The White Flamingo by James A. Newman

Think.” 
    Vern drank the rest of his beer in two long hits. Waves of relief flooded his face. Tensions eased and then tightened. Facial muscles twisted into an ugly stoat grimace. He threw the empty can onto the sands where it landed next to a broken coconut shell and an abandoned flip-flop. It was the right, so the Detective guessed it was a flop. Fun City beach was full of them. Flops .
    “Vern. The woman on the table was real. It was no hallucination. It happened. I saw it myself. Who would do something like that? ”
    “I tell you who – Jack the fucking Ripper.” The old man stared out to sea. “Thinking,” he said. He remained silent for a long time. “Francis, ya bastard, I think better after the fifth or the sixth. I had a case in London…”
    “Who’s Francis?”
    “The vampire.”
    “There’re no vampires, Vern. This work was done by a real person, somebody who drinks in the bars.”
    Hale sat on the pier. He had five cans left. He opened one and drank from it. The second one he gave to Vern. Vern cracked it open and drank long and deep. Killed half the can, quarter of a litre, in one long bite. “She used to laugh at me. She would flash her tits at me. I’m glad the whore is dead,” Vern said. “Deserved it if you ask me. Thought she was better than me she did. Harlot, ‘king slag .”
    “What did you see?”
    “I woke up. You know what it’s like. The fear. The voices. The day is one long insult. A storm. I need to get the first drink down while I can still move, cos’ if I wait too long, the voices make it too difficult to think, to move. I hear voices, see? Always have. I walked in the bar, I didn’t look at the pool table, I headed to the jug. Voices everywhere. The juice. I see things too, see? Slim collects the slops every night. Pours them in the jug. I drink it down and then feel better. I never feel good, you know. Just different shades of shit. Fifty shades of shit, hahahahaha. Lost my wife. Fucking blood suckers. There’s a conference inside my head, you know? All these different voices shouting and screaming to be heard above each other. The first pint quietens them down.” Vern necked the rest of the can. Hale passed him another and he opened it. “Quietens them down a little and then… a stop watch, a clock ticking. The only real escape is sleep. The voices never stop. Sleep. That and oblivion. Yes. I saw her face first. I thought she was sleeping on the table. Some whores do, see? Then I thought she was playing a joke. Perhaps it was Halloween. Claret everywhere. They all knew I came in the bar in the morning. They knew about the case back in London. Left the squad, I did, compassionate leave. They had thought up the joke together to make me frightened. Then I thought that it was the booze, see. That there was nothing on the table. It was all inside my head, see? The mind plays tricks. Tries to make you see things. I poured a glass of rum and drank it. Jim was there. She was still there. She wasn’t going anywhere. I heard a toilet flush and Jim was there. He said that there had been a murder. He said she was a whore, but I knew it, I recognized her. I wasn’t sorry that she was dead. I was glad. I was confused. Happy if the truth be told.”
    “Then what did you do?”
    “I drank the beer.”
    “After that?”
    “Jim gave me a shot and I drank it.”
    “And then?”
    “I’ve been here ever since. I sat on the road for a while, up there,” Vern gestured with his head toward the beach road. “The tourists give me enough to get by. A German gave me a purple note, I hit the seven, the beach, drank, slept, and then you came. That’s it. That’s all there ever is. This. The truth is, I like it, see? There’s no mortgage here, no car to run, no job, this is real. You see? Real. I thought about the monastery, but there’s no drinking there. I tried going without the bottle, but it sent me mad. What hope do you have here sober?”
    “Thanks , Vern. Joe, let’s