one or two of those places have a room where you can find things that are a little out of the ordinary. Magazines with a special twist, maybe movies.”
“Movies?”
“Movies where the actors engage in unusual acts.”
“Unusual acts?”
“Don’t ask me what they are, but it’s no Sunday school picnic.”
“You know that these movies exist?”
“That’s what they tell me, and also that there are a couple of small, anonymous joints that don’t even pretend to be anything else.”
“Where?”
Bolger threw out his hands.
“Can you look into it?” Bergenhem asked.
“Maybe. It might take a little time, though. I’ve got to watch my step.”
“Who are the customers?”
“You ask as if I knew the answer.”
“What’s your best guess? As opposed to the customers you had, or the ones who look for the ordinary stuff.”
The sunlight from the other room suddenly dimmed, and Bolger put on a pair of metal-frame glasses with thin lenses.
They add character to his face, Bergenhem thought.
“My best guess? I don’t think there’s that much of a difference. Interest breeds interest, like when you start with beer and move on to the harder stuff. Or from smoking grass to shooting up.”
“You develop more of an appetite?”
“Some people just want more and more. It’s hard to say where it all stops. Others are sexually aroused by the fantasy of being strangled or having a limb cut off. Who knows what kind of movies they like to watch?”
“Where can I find them?” Bergenhem asked.
“People who dream about somebody cutting off their leg?”
“All of these sick people. When they’re not at a club, I mean, or at home, or in a hotel room.”
“Since I drive a BMW, I’d say in Volvo’s boardroom. Or in the boardroom of your choice. Or on the county commission. There are crazy people everywhere.”
“Creepy.” Bergenhem got up.
“Be careful out there. I’m not kidding.”
Bergenhem waved from the doorway and walked out into the sunset. The wind swooped down from the rooftops and raised his collar. A glass broke somewhere behind him.
15
MACDONALD DODGED THE OBSCENITIES THAT THE FRUlT STAND vendors screamed at each other across the intersection. He was at the corner of Berwick and Peter streets in Soho. Just look at what they’ve done to our proud fruit market tradition, he thought. Covent Garden closed, everything driven out of downtown.
This was what has become of it: half-drunk men slipping on banana peels, a few pitiful stands for a handful of curious tourists and ten times as many junkies. Soho doesn’t swing anymore, it crawls—at least here, where an empty lot is the most pleasant sight for miles around.
He turned up the collar of his raincoat against the drizzle and stepped over a crushed beefsteak tomato. Walkers Court was so short, unassuming and shoddy that it didn’t even appear in the new edition of a London A-Z street atlas. Maybe they excluded it on purpose, he thought. It’s not the kind of street you feel like bragging about to rosy-cheeked Italian and Scandinavian tourists straight from Heathrow and Gatwick.
Walkers Court was porn without silk sheets or the pink young models who show their pee hole in Hustler, Macdonald thought as he shook his head at a doorman who beckoned him into one of the theaters. It was more for sweaty junkies in rags—low-budget sex for the masses, books, magazines and videos for those who came to see themselves as they might have been in another life.
Maybe they bought the fantasyware in these sophisticated stores. Just what you need in certain situations. Or how about this leash or that noose? This is a free country. We’re all entitled to a personal life. Some people light a cigarette in the privacy of their own home; others like to poop in the faces of strangers.
He passed by the biggest bookstore on the street. It looked out of place with its advertisements featuring the latest in fine literature for the educated middle class: V.
“Movies?”
“Movies where the actors engage in unusual acts.”
“Unusual acts?”
“Don’t ask me what they are, but it’s no Sunday school picnic.”
“You know that these movies exist?”
“That’s what they tell me, and also that there are a couple of small, anonymous joints that don’t even pretend to be anything else.”
“Where?”
Bolger threw out his hands.
“Can you look into it?” Bergenhem asked.
“Maybe. It might take a little time, though. I’ve got to watch my step.”
“Who are the customers?”
“You ask as if I knew the answer.”
“What’s your best guess? As opposed to the customers you had, or the ones who look for the ordinary stuff.”
The sunlight from the other room suddenly dimmed, and Bolger put on a pair of metal-frame glasses with thin lenses.
They add character to his face, Bergenhem thought.
“My best guess? I don’t think there’s that much of a difference. Interest breeds interest, like when you start with beer and move on to the harder stuff. Or from smoking grass to shooting up.”
“You develop more of an appetite?”
“Some people just want more and more. It’s hard to say where it all stops. Others are sexually aroused by the fantasy of being strangled or having a limb cut off. Who knows what kind of movies they like to watch?”
“Where can I find them?” Bergenhem asked.
“People who dream about somebody cutting off their leg?”
“All of these sick people. When they’re not at a club, I mean, or at home, or in a hotel room.”
“Since I drive a BMW, I’d say in Volvo’s boardroom. Or in the boardroom of your choice. Or on the county commission. There are crazy people everywhere.”
“Creepy.” Bergenhem got up.
“Be careful out there. I’m not kidding.”
Bergenhem waved from the doorway and walked out into the sunset. The wind swooped down from the rooftops and raised his collar. A glass broke somewhere behind him.
15
MACDONALD DODGED THE OBSCENITIES THAT THE FRUlT STAND vendors screamed at each other across the intersection. He was at the corner of Berwick and Peter streets in Soho. Just look at what they’ve done to our proud fruit market tradition, he thought. Covent Garden closed, everything driven out of downtown.
This was what has become of it: half-drunk men slipping on banana peels, a few pitiful stands for a handful of curious tourists and ten times as many junkies. Soho doesn’t swing anymore, it crawls—at least here, where an empty lot is the most pleasant sight for miles around.
He turned up the collar of his raincoat against the drizzle and stepped over a crushed beefsteak tomato. Walkers Court was so short, unassuming and shoddy that it didn’t even appear in the new edition of a London A-Z street atlas. Maybe they excluded it on purpose, he thought. It’s not the kind of street you feel like bragging about to rosy-cheeked Italian and Scandinavian tourists straight from Heathrow and Gatwick.
Walkers Court was porn without silk sheets or the pink young models who show their pee hole in Hustler, Macdonald thought as he shook his head at a doorman who beckoned him into one of the theaters. It was more for sweaty junkies in rags—low-budget sex for the masses, books, magazines and videos for those who came to see themselves as they might have been in another life.
Maybe they bought the fantasyware in these sophisticated stores. Just what you need in certain situations. Or how about this leash or that noose? This is a free country. We’re all entitled to a personal life. Some people light a cigarette in the privacy of their own home; others like to poop in the faces of strangers.
He passed by the biggest bookstore on the street. It looked out of place with its advertisements featuring the latest in fine literature for the educated middle class: V.
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