Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets by Alessio Lanterna Page B

today and go to bed.
    “We can’t just walk up to the door waving a badge around.”
    I nod at Cicisbeo. There isn’t a queue, just groups of patrons smoking and chatting, under the watchful eye of a bouncer (who obviously has an ogre grandmother) with a scarred face and a ridiculous black bandanna on his head, decorated with a pirate skull and cross bones. He thinks a minute, then nods.
    “Yeah. He could tip the hare off inside. What shall we do then?”
    “The queers plan might just work.”
    The inspector’s eyes pop out and he stares at me in astonishment. I press my index finger on his chest.
    “You’re the woman, let that be clear. Talk to the pirate only if the pirate asks you something, otherwise, let’s just go straight in, got it?”
    “Erm, but I’m not sure if—“
    “Put on a falsetto voice, tell him he’s a hunk, tell him what you like. Just make sure he doesn’t call his boss and tell him that two weirdos have gone into his club. Understood?”
    I fear that I am visibly embarrassed, because the kid starts to look amused.
    “Let’s do it! But Lieutenant, you’ve got to make it convincing…”
    “Fuck off.”
    He doesn’t answer and puts his arm in mine. Oh Fucking Mother of God, I hate this stuff. Like pretending to be a shirt-lifter.
    “You even look like a fag,” muttering all the way to the entrance to the club. When we’re a few metres away, the scarred pirate watches us approach with a menacing air. I hope to God I’m too exhausted from the effort of ignoring Cohl to blush at the
sweet
things he’s saying to me. A couple of metres away and the bouncer takes his hands out of his pockets and takes a breath to say something.
    Cohl
kisses me on the cheek
. I try my best to continue walking and be all nonchalant, gritting my teeth so hard I almost shatter my teeth. Scarface gives us half a mocking smile and lets us through without any questions. Once through the metal double doors, I push Cohl away.
    “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”
    Inside, the club is filled with muffled music to fuck to, that kind of music packed with moans and words like ‘hot’ and ‘sexy’. The thick smoke screen generated by the club-goers almost manages to create an air of intrigue in this ex-warehouse done up like a brothel. Soft lighting, mostly red. Behind the bar down one side of the room stands a barman with a face like a pimp and a gold chain round his neck. He’s chewing on a toothpick with surprising dedication; behind him there’s a small shelf holding all the types of booze which are popular with the lowlife and next to it there’s a poster of the stars of Cicisbeo. I’m dying to know the name of the guy who’s squirming around on stage right now like a worm on a fish hook. He’s wearing a policeman’s helmet and, thank the Lord, he’s still wearing his studded leather underpants to hide his sausage. No really, I can’t wait.
    “Let’s get a drink. Carry on with the homo thing, tell him you’re dying to see an elf’s cock. Touch me again and I’ll rip your face off and stick it up your arse.”
    “Roger, Lieutenant,” answers Cohl, in a sing-song voice. Glancing around I notice with a sense of relief that despite the human bogey’s conviction, the tables, arranged in front of the stage, are mainly occupied by women looking for fun while the husband is in jail or out whoring. That’s funny, the catwalk extends into the room like an over-sized dick. Very appropriate.
    The bar offers clients half a dozen leather-covered stools which have definitely seen better days. Originally they must have been zebra-print, now all that’s left is a series of dark stains. Sitting down I wonder what the hell do homos drink? Luckily Cohl is very well-informed.
    “We’ll have two fruit cocktails… uhm, what do you recommend?” he asks the barman with a wink, who launches into the usual rigmarole. The Inspector is so good at playing a raving fruit loop that I’m beginning to wonder about