intelligence to features that might otherwise have been merely vapidly sexual. She sat with one leg tucked beneath her, and her back against the door.

"Drive," she said.

White teeth, crimson lips, silky throat, smoky voice. Observation, Lassiter: tool of the ‘tec.

She jabbed the gun deep into his ribs and he yelped like a whipped dog.

"Ow!" he exclaimed crossly.

She fixed him with those big serious eyes and Lassiter swallowed what he had been about to say. Turning the ignition, he pulled away from the kerb with an impatient little squeal of tyres, while she reached beneath her and tossed his bottle of whiskey onto the back seat. In the rear-view mirror a pair of headlights began to reel them in.

The woman swore softly.

"We’re being followed," she said. "I want you to lose them."

"Oh, yeah? And what if I don’t?" Lassiter snapped, keeping his eyes fixed on the road as she briefly glanced at him. The jab of her gun had left a dull ache in his ribs.

"You’re in this now," she said. "If they catch us, they’ll kill you."

She prodded him again, a little softer this time, as he began to accelerate. "Don’t speed. I don’t want to be pulled over by the police."

"Then how the hell am I supposed to lose them?" Lassiter complained.

He stole a quick glance when she didn’t reply. She was chewing her lip, her frown deepening as the light from the gaining headlights washed the shadows from her face. For a couple of seconds there he could have snatched the gun from her – probably would have had she been a man. But the look of anxiety that creased her soft features had struck a chord and, finding himself impulsively wanting to make things right for her, he allowed the moment to pass.

"Suppose you tell me what this is all about," Lassiter suggested, carefully softening the tone of his voice.

"Not now," the woman replied, her agitation growing. "Just drive."

After that they didn’t speak for some time, and Lassiter focused on his role as quarry in the world’s slowest car chase. He traced an aimless path through London’s cramped streets, skirting the City centre, and heading west for no particular reason. The nighttime roads were largely deserted, but their pursuers spurned countless opportunities to pass, choosing instead to preserve an unwavering distance between the two cars.

As the miles passed Lassiter’s captor grew increasingly restless. Keeping the gun trained on him, she repeatedly switched her attention between the car behind and the empty road ahead. Lassiter could tell she had no ideas, and all he could come up with was to head for the M25 and try to outrun them before his tank ran dry. He wound up his window so that they could talk, and discovered with a jolt that she wore the same perfume as Gina.

"Listen, we’re never going to lose them like this," he said. "Not at thirty bloody miles-per-hour. I’m going to head for the M25, try to outrun them."

The woman looked doubtful. "Are you sure this thing can manage it? I mean, they are driving a BMW."

"Don’t let the rust fool you, sweetheart," Lassiter bridled. "This thing’s got a 2.8 litre engine, it’ll give any motor a run for its money. Anyway, we’ve got to do something – the needle’s on red."

The woman turned back to the pursuing car and chewed some more lip. Lassiter sneaked a few glances while she deliberated, admiring the shadowy hollow of her throat, the clean line of her jaw.

"I suppose you’re right," she finally agreed.

Lassiter joined Western Avenue and headed for the motorway.

"Sweetheart, if you’re on the level, I hope that gun isn’t just for show," he said as the sterile glow of the motorway’s lights filled the car. "If I can’t shake your friends off you’re going to have to use it."

She regarded him coolly for a long moment.

"Don’t worry about me," she said.

Lassiter stomped the gas pedal as soon as they hit the slip road to the M25. The distance between them widened for maybe five seconds before the BMW responded. In his rear-view mirror Lassiter saw reflected lamplight streak like a comet shower across the beamer’s black surface as it closed in on them, and he knew, with a sick certainty, that they were never going to lose these bastards.

Once on the motorway their pursuers were no longer content to sit on their tail, and immediately pulled out to overtake. Gauging their relative positions in his wing mirror, Lassiter veered sharply to the right when he judged the BMW’s front bumper to be almost level with his rear. It was a dangerous manoeuvre – if he had misjudged the BMW’s position they would have clipped its front bumper and probably spun off into oblivion – but luck was with him, and he was rewarded with the shriek of brakes and locked wheels as the BMW fishtailed violently in his rear-view mirror.

For a few brief moments the BMW shrank to a small black spot in Lassiter’s rear-view mirror, but it wasn’t long before it loomed large once more – filled with righteous rage and damaged pride, no doubt. Then it was gone, sweeping past a battered white transit van as it raced into the fast lane. Lassiter stood hard on the brake pedal and tucked smartly in behind the van. Beside him, the woman played the role of hapless spectator, her hands clasped in spurious prayer around the gun.

When the BMW dropped it’s speed and drifted over to the slow lane, Lassiter accelerated hard to the right, and hurtled toward the darkness as the lights petered out overhead. The BMW effortlessly drew level and began sliding smoothly over to the centre lane.

Lassiter was aware the woman was watching him, waiting for the nod. He sighed and gave it to her. Lowering the gun she wound down the window. Wind roared around the car, rattling the pages of the Racing Post and pitching a clutch of car-park tickets into Lassiter’s face. The woman sat well back in her seat, her hair whipping around her face, and kept the gun out of sight as the BMW drew closer. Lassiter caught a brief glimpse of its driver, nothing more than a pale shadow in its dark interior, before his view was obscured as the woman swung around in one fluid movement and pumped two bullets into the BMW’s front tyre.

Travelling at close to 100mph, the driver had no chance of controlling the car once the bullets found their target. Its engine roared furiously as it swung sharply toward the Granada, shredded rubber flying from the stricken tyre, its rear bumper passing within inches of the Granada’s nose as Lassiter stamped on the brake pedal.

The wheel rim spat a fountain of sparks as it made contact with the road. Through the BMW’s rear windscreen Lassiter could see the driver fighting the steering wheel, futilely striving to avoid the central reservation barrier. Glancing off the barrier, the car somersaulted with balletic grace and landed with a solid crunch on its roof in the middle lane. Momentum flipped it onto its side and propelled it shrieking along the road. Flames licked at the edges of the car’s crumpled bonnet, and Lassiter floored the gas pedal so that they were maybe a hundred yards away when the BMW’s fuel tank exploded with a meaty roar that ripped through the night.

Churning flames instantly swallowed tortured metal, and a dense column of black smoke blended seamlessly with the night sky. Twisted chunks of smoking metal rained down onto the road around them, and a suffocating wave of heat seared Lassiter’s throat.

The woman twisted around in her seat to view the blaze, but said nothing as they sped away.

***

Leaving the motorway at the next exit presented Lassiter with a pig of a route back to his flat, but the urge to hide himself in the city was too strong – and sensible – to resist. He was fairly sure he and the woman had been the only witnesses to the crash, but the transit van they had passed wouldn’t have been far behind, and its driver was sure to recall that moments earlier the wrecked BMW had been playing tag with a Granada. He just had to pray the driver hadn’t made a note of his registration number.

Beside him, the woman stared sullenly at the road ahead, saying nothing, her hand loosely curled around the gun on her lap. Lassiter doubted whether she was seeing much of the road: she was looking inside, struggling to come to terms with the reality of having killed two men; her mind would be subjecting her to endless replays of the incident, and each time she would try to make it turn out some other way. She didn’t know it, but she was already undergoing the healing process, desensitising herself to the horror. Pretty soon, depending on how strong she was, she would spontaneously begin contriving the defences and justifications necessary for survival.

And so, instead of trying to bring her out of it, Lassiter played the radio at a low murmur, and gazed placidly at the road ahead. There was nothing he could do for her; it was something she would have to work out for herself. For his own part, Lassiter didn’t feel too bad; he had learned in the force how to rationalise the act, depersonalise it, prevent himself from becoming as much of a victim as the dead.

He couldn’t stop himself from snatching glances as he drove though, and each time he did he felt like a shameless kid scooping fingers of cream from a forbidden cake. He should have been mad at her – she had ruined his stakeout, nearly got him killed, embroiled him in the death of two men – but he could only get mad at himself for being so weak.

She didn’t try to resist when he finally thought to take the gun from her.

"I didn’t mean to kill them," she ruefully declared. "I just… "

"I know, I know."

She turned to him then, coolly appraising him, as if searching for hints of sarcasm or impatience.

"It doesn’t seem to bother you, what happened back there."

Lassiter cleared his throat and smiled wryly. "Yeah, it bothered me. But you learn to cope with things like that in the force."

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Oh, terrific," she muttered. "I kidnapped a policeman."

"Don’t worry. I’m… retired."

"Are you taking me to them? The police, I mean."

"No. Not yet, anyway."

She dug into her handbag and produced a packet of cigarettes.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

"No, I don’t mind. Can you spare one? I’m out."

She lit both and their hands brushed as she passed one to Lassiter. Her hand felt warm and smooth.

"My name’s Lauren Braeder," she said.

"Frank Lassiter."

"Where are you taking me then, Frank?"

"My place. I’ll fix you a drink. You can tell me what this is all about."

***

Lassiter’s flat was situated above Figaro’s Sister, a low-life drinking club in one of North London’s less sought-after areas. Figaro’s was a tumbledown refuge for people wishing to indulge in serious drinking, undisturbed by rowdy kids or loud music. Shunned by knowing locals, and located too far from established trails to lure unsuspecting tourists, Figaro’s enjoyed a specious exclusivity.

The building itself was old and unwell, and seemed to sag on its foundations, as if quietly despairing of the position in which it found itself. Its crumbling walls were blackened by decades of grime, and it looked bleakly out on a narrow, sloping street that was clogged with traffic ten hours every weekday.

The early-morning darkness camouflaged the pub’s imperfections, as if the building itself had gathered the dense shadows to it out of embarrassment or shame. Dimly thankful for the darkness, Lassiter stamped numb feet before quickly ushering the Braeder woman into the dusty alcove beside the pub. He flicked the light switch after unlocking the door, illuminating a murky flight of concrete steps.

Extending a hand, he invited her inside, and admired the shape of her legs and swing of her hips as she climbed each step. The tapping of her heels echoed loudly in the silence, and the familiar giddy fragrance of her perfume blended uneasily with the hallway’s mustiness.

She wore a loose lemon blouse gathered at the waist by a wide white belt, and tight white ski-pants. Lassiter followed her legs up the steps, idly speculating about how it would feel to have their tanned smoothness locked around his waist. Her hair trailed down her back, thick and silky, blonde strands shining beneath the glare of the bare light bulb; he knew how it would smell, he knew, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to bury his face in it.

He caught her watching him over her shoulder as she reached the tiny landing at the top of the stairs, and coughed uncertainly, his face reddening. She waited patiently by his side, hands folded demurely around her tiny handbag, as he fumbled his key into the door lock.

Lassiter’s flat: ask any man to guess how long Lassiter had lived there and he wouldn’t have a clue; ask a woman and she’d probably say just long enough for the dust to settle. She’d be wrong.

The flat had been his home for six years now, but he had imprinted little of his personality on the rooms in which he lived: no photographs of loved ones sat upon the narrow window-sills; no prints adorned the pale magnolia walls; no regimented rows of well-thumbed paperbacks lined the shelves of the fake mahogany wall-unit; no rubber pot-plants occupied the bare and dusty corners of the lounge; no eccentric mementoes of happy times cluttered spartan shelves.

Lassiter guided her into the lounge; his face began to burn again, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he cleared his throat.

"I… uh, I don’t spend much time here."

She looked at him and gave a small shake of her head, as if she didn’t know what bothered him.

"It’s ok," she said.

They stood together in the middle of the room for a moment, beneath the dusty glow of a 60-watt bulb, saying nothing, not looking at each other.

"Do you want – "

"Do you mind – "

"Sorry, go on."

"I was just going to ask if you minded if I had a shower," she wrinkled her nose. "Feel a bit clammy."

Lassiter waited until he heard the click of the bathroom lock before locking the front door and pocketing the key. The boiler in the kitchen belched lazily as the hot water kicked in. He fixed himself a tall whiskey and cast a disgruntled gaze about the room.

"Don’t spend much time here," he muttered. "Jesus."

Time for a speed clean: old newspapers and magazines gathered from chair and sofa and floor, and piled on the landing outside; unwashed coffee mugs tipped into the kitchen sink, greasy foil trays into the pedal bin; slippery mound of unwanted correspondence crammed into overburdened drawers, and hazy patina of dust magically stripped from the stolid little coffee table by a sleeved forearm. Carelessly discarded jackets hung neatly on front door hooks.

Lassiter wedged open the lounge window door and found, in the furthest reaches of the cupboard beneath the sink, an ancient can of air freshener, which he sprayed liberally around the flat. He switched on a couple of small lamps and turned off the main light and then, with the sweat running into his eyes, scoured a couple of days worth of dirty dishes in cold water, because running the hot would make her shower run cold.

Lauren called his name from the bathroom. She was squeezed between the door and the frame, her hair darkened by the water and brushed straight back, one tawny shoulder visible above the beige towel she had wrapped around her. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up, emphasising clear green eyes. Blue steam curled lazily behind her.

"Do you have a dressing gown or shirt I could borrow?" she asked. "I’ve rinsed my clothes. I hope you don’t mind."

Beautiful blonde makes herself naked in his flat and asks him if he minds. Jesus.

Lassiter trotted into his bedroom like an obedient puppy and retrieved his last ironed shirt from the wardrobe. She looked at him as he handed it to her.

"Thanks," she smiled. "I’ll be out in a minute."

Lassiter returned to the lounge and topped up his drink. He stood at the balcony door as he sipped it. At four in the morning there wasn’t much going on out there: thirsty leaves, stirred by an errant breeze, whispered secretively from the trees bordering the cemetery across the road; a sleek ginger cat padded gracefully along the wall of Figaro’s courtyard, pausing briefly in a streetlamp’s orange glow to lick a hind leg before continuing sedately on it’s way; a distant siren wailed forlornly, followed by the bark of an angry dog; dazed mosquitoes bounced against the lounge window, lured by the soft light inside.

He thought of the slumbering millions around him, of how they shared a restless, tangled sleep that offered only fractured relief from the heat. They would awaken two or three hours from now, in warm and airless rooms, to find their pillows damp, their fatigue only superficially relieved, and a pale, glowering sun sitting low and ready in the sky. Tempers would be short tomorrow, knee-jerk confrontations frequent and savage, and everyone would wear that slack-faced look of dazed stupefaction. We can’t handle the heat, he thought – it’s a fact of British life; we’ll court skin cancer in the garden for hour after sun-baked hour, single-mindedly cultivate the bronzed flesh we think will transform us into creatures of glamour – but if we have to work, or move, or think, then brother–

Lassiter blew air between clenched teeth, and pushed a hand through slyly greying hair. He kept thinking about her – a surging torrent of furtive little thoughts that rushed and spumed, randomly splashing the surface of more conventional reflections. He was thirty-nine – too old to be so easily beguiled by sleek lines and silky lips. And yet he kept seeing a swollen pearl of water high on one smooth hazel shoulder, and he wanted to lick it off. He wanted to taste her, every part of her, all her different flavours–

"God, that feels better."

Lassiter started and slopped whiskey over his hand as he whirled around. He hurriedly sucked it dry.

Lauren had fastened the belt around her waist, transforming the shirt into a makeshift dress. It looked better on her than it ever had on him; made her look smaller, somehow.

She stood in the centre of the room, one hand loosely clasping her wrist, smiling apologetically at his reaction to her voice. She looked very clean and fresh, her skin glowing from the shower.

"I’m sorry," she laughed. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

"That’s alright, I was…" Lassiter flapped a hand meaninglessly. "What are you drinking?"

"Have you got any brandy?"

She curled her legs beneath her on the sofa as Lassiter fixed her drink and freshened his own.

"So what do you do, Frank Lassiter?" she asked as he handed her a generous measure.

"When I’m not driving getaway cars I’m a private investigator."

"Sounds exciting."

Lassiter shrugged and sat beside her on the sofa. "Not really. It’s mostly serving writs and summonses, getting the goods on cheating spouses; repossession work for bailiffs, stuff like that."

"What were you doing tonight?"

"Trying to get a snap of a cheating wife with her boyfriend. I missed that one," he sipped his drink. "Don’t worry though, I’m sure my client will understand when I tell him I was kidnapped by a blonde with a gun."

Lauren looked down at her lap, a small tired smile on her lips.

"I suppose you want to know what all that was about." She tossed back her hair and gazed into the middle-distance for a moment before fixing Lassiter with those incredible green eyes.

"Have you ever heard of Gary Stocker?" she asked.

 

Copyright© 2003 Richard Cross

***