They Ate the Waitress Read online

  Darkness.

  ◊

  When Nick regained consciousness, he was hanging from the third story window of a whorehouse in Beaver Creek, Montana. Forty feet below him was an ornate, concrete fountain that looked a rather uncomfortable place to land. At the window above him, Quentin Fairbanks was busy sawing off his own arm.

  “Wait a minute!” Nick yelled. “I have a question for you.”

  Fairbanks pulled the belt from his mouth, his face clenched in pain. “Do you mind? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

  “Why didn’t you just take the handcuff key?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Fairbanks asked, bewildered.

  “I was unconscious. Why didn’t you take the handcuff key from my pocket before you threw me out the window?”

  “I... ah… the…Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t suppose you would toss the key up here? No? Are you sure? Last chance! …Alright, fine. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll just get back to the amputation!” Fairbanks sighed, frustrated. Biting down on his belt once more, he returned to sawing at his arm. He struck an artery, blood spraying the window and dripping down onto Nick’s face.

  Wiping the blood from his eyes, Nick reached for the windowsill. Try as he might, the handcuff chain was simply too long; he couldn’t quite reach. Staring at the ground, he imagined his body broken on the cement fountain.

  “Looks like I’ve run out of options.” He reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing a familiar object: his laser stunner. “This is going to hurt.” He aimed at Fairbanks’ forehead and fired. A white bolt of electricity arced through the air, knocking Fairbanks to the floor. The electricity flashed down his arm, through the metal handcuffs, and into Nick.

  Once more, darkness.

  ◊

  Painfully, Nick opened his eyes. His wrist was free, and Fairbanks was gone. He found himself looking up at a group of scantily-clad women holding bullwhips, riding crops, and leather paddles. One of the women, a redhead in a lace teddy so thin it was practically imaginary, helped Nick to his feet. “I knew that was dangerous,” he said, “but I didn’t think it would kill me. Oh, well. At least I went to heaven!”

  “Heaven? No, you’re still in the Temple.” The wall of women parted, revealing Quentin Fairbanks collapsed on the floor. Three of the women were sitting on him, while a fourth threatened him with a cattle prod. “Who are you guys, anyway?”

  Nick explained the events of the past few days, omitting the part about leaving a woman at the altar. His version of the story also had a car chase, gratuitous nudity, and a song and dance number. Other than that, though, it was strictly the truth.

  “That’s quite a tale, Mr. Wergild,” the redhead said at last. “But one you left something out. You said this guy was a politician, but not what position he held.”

  “I’m not positive, but I think he was Secretary of Agriculture.”

  “Oh. Do you think he’ll be in the work camps for a while?”

  “After the arbitrator hears about him trying to saw off his arm, he’ll probably end up in an insane asylum.” Nick gazed down at Fairbanks and sighed. “Listen, this guy is very dangerous, and my handcuffs obviously aren’t enough to keep him under control. Do you have anything I could use to restrain him?”

  The women cackled uproariously. “He wants to know if we have any restraints!” the redhead laughed. “Can you believe this guy?”

  ◊

  As Nick drove back to Vancouver, Quentin Fairbanks was sprawled face-down in the backseat. His arms were encased in a tight, black restraint called a “monoglove,” a solid sheath of leather enclosing everything from his fingers to his elbows. Leather straps around the shoulders further reduced his movements. He was also wearing six pairs of leg irons, a ball gag, and a tight, vinyl hobble skirt.

  The drive to Vancouver took nearly sixteen hours. Nick passed the time smoking a pack of Cannabliss Cigarettes and tailgating slow drivers. He dropped off Fairbanks at a security patrol office, where the desk sergeant reminded him that it was illegal to humiliate a captive.

  “Don’t blame me,” Nick replied. “He was like this when I found him.”

  “Oh… Well, everybody needs a hobby!”

  Finally, Nick arrived at his office building. He trudged across the parking lot to his office and collapsed at his desk, exhausted. He pulled a bottle of pills from a drawer and, smiling dimly, took a much-needed break from reality.

  Chapter Two

  Nick didn’t notice the man walk in, as he was far too busy having several hallucinations at once. He was in his office on the south side of Vancouver, sitting behind his giant, stainless steel desk, barely aware of the world outside his mind.

  The walls were covered in framed newsfeed articles touting his accomplishments. He had edited most of the articles to make them more flattering or to remove the death threats. Occasionally, he would get carried away. As a result, several of the articles were completely fabricated. He had never even met the pope, let alone stolen his girlfriend. In the Old Days, he would have also had a detective’s license hanging on the wall. Without a government, this was no longer necessary. People could start any sort of business, as long as they didn’t defraud anyone. You could wake up one morning and decide to become a brain surgeon, as long as you told your customers you had no idea what you were doing.

  Several giraffes stood idly, mouths open, like bored guests at a cocktail party. They didn’t seem to notice that a filing cabinet with a cigarette lighter was trying to set them on fire. An elegantly dressed waiter explained to the coat rack that there were no salmon puffs right now, but if she would just be patient, a new batch would be ready shortly. Of course, none of them were real. They were the result of the powerful hallucinogens that were Nick’s main defense against the continued onslaught of reality.

  Behind Nick’s left ear was an inducer, a small, black disk covered in tiny buttons. The inducer fired electromagnetic pulses into the user’s brain, producing near-overwhelming synesthesia. While under its influence, words had shapes and smells had sounds. If Nick played some music, he could see it hanging in the air, each note a different color. Oddly, blues songs were always orange.

  He was also enjoying a far more common, electronic hallucination known as “television”. He had been watching comedies most of the day, but had switched to drama when he ran out of marijuana. Currently, the hologram projector in his desk was showing a war movie. Several miniature tanks crawled to the top of his stapler, preparing to bombard the enemy camp hidden behind his coffee mug. The LSD made the film’s special effects simply fantastic. Unfortunately, the plot was unintelligible. But for that, the drugs may have been less to blame than the director.

  All these things combined meant that the normally vigilant detective never saw the white-haired man in the ridiculously expensive suit barge into his office. He also didn’t notice the man wave his hand through the hologram, impatiently check his watch, and clear his throat in an “I’m here, why don’t you notice me, you ass?” sort of way. Frustrated, the man jabbed Nick in the chest with the pointy end of his umbrella.

  Nick lurched back in surprise and fell out of his chair. Picking himself up, he switched off the hologram, yanked off his inducer and stared. The man in his office was older, late sixties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair. He had a long, thin frame and a face creased with years of stress and worry. He wore a gray fedora and an Italian suit that, strangely, appeared to be melting.

  “And what can I do for you, sir?” Nick asked cautiously. “If this is another hallucination,” he thought, “he’ll probably tell me to kill my girlfriend, or sell my soul to the devil, or to take up knitting.”

  Extending a slender hand, the man offered Nick a business card. “Good evening, Mr. Wergild. My name is Todd Sweeney. I own a several businesses here in town, and I have run into a rather unfortunate problem with one of my employees. You have a reputation for solving unusual cases, so I thought you could help.” Todd spoke with a British accent
but sounded as if he had been in America for quite a while.

  “A man of your means ought to have crime insurance,” Nick said dismissively, now fairly certain that he was dealing with an actual person. He dropped back into his chair and tried to look professional.

  “I have got insurance,” Todd insisted, gesturing with his umbrella. “However, my problem is rather… unique. Should I report it to my insurance company, I am positive that the story would soon reach the media. I assumed a private investigator would be rather more discrete.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms nervously, his silver wristwatch flashing in the dim lighting.

  “I understand. No one wants bad publicity.” Nick motioned for Todd to take a seat. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Cigarette?”

  “Again, no.”

  “Horse tranquilizer?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. So, what’s the problem? ”

  Todd took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I suppose I should start by saying that there has been a murder. The head waitress at my restaurant, a young woman named Renée Flockhart. When her family discovers what has occurred, they will have every reason in the world to sue me. I would like you to locate the killer before I inform her parents of the murder. If they already have their reimbursement coming, they may decide to not pursue the matter in court.”

  After the government collapsed, the private sector took over emergency and protection services. As there were no police, most people purchased crime insurance. If they were assaulted or robbed, the insurance company would reimburse them and then send their investigators after the suspect. Captured suspects were tried by an independent arbiter.

  Non-violent criminals, if they had a legitimate job, were implanted with a tracking device and their wages docked until the insurance company recovered its losses. However, criminals were locked away in work camps if they were dangerous, unemployed, or aromatically challenged. The profit from their labors was given to the insurance company. The prisoners generally did simple, mindlessly repetitive work like making furniture, assembling toys, or writing for television.

  Victims without insurance had to hire a manhunter like Nick. A typical manhunter would find the criminal in exchange for a percentage of the docked wages or work camp profits. Nick liked to call it “The Great Commission.”

  “Look, Sweeney,” Nick said, standing unsteadily, “it can take months to solve a murder. I hope you have a meat locker at that restaurant of yours. By tomorrow morning, your dead woman will start stinking up the place.”

  “Well, that’s just it. She won’t. There’s no body.”

  “What happened to the body? It didn’t just get up and walk away! …Did it?”

  Todd seemed anxious, unsure how to properly explain himself. “I’m sure you know about hospital organ purchase programs.”

  “Sure. If you sign a sales contract, the hospital will buy your organs when you die. It’s a good way to pay for your funeral expenses.” Nick opened several desk drawers, looking for his bottle of little yellow pills. “Downers” always helped him concentrate on important conversations.

  “The restaurant has a similar program,” Todd explained. “Anyone in good health may sign a contract with us and, after the hospital removes their vital organs, we get the rest of the body.”

  “Wait… Why do you want the rest of the body?” Nick didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

  “For the meat.”

  Nick gave up on looking for the pills. This conversation called for bourbon. “You buy human bodies for the meat? Are you a cannibal, Sweeney?”

  “I would never eat a human being; I’m a vegetarian. However, I have no problem catering to the wishes of my clientele.”

  “Is that what happened? They ate the waitress? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you…”

  Todd looked rather embarrassed. “It seems so. Believe it or not, there is a demand for such things. Actually, as strange as it may sound, many of my best customers are vegans. They have no objection to eating human meat as humans are the only animals that can consent to being eaten.”

  “Unless you count parrots,” Nick observed, “or those gorillas that know sign language. But you never got consent. Flockhart was eaten, but she didn’t want to be?”

  “Yes, that appears to be the case. The bodies are quite valuable, which has created a bit of a black market. Therefore, we keep multiple copies of the contracts and the delivery receipts. This shows that the person was not murdered, but rather died of natural causes.”

  “Murder is a natural cause,” Nick insisted. “It happens in nature all the time. Animals fight over mates, or to control their territory. Squirrels kill for pleasure.”

  “As I was saying,” Todd interrupted, continuing his story, “I was doing my regular audit of our records when I came across an error. We had recorded a body that didn’t have a matching delivery receipt... It seemed that we had a body that had never been shipped to us!”

  Nick poured himself a glass of bourbon and offered Todd one, which he politely refused. “So, what do you think that means?”

  “Renée had been listed as a missing person for days. I hadn’t seen her since June, about four weeks ago. There was no sign of a struggle at her apartment, so the insurance investigators assumed she had left town to avoid her debts. I assumed that she had found another job… But it looks like she was murdered, and her body was smuggled into my restaurant. It appears that the killer decided it was a good way to dispose of the evidence.”

  “And that’s why you’re so worried about her family suing you,” Nick thought. “And why shouldn’t they? You might not have killed her, but you cooked her.” To Todd he said, “So you expect me to solve a murder that happened over a month ago, with no body and no crime scene? That’s impossible!”

  “If you do it in a week, I will pay you five thousand in gold, plus your normal commission, and a gift certificate from my restaurant.”

  Nick grabbed Todd’s hand and pumped his arm. “I’ll need half the money up front …You can keep the gift certificate.”

  Chapter Three

  Nick sat in his office, smoking his breakfast. He had a pile of matchbooks and a new pack of Cannabliss Cigarettes on his desk. The marijuana cigarettes were very popular, due in part to their animated spokesman, a fish with dreadlocks named “Bob Marlin.” They were available in “original” or a variety of flavors: chocolate, strawberry, and PCP.

  A motorcycle rumbled into the parking lot and, a moment later, a tattooed twenty-something man in a blue jumpsuit strolled into his office. “Oh, hey! You’re that detective! I saw you in those newsfeed photos.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” he protested, throwing up his hands. “I’ve never been to Maryland, I don’t know how to use night vision goggles, and I certainly don’t own any snorkeling gear! Even if I did, those photos are much too blurry to tell it’s me.”

  “You’re not the manhunter who put Quentin Fairbanks in the nuthouse?”

  “Oh, those photos. Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m from Hermes Messenger Service. I’ve got a package for you.” The messenger handed Nick a locked, steel box and gestured for him to sign the electronic clipboard strapped to his wrist. Clearing his throat, the messenger held out his other hand for a tip.

  “I catch thieves, murderers, and rapists,” Nick said, “and you bring people boxes. If I don’t get tipped, why should you?” The messenger scowled and jabbed his pinkie fingers at Nick’s throat. It was one of the newer obscene gestures, made popular by a recent shampoo commercial. The messenger stormed out of the office, and Nick closed and locked the door.

  The box held a folder of information on Renée Flockhart: her home address, employment history, and student records from Yale and Ellison High School. There were also a few photos, mostly from a Christmas party at the restaurant. She had been twenty-six, five-foot-two, and gorgeous. S
he had worn her black hair very short, but it suited her well.

  Under the folder was a black, drawstring bag filled with twenty-five hundred dollars in gold coins. On one side, the coins were engraved with their weight as certified by a local bank. The other side featured a portrait of Mitch Deslin, the recently deceased anarchist game show host.

  Nick wanted to begin his investigation without alerting Todd’s employees, as any of them could have been involved in the murder. He decided to wait until nightfall. He sprawled on the floor in his office and dropped a sugar cube into his mouth. For a moment he was still, just listening to the sound of his breathing. The window opened by itself and a great cloud of insects floated into the room. The cloud shaped itself into a woman, naked, skin shiny and wet. She dropped to one knee, her hand reaching down to touch his face. She brushed his cheek and shattered into pieces, covering him in blackened moths.

  His head began to clear. The window was closed, but the room was cold. Eight hours had passed by unnoticed. He poured a cup of coffee and walked out to the parking lot. Lighting another Cannabliss cigarette, he climbed into his car. It was a small, sporty model with all the standard features: navigational computer, Chameleon brand color-changing paintjob, and fade-to-black windows for sleeping on the go. It was also equipped with the new Schlock Products™ anti-theft alarm. If anyone opened the door without the correct key, it turned on the radio. This would startle the thief so much that he would be too nervous to steal the car. At least, that’s what the commercial said.

  The restaurant was near the Columbia River, a few blocks from a park. It was a large, gray building shaped like an “L,” set far back from the road. The lot was small and poorly-lit, almost as if Todd Sweeney didn’t want anyone to notice the restaurant was there. Nick waited outside for a few minutes, watching the customers drive home. Finally, Todd came out and approached his car. He was dressed just as he had been the day before.