Whisperland: Part Two Les Liaisons Dangereuses
Hellblazer #2 February, Year One	by Michael Franzoni

The morning, as always, brought contemplation. In the harsh glare of first light, his sins were laid bare before the eyes of God, and if they could but see, the world at large. It was the questions of guilt that drove him into the arms of the church to seek absolution for the sins that he could neither forgive himself not deny. And despite his confessions, he was not sure that he wanted to cease his transgressions.

They were a special part of his life. Each was a unique and delicate flower in various stages of bloom. Some were still budding while others were nearly fully-blossomed, approaching the end of their association. He envied them, so new to life and learning of the world before being turned loose upon it. Yes, it would cost them their innocence, but that paled in comparison to the lessons they would take with them. Did this make him a philanthropist? No, he was still a thief, but much like Robin Hood, he was taking only from the abundance and returning what they lacked.

At the end of the corridor, he sat in an antique highback, eyeing the final door as the blue light grew brighter in the windows. This door was different from the others, special. It was the only door in the hallway that was never locked, and yet, the prize inside was the most valuable of his collection. It was a prize he would soon have to relinquish. The others were fledglings, still too timid and shy to reflect any true education, but this one was fully-developed and perfect.

Sighing, he rose from his chair and entered the room, his naked body silhouetted in the cerrulean light. The child, now nearly a man, was waiting for him, sitting at the edge of the bedand watching the door with anticipation. A smile creeping into the edge of his voice, the child aid, "You have come back to me."

"Please whisper," the man reminded, approaching the boy and laying a gentle hand upon the boy's shoulder. He kept his words soft-spoken and even, trying to show a patience of mind that was in direct opposition to the tempest of emotion that raged within him. Raising his palms to the ceiling, the man added, "You never know who might be listening."

The boy hushed his tones, lowering his cheek into the man's bare midriff as his youthful voice responded, "There have been new voices. I hear them sometimes when you're away, and you'd been gone for so long. I thought you had taken a new favorite."

"There are others, David, but I promise that you have no rivals for my affection," the man responded, stroking David's tossled blond hair. The man gave the words his most sincere tone -- even in a whisper -- but he knew them to be false. Inside, he was already trying to separate himself from David, increasing the length of time between their visits and hoping it would quell the boy's dependence on him. Pulling back from the boy, the man said, "I have to go now. Dawn is coming."

"But you just got here..."

"I know, but rules are rules -- even for you, David," he whispered, padding back to the corridor and pulling the door closed behind him. In a way, David was his largest success, but the success was too great. He had turned the boy from his rebellious into a dependent lover, making it an affair of the heart as well as one of the touch, and that could prove to be a dangerous thing.

Shaking his thoughts from his mind, he resolved to begin preparations for the boy's departure. The transfer would need to be soon, before he became too possessive of the boy. The usuals would be invited and offered their chance to wager for the child. Perhaps he would showcase the others as well, and develop some interest in those properties. In the meantime, there were other matters to attend to and prayers to be made.

The building was old stone, fashioned in a manner that spoke of both gothic and art deco architecture. Standing on the front step, he could feel the taint of the money it had taken to erect the offending location. Normally, he hated dealing with the johndarmes, but he figured it was good a place to start as the next, and the creepy feeling in the air confirmed that suspicion. Taking the last couple steps, he plucked the shortened cigarette from his lips and crushed it against the blue sign, saying, "Bloody Yanks won't let you smoke anywhere."

The officer at the front desk, a portly gentleman, looked up as overhead bell rang and regarded Constantine with a note of curiosity. Maybe it was the faded trenchcoat or the black tie that hung loosely around his neck -- John didn't know or care. Instead, he mustered a somber tone and said, "Afternoon, I'd like to see the bloke in charge."

"Name?" the officer asked, raising his right hand and clicking a pen open.

"Constantine. John Constantine."

The response piqued the officer's curiosity, and he regarded John with a closer look, remarking, "Seems they had a guy down Los Angeles way with the same name. Poor fellow was killed doing the nasty. Killed in a bad way, too."

"Yeah? Funny that," Constantine replied, keeping a poker face. The affair with Lucky Fermin's death and the debacle with S.W. Manor were just more skeletons to lock away in the already overcrowded closet that was his past. Now, he was trying to put this last matter to rest before returning home to London. "So, the chief?"

"Business?"

"Personal."

"Business?"

"Personal," John reiterated, flashing a wry smile.

"Look, you see that gate?" the officer asked, tilting the end of the pen in the direction of a swinging banister. "Nobody gets through that gate without an appointment or some special card that declares them King Shit of The World. Now, I'll ask you again. What is your business?"

The smile disappeared from his face as John realized that the officer was going to be a pain-in-the-ass, a trait that John appreciated in one person and one person only. Himself. Placing his hands on the edge of the desk, John leaned forward and said, "I was thinking about talking to him about that time in kick yard when you and Chris Wilkins got a little bit frisky. That win me any kewpie dolls?"

The officer's face blanched, and John knew that he had him. It had been innocent enough -- two boys and a curious exchange of touches on the playground -- but it was a memory that the officer was still troubled with, a memory that Constantine could exploit. Stuttering, the officer didn't question John's knowledge, but said, "Go on in. I'll take the hell for it later."

John didn't reply as he walked through the swinging gate toward the chief's office. Instead, he walked directly into the office and took a seat across the desk from the chief, who was caught-up in a phone call, his back to the door. The placard on the desk read: Truman.

"No, no, your courier just departed," the Chief said into the phone, his thick mustache bouncing as he spoke. Turning in his chair, he regarded John briefly from over his shoulder then lifted a single finger, indicating that it would be just a moment more. "And I'll be there, but I have a guest right now, so I have to go. Thank you."

"No rush for my sake," Constantine said, easing back into the chair and crossing his right leg over the left. A sneer cut into his features as he met the chief's gaze. He reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. As the chief inspected the photograph of the girl, John continued, "Was wondering what you could tell me about this little bit? Girl got nipped right from under her mum's sniffer."

"Yep, her mother reported her missing about a week back. I've got a couple men on the case," The chief replied. Nervously, his hand wrapped around a cigarette case, clicking it open and closed repeatively as he laid-out the explanation for John. "Trouble is, runaways aren't that uncommon around here. Just a hop, skip, and a bus ride to California, and those kids are never heard from again. Happens every day."

"Now, you know I didn't drag me arse down to the nick for that kind of riff."

"And just who are you, sir?" Truman replied, obviously not liking the tone that John was taking with him. He slid his chair back from the desk, placing his hands on the armrests as if he were preparing to stand, but remained seated.

Constantine smiled again, eyeing the top of the desk. Meeting the chief's stare, John pressed forward with his contemptuous nature and answered, "I was charged by the girl's mum to bring her back. Name's Constantine, as I told the pudge you have minding the front desk. Seems like you're poking your head out from behind a likely explanation. Couldn't be looking for the wrong 'un the stuffed her, could you?"

"I'm not sure I like your tone, Mr. Constantine. If you're suggesting that my office is setting this investigation to the side because of the unlikelihood of finding the girl, then you couldn't be further from the truth. I stand by the work of my men and those of the surrounding counties. If the girl can be found, then we'll find her. I'm just telling you that cases like this rarely turn out well."

"Ahh, no soreness, eh? Just keeping me end up." Constantine replied, reaching into his inside coat pocket and extracting a deck of cards. Shuffling them briefly, he slides his hand across the surface of the desk, spreading the cards in a straight line with one movement. "Go ahead, take a card. Try you luck some."

Chuckling, the anger melted from the Chief's face and he selected a card, pulling it back to himself and looking at it briefly: the nine of spades. Winking, John gathered the remaining cards, shuffled them, and returned them to his coat pocket. The Chief appeared confused at this, and asked, "What's the trick this time?"

"No trick," Constantine returned, flashing his opened palms at the chief then reaching back into his coat pocket. His hand came back to view with a single card. Flipping it toward the chief, John revealed, "Ain't holding back on the unlucky nine, are you? Spades carry a good bit of bad luck. S'why I carry two of 'em."

"How'd you know that?"

"Come now, you know a good magician never reveals his secrets," John said, stepping up from his chair and heading toward the door. At the threshold, he turned back and smiled, dipping his head briefly. "Thanks for the time and good word, Truman. I'm sure we'll speak again before too long."

He didn't wait for an answer, turning back toward the exit and marching from the building. Out in the open air, he pulled the crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, beating first a cigarette, then a folded piece of paper into his hand. Lighting the cigarette and letting it dangle in his mouth, he unfolded the piece of paper, and snickered, "Looks like we're invited to a private party tonight, John. Fancy we'll need to get knickered-up."

"I see that your angels are on parade, Clive. Many of them are lovelier than I remember them," the woman said as the stoll was slipped from her shoulders, Turning, she took the arm that was offered her and leaned into her escort. "You never cease to amaze me. Each of your gatherings is like an exhibit with the finest pieces of art available. You're the envy of everyone in town."

The man laughed at the woman's compliments, more as a point of acknowledging her point than ridiculing her. His right arm intertwined with her left while his left arm was occupied by her stole. With slow steps, he led her to the main ballroom and said, "And here you are, Ms. Waterman. Please enjoy your time amongst my cherubs. Please remember that the rules dictate that they not be touched, even the prize of tonight's soiree."

"But of course," she replied, slipping away from his arm and flitting to a loose gathering at the edge of the crowd.

In truth, he was glad to be rid of her. Their association was solely through these parties -- typically the ones hosted by himself -- and he was happy that their involvement ended there. The widow had been a large thorn in the community, pushing the power of the money she had inherited from her husband to try and influence the growth of the small city. In the end, the town's select board had found it easier to incorporate her than to try and maneuver around her. Her inclusion in the party was one of formality -- she would learn of the engagement anyway -- but it was best to keep her as an ally than an enemy.

The evening's main event was the acquisition of his largest prize, the crown jewel of his collection. To avoid embarrassment or feuding, he had placed a glass bowl by the entrance to the ballroom, a place for the guests to make their bids on the prize in private.

Handing the stoll to one of his charges, Clive's eyes swept the crowd, taking a mental note of who had arrived and who was still expected. Then his eyes came upon the visage of someone who shouldn't have been there, a face he did not recognize. Cutting a swatch through the crowd as discreetly as possible, he approached the trenchcoated man and said, "Excuse me, sir, but this is a private engagement."

The man turned slowly as Clive engaged him, flashing a wry smile and raising an double old-fashion filled halfway with whiskey. "I have me invitation here somewhere," the man said, setting the sweating glass upon the closed piano and reaching into his pockets. Pulling out a disheveled piece of hardstock paper, he handed it to Clive and remarked, "Got to give you credit. Best bash I been to since the days of free sex and hippie drugs."

"Where did you get this?" Clive asked, waving the invitation in the air.

"Brought to me by messenger, I believe. Quite the surprise, really, but I'm always up for new experiences. Name's Constantine, if you wanna check me word," John said, lifting his glass from the piano's surface and wincing. Raising his sleeve to the top of the piano, he said, "I think that will come off."

Turning his back on the Englishman, Clive returned to the midst to the crowd, his scowl deepening with every step. There was something amiss with Constantine, and Clive was certain that he hadn't included him on any of the guest lists. Shaking the worries from his mind, Clive took a glass of champagne from one of his girls and raised into the air, calling out, "Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention up here, I would like to begin tonight's festivities. As you can see around you, there are a number of sweet delicacies in your midst. However, you have been invited with the express intent of acquiring the one who has to come to display. So, without further adieu, let me introduce you to David."

Listening as the host concluded his speech, John tossed back the remainder of his whiskey and slammed the empty glass down upon the piano. His eyes drifted across the servants, those that the host referred to as delicacies, but none of them resembled the girl he was tracking down. He wasn't naive enough to believe that it was coincidence for the girl to be missing and this man to have teenaged slaves within his midst. And with the Chief of Police receiving an invitation, the cops were likely in the back pocket of this sleezeball.

Then, the lights dimmed to a slight glow, and all eyes turned toward the ballroom's grand entrance. John followed their gazes to a young man framed in the massive doorway. His figure was lithe and trim, and he couldn't have been more than fifteen -- maybe sixteen -- years old. Hair of gold was perfectly set upon his head, bringing out the dark amber of his skin tone. The crowd had grown silent, all eyes focused on the boy, and it made John wonder how prevalent this sort of thing was.

"David, if you'll join me on stage please," Clive said, calling the crowd's attention back to himself. Raising a hand to stop the boy's tentative first steps, the host gestured toward the receiving bowl at the door and added, "And please bring the trophy jar with you. A decision must be reached."

The boy trudged reluctantly up the three steps to the makeshift stage, carrying the glass bowl with both hands beneath it, as if he were offering his supplication. Clive bent forward and delivered a soft kiss to the boy's forehead and then took the bowl from his hands, saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, you know the rules. The most generous bid in the bowl acquires the prize. There will be no pandering, no bargaining, and most certainly no violence. Fair is fair in a blind auction."

Slowly, the host plucked the various bids from the glass receptacle, unfolding them and shuffling them into an order of ascending wager. As the stack of unfolded paper grew in size, the smile disappeared from Clive's face, and his eyes searched the crowd, perhaps wondering if there were any remaining wagers floating about. Trying to keep his composure, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, it would seem that our victor this evening is a Mr. John Constantine. Could he please step forward to claim his prize?"

A wicked grin spelled across his face, Constantine sauntered through the parting crowd, giving the gathering of socialites an eyeful of English ruffian. Burying his hands in his duster, John made his way to Clive's side and said, "Do you prefer pounds or dollars, chum?"

Clive leaned toward John and replied quietly, "We'll discuss matter of payment away from this crowd, if you don't mind."

"By all means," John said, his eyes dancing with laughter as he ushered the man and boy toward the ballroom door. He loved it when a plan came into fruition. "I'd be keen to doing this outside. I don't know about you boys, but I'm dying for a fag."

"David, wait here," Clive remarked as the trio reached the front door. Then, as he and John stepped out onto the front step, he grabbed onto John's trenchcoat and slammed the Brit against the front of the house, saying, "There's no way in Hell I'm letting you walk out of here with him. You're not even a guest of this party, and I will not have my engagements interrupted by riff-raff."

"Fair is fair in a blind auction. Think you said that yourself," Constantine quipped back, taking the man's actions in stride. He let himself hang limply in the man's grip, waiting for Clive to come to his senses. "I'd really fancy you lettin' me down."

Looking at the sarcastic resolve in John's face, the man released his grip on the Brit. John brushed his trenchcoat free of wrinkles, or at least as best as possible, then looked to the door and snapped his fingers. "Let's be on our way, boy. You're my bitch now." Grabbing the boy by the wrist, John reached into his coat pocket, then as he walked away, Constantine threw an envelope at Clive's feet. "Try not to spend it all at the candystore, eh?"

Next Issue: John puts his plan into motion while his forward motion also reaches a bit of resistance. Could the truth behind the girl's disappearance be coming together, or could there be further issues that remain to be seen?

Story © 2003 Michael Franzoni and may not be reproduced without permission.