suffer my desire [ for you ] : julien york.

[Noir City]

The last five weeks before committing to some bullshit resolution was the only time you could slack off. The holidays were a curse to Julien. There was no turkey. No family bliss. For one, his family was in Shanghai and they didn't celebrate lame American holidays. This time of the year was hard on Julien. Wives typically felt more loyalty to their husbands and single women often got the wrong idea about him and his intentions. People just don't think clearly this time of year and they begin to think insane things like Julien being good boyfriend-material. Which conveniently brings us to the winter of 1998.

Julien was narrowing in on twenty-one. York Aviation was at an all time high. He was strapped for cash, having that his father was cutting off all his allowances due to Julien's refusal to hop on board. No one knows exactly where he came up with the idea, but it wouldn't be until the next spring that he would come out on top. It was the winter of 1998 in a beautiful town called London. Her name was Audrey Marie Barrick. He had picked her to be his first job mostly because he found her insanely attractive and wealthy. Her husband was a balding man who was one of the six members of The House of Commons commission.

It was a few days before Christmas. Things were going very very well. Julien, Lash, and Sam were to execute the plan tonight. The snow storm had been snubbed, and the small apartment that sat upon a tourist shop was lit by the small lamp on the bedside table. Julien was waiting patiently by the window, until Audrey burst into the room. They embraced before she could barely close the door, his mouth hungrily feeding off hers. He pushed her against the wall, struggling to pull off her coat. "Wait..." Audrey murmured against his lips. Julien, still a young lover at the time, had a hard time channeling out from his sheer lust until she said "I've left Henry."

The blood drained from his face as her smile confirmed it. Audrey had never looked so delighted with her flawless smile worth a thousand words (that meant absolutely nothing to young Julien). She had left Henry Barrick after twenty-four years of marriage for her beautiful young lover. He was going to make her the happiest woman in London. Or so he had made her believe.

[Noir City]

Sit there, breathe heavily into the microphone. It's a trip. The Pearlcorder J300 knows you. Memorized you. Incriminating tapes. Why is it that so many criminals keep such flat-out gorgeous physical evidence laying in crates or stuffed in shoe-boxes under the bed?

In the glove box.

Julien read about serial killers because it gave him a kick. Julien read about cold-blooded murders because he was amused with the motive and everything that sewed plot and the deltas of latent fingerprints to the suspects together. Although a better reason would've been that it made him feel less of a criminal himself. He wasn't spraying blood across eggshell walls, he was just smashing hearts into the ground, allowing Lash and Johnny barge in through the door mid-fuck and blindfold her.

Marlena with her heavy collagen mouth. Marlena with her bottle blonde hair and unattractive snarl she awoke with in the morning. Pearlcorder J300 laid hidden under the bed like he had done so many times before. Tapes that would eventually be transferred to the Pearlcorder T1000 that was old and cranky, frigid but got the job done. Meant more for phone calls than anything else. Law offices use them. They sit at every cubicle, beneath every legal secretary's nose, on huge endless desks, beneath faux Monet paintings and degrees from the best schools across America.

"We've been watching you, Misses Branse. Watching you and your pretty boy go at it for the past couple months. We know all about you, Misses Branse. And I will kill you and your lover if you so much make one move. One scream. You need to do us -- no, yourself -- a favor. Would you like us to call your husband or are you going to?"

"Where's Cole?" She stammered. Julien's alias.

"He's dead." Clean. Precise. Guiltless.

"No..no!" A gasping response, thighs shaking. Silence. "What do you want?" Julien watched her, breathing low, and he was pleased that she gave in easily. Like a lamb. They never fought.

"Two Hundred Thousand Dollars." Enough so the husband would never inquire. She could've probably spent that in a month at Gucci. Armani. Fred Segal, or where ever the fuck rich Hollywood-blonde middle-aged women liked to splurge and stuff their brag-worthy twenty year old bodies in. Julien charged by the week. The longer it took one to fall in love with him, the more she paid in the end.

Lash would lean in. Lean in real close, almost where his lip was touching her earlobe. "You have twelve hours to get the cash. I want hundreds only, in this nice croco briefcase I've left here for you..." Johnny would grab the Pearlcorder out from beneath the bed, stuff it in his Jansport backpack, and follow Julien out the of room, leaving the blue-eyed psycho alone with her. Julien never knew about the collection or the last workings of Lash's threats. He had left by then. Belted himself up, told Johnny to watch himself, and got into that '68 Ferrari and drove away.

There were three more things that needed to be done:

1. Change the number to his Nextel (he had two phones, and by some people's observation that made him some kind of pimp).

2. Break the lease to whatever apartment he was occupying for the sole purpose of the job.

3. Ingest two vicodin (he always thought the "v" on the white pill looked like a mathematical symbol), double scotch on the rocks, one ambien to battle the dark night, another pained sleepless night -- his nemesis. It always ended the same; sheet kicked to where the mattress met the footboard, three o'clock sweat on the treadmill, a shower under ten, the electric blue static of infomercials blinking through the room, slurping ichiban noodles on the couch, and if he was lucky he could go see that redhead waitress whose shift was over at five.

[Noir City]

[ recording. tape one. ]

"March tenth, year two thousand six. New York, New York. My doctor told me that I need to work -- no, talk things out. Therapists are out of the question, and so are my accomplices. Since I'm not idiotic enough to confide in anyone, I have decided to record myself and create my own asessment of each day, each calculated moment." He cleared his throat and continued. "Twenty-six point five million people in the United States have a prescription for Ambien. I have a prescription for several sleeping pills, Ambien included. My doctor doesn't throw these figures around, I find them on my own. Maybe the sleep problem isn't mine, maybe it's America. Maybe living in London will change things. Maybe it won't. I don't know why I don't sleep. I haven't had a job in a couple months. I've been spending some time with Razli. She's probably the only one in New York who is sad of my departure. Sweet girl. I'd only make her wish she never knew me. Although with the dwindling last hours of New York, she may never know. Lucky her. Things would had been more beneficial if she had been married, or easy. She was neither one. Men like me don't have to work for it. We just don't. Where's a girl like Alma when you need her? I don't even know why I'm talking about her. Maybe it's because... nevermind. I'm going to find a new job in London and I'm going to be the best damn gentleman out there. I'm going to fucking rip some woman's heart out. I can't hardly wait."

[Noir City]

[ recording. tape one. entry two. ]

There's this girl. There's always a girl, isn't there? Sometimes more than one, but that's beside the point. She goes by the name of Fiona, but who knows if that's her real name. It's hard to believe the truth in anyone if you yourself live a lie. She's the most... real thing that I've found out here in London. I wonder how long that will last. I have yet to complete a job out here. I think I've turned soft."

[Noir City]

[ Part I : Curiosity Suffers ]

Julien never liked to bring women home, but he did make an exception (mistake) now and again.

And here was Cindy Patel, an Indian Brit little minx, who happen to work at The Carlton (those January Arsonists could never get enough of that place). She had a heavy accent and she talked about religion more than he cared to pay attention to. Julien particularly liked her for those large brown eyes, but he took her home for that ass.

He had left her on his bed, mindless from her games, and to the shower. Not ten minutes later, he wrapped a towel around his waste and started with something ridiculously charming like "Are you ready for round--" before that knowing grin froze.

She had simply vanished from the bed, sheets cold. It was panic at first, as he made his way down the hallway and straight for the kitc--and to the right: a flash of dark amber skin against the leather chair. And there was the fucking little cunt, legs crossed, files opened.

"Who are all these women?" she asked, obviously intrigued with the thickest of files (Julien took it out time to time): his Helena Connelly.

[Noir City]

[ Part II : Curiosity Suffers ]

His eyes spoke a language I hadn't ever seen. Strange how a man in a towel could look so pissed off, and I took that as a cue to stand up and close the top file. I was starting to doubt that he was the co-owner of an import/export company. Gut instinct was indicating I was never going to see him again after this morning. "I'll call you a taxi." He muttered, reaching around his desk (nevermind me, I moved out from beyond his grand cherry wood desk from the other side). This is the first time I had ever seen him rest a cigarette between his lips, and suck in his first drag while giving me a contemplative glance. He picked up the phone and did exactly what he said he would do.

"They'll be here in five minutes." He seemed less distressed now, blowing smoke in my direction. "So. Were you looking for something?"

I paused and shook my head. "I wanted to know more about you." She would give him the benefit of the doubt. "So, you're a private investigator, right?"

He smirked, he seemed to enjoy that. "You know what all these women that I have... investigated have in common, Cindy?" He moved away from his desk, pouring himself a scotch. It was a little early for a drink, but he never minded.

"Most of them are attractive..." She wasn't going to state the obvious, sometimes it was better to play dumb.

"C'mon, Cindy, you're brighter than that."

"Well...." But it was too late, he could see the answers in her eyes. They're all disgustingly wealthy.

"Well, as you can imagine, I'm upset that you have... gone through all my private files. But, Cindy, I really like you. And I'd really like to get a chance to explain... what all of this means..." He seemed to soften, looking almost angelic.

I found myself gazing into those brown eyes, and it was hard to not believe him. "You don't owe me an explanation, Julien. I'm sorry that I went through your.. personal things. How about we just move forward as if nothing happened?" My fingertips grazed against his lower abdomen and he smiled deliciously.

Julien walked her to the door, gently tugging on her until she gave him a kiss. "We're still on for Friday, right?" He whispered into her mouth, she nodded and waved before disappearing into the taxi. He watched the vehicle disappear down the street and he sighed. He should've locked the cabinet last night.

She would pay dearly for his mistake.

I was dying to call Francesca, she loves hearing about Julien. He is probably one of the best catches I had ever come across. He lived in one of the best places in London, for fuck's sake. Suddenly, I was pulled into a small alleyway, a driveway, I don't know. He was strong, and I tried to struggle, tried to scream, but he held something over my nose. And everything went black.

[Noir City]

[ Part III : Curiosity Suffers ]


"Fuck, Jules. It's early. Johnny and I were up til--"

Julien cut him off. "Yes. I'd like to get a cab to come to 244 Sloane Street."
?
"I wonder what little bitch crossed you this time."

"As soon as possible. Thank you."
?
Grumble. "I'll be there in ten."
?
Lash never told Julien the details of the little Indian Brit who snooped after a lay. He honked twice and she promptly emerged from the house. Lash knew that Julien was watching them until he pulled away from the curb. She never noticed the latex gloves he wore, the medical bag in the passenger seat. She must've been preoccupied with whatever had gone wrong between her and him. Julien was like a brother, but the asshole always got himself in female messes. Fucking good looking bastard who couldn't keep his dick in his pants.
?
He knew exactly what alleyway to pull into, the one behind the abandoned apartment complex. There had been a series of murders and everyone had bailed. It was that gruesome. A good old fashion English massacre -- intestinal tangle, bone and ligament art, all that good stuff. She looked confused, scrambling to throw open the door, only to meet Lash at the bumper. He flashed on her, the premeditated moves, like a dance on stage. She didn't have time to struggle, dripping in his arms. Unconscious. He shoved her into the backseat, closed the door soundly, and drove to the outskirts of London. Julien had a lot of connections through the January Arsonists, and was able to cop a wherehouse.
?
The tarp was sticky with her blood. She was beyond recognizable; down to slivers and jagged chunks, uneven pieces laid out like she had been four or five slaughtered chickens. She was delicate, petite, and that had made the job easier. Her head was left on a table like a trophy, proudly displayed with the most dignity it could muster. He was dripping with sweat, exhilarated, refreshed with the hand saw shining red in his hand. He hadn't been so rough in the beginning; she was still alive under the blade. Her heart still pumping quietly, going along with it's business, awaiting the arrival of his handiwork. She had bled to death, and as Lash looked at his kicks, he thought Shit, I really liked these shoes.
?
Julien called shortly. "Is it done?"
?
"Sure is, boss."
?
"Don't call me that." Lash could practically see the disdain on his face.
?
"Whatever you want, Jules. It's done."
?
"No one saw you?"
?
"No one."
?
"You're sure?"
?
"Positive."
?
Julien hung up. Probably to go bury his face in his hands and cry like the depressed lover that he is.? Lash thought he was so pitiful, falling head over heels over the next cocktail waitress, every other girl with a pretty little face. The minute something went sour, Lash had to save the day. This was starting to make him feel angry and resentful, that seemed to only grow as Lash began to feed each piece in the incinerator, one at a time until he got bored and impatient, and threw it all in. Rubbing his hands together and shut the door. All evidence had been burned as well -- every piece of plastic, her panties, all of it. Well, except for the cross she wore around her neck -- he would keep?it as a souvenir.
?
To much of Lash's surprise, Julien called back.
?
"What now?" He muttered.
?
Julien paused. "You didn't do anything fucked up, did you?"
?
"Well, Jules, I'd say all of this is pretty fucked up."
?
"You know what I mean," he said sharply.
?
"I baked her fresh from the cab,"?lied Lash.
?
"Good." He sounded relieved. "Good. Thanks, Lash."
?
"No problem, bro."
?
Finally,?he was left alone. After Cindy was turned into glittered ash, he couldn't help but think of Joyce Yamagata, the only other woman honored enough to visit this wherehouse.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ June 26, 2006 07:12 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

[Noir City]

"You sure I can't get you a drink?" He poured himself a scotch, loosening his pinstripe tie in the process. A Christmas present sent from a Hong Kong client.

"Lets get down to business."

The voice purred off leather, Ms. Montgomery was not one to wait for anyone. Dress straps sliding off in the most simply provocative way, and Julien sipped at his scotch with pleasure burning in his stare. She was a professional.

"Please, let me..." The zipper didn't hesitate, not once. Julien's breath on her shoulder, and Ms. Montgomery's dirty murmur was lost in the transition from standing to bent over the sofa armrest.

Three hundred was left on the coffee table, and she was gone by two a.m.

A professional never spends the night unless requested to. The huge reason why Julien sometimes preferred whores over cocktail waitresses.

[Noir City]

[ just give me a ring... ]


"Hello, darling."

"Helena."

"Why, Julien, you haven't forgotten all about me."

"I've..."

"You don't have to explain anything. I know what you've been up to."

"What I've been up to?"

"In Switzerland. With that... girl."

"My father thought it would be wise to--"

"Do you think I was born yesterday?"

"No, Helena. Not at all."

"You've got your buddies there. And that broadway nobody."

"Did you call just to throw a few insults around?"

"No. I called to tell you that Frederick found the letters."

"What letters?"

"The letters you wrote me. The ones I hid in the attic."

"And?"

"He's hired someone to kill you."