Busted

I hurry through the city streets, cutting corners and red lights, repeating what Jessica told me to memorise before I ‘escaped’ the hospital without paying. What to do to rehabilitate, ways to ensure a smooth recovery, problems to look out for…

I still feel a little woozy from the anaesthetic and the surgery—my face and arm sting some, though I am told it may hurt worse later—but I’ve been gone for the better part of eight hours now. The surgery went as smoothly as it could have gone, and now I need to get my phone back, and I need to get back home. There are arrangements to be made. And also, the thing that’s been nagging me this entire trip: how have my scores on the Affection Multiplier changed?

I turn the corner to Jericho’s dump. Just a chain link fence to hop now, and yes, Jessica told me not to strain myself, but I’ve not got much of a choice…

I freeze.

Inspector Vidocq is standing there, while Jericho is huddled in the corner of his street amidst his blankets, his face a bruised and bloody mess. Shit. Was this how I looked this morning? And FUCK that man Vidocq, did he do this to Jericho?

I am over the fence in a moment, raising my fists, ready to beat the ever-living crap out of the Inspector, when he smiles at me.

“‘ad a little fun, did ve,” he says.

I charge at him, rage clouding my mind—I am ready to beat this fucker who dared to hurt Jericho, and then he pulls out a pistol. The safety comes off, his finger cradles the trigger, and I slide to a stop, staring down that black barrel.

“Yes, o yes, looks like ve did,” he says. Fuck that man. I know he’s faking the French accent, and so does he.

“What did you do to Jericho,” I say through clenched teeth, sparing my old friend a glance.

Jericho gives me a weak smile that’s missing a tooth or two more than usual. I see the rivulets of dried blood crusted along his face.

“You beat up a defenceless homeless man?” I ask.

“I needed to know vhere you vent,” Vidocq shrugs. “You thought you vere so clever, zlinking away and leaving your phone behind.” He pulls my phone out of his pocket and waves it at me. The black cover glints in the sun’s dying light. “But your friend here spilled ze beans, so give eet up.”

“I didn’t,” Jericho gasps, and Vidocq levies the gun at him. Jericho cringes. I think, for a second, about rushing the Inspector then, but the gun is trained on me again.

“I know he didn’t,” I say. “I didn’t tell him jack squat.”

“Figured zat would be ze case,” Vidocq says, twirling the gun in his hand. “So, you going to tell me vhere you vere? Or ve going to do zhis ze ‘ard way?”

“I was nowhere important,” I say, and the corner of Vidocq’s lip curls upwards.

“Iz zat right?” he says, stalking towards Jericho again. He bends down, looking into the poor man’s face, and then smacks it hard with the back of his palm. Jericho’s head whips to the side. A thin stream of spittle and blood flies into the air. Vidocq turns to look back at me questioningly.

“You animal,” I seethe, my hands balled into tight fists. “I was at a brothel. A whorehouse. I was fucking embarrassed and I didn’t want anyone to fucking know, is that so hard to believe?”

“Oh?” Vidocq cocks his head at me. He gives Jericho a pat on the head and then stands up. He holds his gun loosely by his leg, and I wonder if I could snatch it out of his hands, but that would be silly. Even if I killed him here, Father would send someone worse after me. “Tell me, what’s ze name of zis… whorehouse?”

“One of the ones in Flushing,” I say. “You know the corner. The one with the… massage parlours.”

“I’ve ‘eard of eet. And you took so long because?”

“I… it’s none of your business,” I mutter, looking off to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vidocq’s lip curl upwards again. He cracks his neck, and then lets out a low chuckle. Maybe he’s bought it.

“So, you going to give me back my phone?” I ask, abruptly changing the topic. It will seem like I’m drawing attention away from my excuse, making the excuse seem credible, but then Vidocq smiles again, and I second guess myself. Vidocq smiles wider.

“O, your phone, oui, ‘ow could I ‘ave forgotten?”

He clicks back the safety on his gun and tucks it into his holster. Then, from a pocket, he fishes out my phone once more. He turns it over in his hands, and then he holds it up, showing me the screen. The icon and the three words there scream at me, and my blood runs cold.

The Affection Multiplier

“I zink I’ll be keeping zhis one for now.”