Tourquai
Authors: Tim Davys
TOURQUAI
A NOVEL
TIM DAVYS
Contents
T
he stuffed animal was shaking. Brief intervals of intense muscle spasms. Tears were running down its cheeks, or maybe it was sweat dripping from its forehead. The ground seemed to quake under its paws, and despite strenuous attempts, the stuffed animal found it impossible to focus its gaze on the tasteful wall-to-wall carpeting. The black squares against the blue ground were an elusive, frustrating target. Its head ached. Its brain was about to explode. There was a sound, high-pitched and shrill, that refused to stop. Its stomach was churning with nausea. And the stuffed animal hardly dared breathe—the Hated One was sitting only a few feet away.
How long had the
stuffed animal stood hidden in the darkness? Eternities, it felt like. And what was waiting? What was expected? It was just barely possible to formulate these questions; the answers felt far away. And in this infinity of meditative futility—as the alcohol sank and rose in its body in an incomprehensible rhythm, and thoughts refused to make sense—suddenly the weapon was resting in its paw.
How did that happen? At that moment it was impossible to say, but there was a meaning. There was always a meaning, even if we didn’t always see it, thought the stuffed animal. And again hatred welled up in its throat. Like a sour belch burning its palate. Wrath transformed its eyes to narrow slits and the nose wrinkled in a contorted expression of struggle. It could not be withstood, it was simply not possible.
Suddenly the darkness no
longer shielded, suddenly the stuffed animal took a step forward. How did that happen? The weapon was raised, as if someone else were doing it. And in that moment time stood still, one moment away from an action that would irretrievably redefine a life. That soul would be darkened forever, and no forgiveness was possible. Yet there was no hesitation, no regret, not then. The stuffed animal did not want anything other than to separate the Hated One’s head from his body. Regardless of the consequences, regardless of what this would mean.
“Swine.”
That thought was screaming in its head just as the blow fell.
T
he black plastic telephone that was on the desk when Larry Bloodhound took possession of the office many years ago had been exchanged for a modern version, a technical monstrosity that rang with high-pitched, aggressive signals. A digital display didn’t make you a better cop, thought Larry. He refused to pick up the receiver; it wasn’t often that anyone had anything interesting to say.
The superintendent sat rocking in the chair with his muddy paws on the desk. Confidential documents lay strewn across the desk. A rotting apple core was balanced on the computer keyboard, a half-eaten doughnut was stuffed into a pencil holder, and sticking up from the wastebasket was a half-empty package of ginger snaps. Throughout his adult life he had struggled with his weight. He liked food but didn’t want to get fat. It was easy for him to gain a few pounds, but hard to get rid of them again. He tried rotation diets, weighed food on a little scale, and put his hope in low-calorie magazine meal plans, but the results were always the same. These self-inflicted reductions made him hungrier than ever, and that forced him to eat in secret. In the desk drawers, among papers next to the computer, inside seemingly thick binders, and behind many of the odd objects on the bookshelf half-eaten packages of crackers and cookies, candy, and chocolate were concealed. In the office, in the corner behind the door, hidden for more than a week now under a long scarf, there was also half a pizza, which his conscience wouldn’t allow him to finish. Perhaps there was even an unfinished lunch in the mess somewhere. Saving and hiding food was an instinct that Bloodhound no longer thought about; everything got eaten up sooner or later.
The phone continued to ring.
Bloodhound was sitting in semidarkness—the blinds on the window overlooking the parking lot were pulled down—bored and staring at the computer screen, but all he saw was his own reflection. His dark brown cotton covering hung in bags from the cheeks and neck, the deep creases in his head were never smoothed out, and his long ears rested like epaulettes on his shoulders. Larry focused his gaze, observing the background image he had loaded into the computer. A faint smile was observable on his face. Cordelia. She was the apple of his eye. She was his only weakness. She was his caged bird, something as uncommon as a budgie. Not many stuffed animals in Mollisan Town had house pets—Bloodhound could not think of any offhand—and so he kept Cordelia a secret. He had many enemies, and in his profession it was best not to leave any openings.
For the fourth day in a row Larry Bloodhound had put on a wrinkled, white and blue striped shirt. The rings of sweat under his arms had worked their way into the cloth. His pistol holster sat loosely strapped across his chest. Larry did not use the recommended service weapon; instead he carried a large-bore revolver. Rumor had it that he shot with jacketed bullets. If that were true, he could blow a hole in a safe deposit vault if he fired the weapon.
The phone was still ringing.
“Even if I have a lot to learn, at least I understand this. If you pick up the phone, it stops ringing . . .”
Bloodhound heard the comment through the gap in the door. That had not been the intent. Falcon Ècu had been mumbling to himself, the words tumbling out of his beak without his wanting them to. It would be easier, of course, for Larry not to let on that he heard. Inspector Ècu’s desk in the open office area was closest to Bloodhound’s door on the fourth floor at the rue de Cadix police station. The WE squad had the entire floor, and Larry was the head of the department. He could sympathize with Falcon to a certain degree: Who wouldn’t be irritated by the sharp ring tone? But at the same time, he couldn’t let the comment pass unnoticed. Someone has to teach the newcomer some manners. With an exasperated grunt, Larry remembered that Anna Lynx, Falcon’s experienced partner, had the morning off.
He reached for the receiver and brought it up under his ear.
“Bloodhound.”
“Superintendent Bloodhound?”
“Yes?” growled the superintendent.
“Superintendent,” said the voice, obviously affected, a he trying to sound like a she, “superintendent, a murder has been committed, and—”
“And what little asshole do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” Bloodhound asked nicely.
“That doesn’t matter. The essential thing is that—”
“Which wretched little cripple with imitation leather paws is chirping on my telephone?”
“But, Superintendent,” the voice objected, “the important thing is—”
“Now I’m hanging up, you crazy asshole,” Bloodhound informed him and slammed down the phone.
With some weariness he got up, kicked over the waste basket to avoid being tempted by ginger snaps, and took a big step over it. He opened the office door and looked out over the department—his domain. The building on light brown rue de Cadix had originally been a hospital, with rows of sewing machines firmly bolted to the massive concrete floor. The original floor was still there, only partially covered by narrow, worn, black linoleum mats of varying lengths lying in all directions under the desks. The windows facing the street were tall, dirty, and permanently shut; the steel beams on which the floors of the building rested were black and massive, like thick tree trunks that disappeared up into the slightly psychotic system of exposed ventilation pipes and drainage barrels on the roof. The light fixtures hung low, placed over the desks to start with, but after a series of furniture rearrangements were now in an incomprehensibly asymmetric pattern. In this chaos there were approximately fifty-five workstations, fifteen more than what the unions had approved at one time, and when Bloodhound appeared in the doorway to his office, the sound of a collective inhalation was heard. It was not only the superintendent who had heard Falcon’s unintentional complaint.
“What was that?” insisted Larry.
Inspector Ècu normally made a point of standing up for what he thought and believed, but he was no fool. Bloodhound’s growling wheeze caused the falcon to close his beak and lower his gaze to the binder open before him. Falcon had been working at the station on rue de Cadix in the Tourquai section of Mollisan Town for less than a year. After having started his career with the GL squad at one of the smaller stations in Amberville, he had been relocated, at his own request, to WE in Tourquai after six months. Here he got the notorious Superintendent Larry Bloodhound for a boss.
“I heard something,” Bloodhound said, “and it sounded just like when my grandma stuck her udder in the mangle. Or when my dad ate beans and soiled himself. But it came out of your beak, didn’t it?”
Falcon glanced up. He looked terrified. The constant murmur that ran through the office area had died out completely. Everyone was listening.
“Now, I picked up the phone.” The superintendent nodded. “Exactly like you wanted. I picked up the damn phone. And to what use?”
Falcon was painfully aware that everyone around was listening.
“Mm,” he managed to say.
“Every day they call,” Bloodhound continued. “Sick monstrosities, factory defects, that’s what they are. Confess and say they’re sorry. And I have to listen.”
“It was absolutely not my intention to . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”
But Falcon’s excuses were interrupted by the phone inside Bloodhound’s office, which began to ring again. The superintendent stared at his inspector.
“If I want to know what you think about me,” said Bloodhound in his friendliest voice, “I’m going to ask. ‘Nice little falcon,’ maybe I’ll say, ‘tell me what you think about me.’ ”
There was giggling now around the office. Falcon looked down again at his binder.
“Until then,” Bloodhound barked, “you shut up!”
And with these words the superintendent returned to his office and grabbed the telephone.
“YES?”
It was the same disguised voice.
“Don’t hang up!”
“Why the hell not?” the superintendent growled.
“Because it’s true,” said the voice. “A murder has been committed. A vulture is sitting in—”
Bloodhound hung up.
“That was an insistent little asshole,” he muttered to himself, leaning across the desk to grab the apple fritter he had bought that morning, taken only one guilt-ridden bite of, and then hidden somewhere in the folder of “Ongoing Investigations.”
It was getting close to lunch and Bloodhound felt the great hunger come creeping.
Larry Bloodhound had taken
the long career route and patrolled the streets of northwest Tourquai for upward of a decade. By the end, he had stepped on every painted cobblestone so many times that he knew them all, and at the same time had thrown every petty pile-of-cloth criminal in jail so many times that he often mixed them up. Then it was no longer possible to resist the offer of a promotion, even though Bloodhound’s contempt for “desk cops” was well founded and monumental. Nevertheless he let himself be appointed inspector, and later superintendent at WE. He promised himself not to decline into the sort of tired laziness—or bitter resignation—to which he had seen so many capable police officers capitulate. The temperament that made him famous was also his salvation; it kept him from becoming complacent.
Now he’d been at the office more than twice as long as he had patrolled, but it was still out on the streets where Larry felt most at home. The district was full of his ant tunnels, every doorway reminded him of a crime, every street corner of a mistake. Bloodhound considered it an honor to remain humble; only that way did you survive.
“Excuse me, Superintendent,” said Falcon Ècu, rousing Bloodhound from his daydreams.
The inexperienced inspector had dared open the door to the superintendent’s office, and now he was peeking in.
“What?”
“I beg your pardon terribly, Superintendent,” Falcon repeated. “But . . .”
It was not Bloodhound who had picked Falcon Ècu. Anna Lynx had needed a new partner since the weasel moved to PAS in Amberville, and the personnel department brought in Ècu because he was next in line.
“I know it’s not my concern . . . but we’ve received a tip, Superintendent,” said Falcon.
His short plastic beak with the characteristic overbite was shiny and newly cleaned, a light blue shirt with an open collar contrasted with his pale pink neck and gray-speckled plumage.
“A tip?” the superintendent repeated mockingly.
“A murder has been committed. Supposedly we’ll find the victim at his office. One Oswald Vulture. The company is called Nova Park. Vulture’s the owner. They’re located on the top floor of the Bourg Villette.”
“Top floor?”
“Sixty-second floor.”
“A vulture?” asked the superintendent.
“That’s what the tipster said.”
“The tipster,” said the superintendent, “knew that it wouldn’t work to shit in my ear and realized that there were others who would gladly accept it.”
Falcon did not answer.
Bloodhound sighed but got up.
“Okay,” he said. “Perseverance wins. I’ll go along.”
Superintendent Bloodhound drove. It
was the first time he’d been alone with Falcon Ècu in the car; Anna Lynx had always been along otherwise, as a kind of diplomat and interpreter.
“Has she taken the whole day off?” he asked, without turning his head to meet Falcon’s gaze.
“She might make it in this afternoon,” Falcon replied. “Do you want me to call her, Superintendent? Because I can just—”
“No, no,” Bloodhound growled. “I was just wondering.”
They were driving in an unmarked Volga. It had the same engine as the painted police cars but was a discreet gray and without any distinctive markings at all. Which made it strangely conspicuous. The superintendent revved the engine at the red light, but then silence fell. He cheered himself up and made an attempt.
“I see,” he growled. “I hear you’ll be playing this afternoon?”
“It’s just for fun,” Falcon answered quickly. “That is, everyone plays so well. I just show up to . . . for the exercise. I’ve only been playing a few years. I can top my forehand nicely, but my slice isn’t at all what I’d—”
“I don’t know a thing about tennis,” Bloodhound interrupted. “Looks like a sport for queers, if you ask me.”
“I see,” Falcon answered quietly. “No, tennis is actually a lot of fun, Superintendent, you should—”
Bloodhound belched. Concealed in this abysmal sound were odors from what he’d eaten that morning, including the oregano on the old pizza in the corner behind the door. Falcon fell silent; there was nothing more to say.
The traffic through Tourquai’s business district was intense; it was Monday, right before lunch. The Boulevard had eight lanes, but in dense traffic no one cared about the lanes, not even when the drivers were crowded next to a police car. Bloodhound controlled himself and was content to hiss curses at his fellow drivers.
Oil black Boulevard de la Villette was bordered by skyscrapers unlike any others in Mollisan Town; central Tourquai was a pincushion of money and hubris. These towers of vanity were never renovated, they were simply torn down and rebuilt. With garages that branched out like roots deep under the asphalt of the streets, and on the roofs feelers in the form of blinking antennae and radio pylons that strove even higher up into the sky, the buildings formed a kind of living organism.