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The following reproduces Chapter 3 of my unfinished and never to be published novel “Here Comes Dragon.” The whole unfinished draft can be found at, (https://papajoesfables.wordpress.com/here-comes-dragon-an-unfinished-novel/).
Dragon’s breath:
“A good detective should be afraid…always.”
Chapter 3.
I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open slowly. I only had opened it a few inches before it was wrenched from my hand. A big guy stood there holding the door and filling all the space between the door and the door jamb. He was not too much taller than I am, but he was big, with a body poised somewhere between muscle and fat.
“What do you want,” he growled?
I stepped back. Said, “I’m looking for Mark Holland.”
“Why?”
Thought this might be a good time for a clever story. Could not think of one. Went with the truth. “I have been asked to find him.”
“Why,” again?
Still lacking clever responses, said, “I’ve been hired to find him.” Took a business card from my pocket handed it to him. He looked at it for a long time. Said, “A Detective eh. Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk?”
I said, “If it is all the same to you, I feel better standing out here in the hall.”
The door opened a little wider. Another fat guy appeared. He had a phone pressed against his ear with one hand. In his other hand, he had a gun that was pointed at me. “Get in here,” fat guy number one ordered.
At that moment I noted a strange phenomenon. My clothing went instantly from dry to wet. At the same time, I felt like I shit my pants. Said, “I think my chances of being shot are greater in there than standing out here in the hall.”
I flashed on how stupid that sounded. The embarrassment of shitting in my pants began to leak into my consciousness. Did not get far with either thought as they were interrupted by an explosion to the side of my face. As I toppled toward the floor, my first thought was to protect my computer. The second was that I might be dead.
Thought I was shot. Actually, Fat Guy One suddenly had reached out with his ham sized hand and slapped me aside my head as they say. His heavy ring raked across my jaw.
Before landing on the floor, I was grabbed and dragged into the room. I looked down the hall in the vain hope that Ann had seen what happened and would call the cops. No such luck.
I was thrown onto a bean bag chair on the floor. Thought, “Who the fuck still has a bean bag chair?” Said, “Who the fuck has a bean bag chair any more?” But did not get it all out as the pain had finally hit and I realized that I had bitten my tongue and was dribbling blood down my chin. Got out “Woo fla bee or?” before giving up and grabbing my jaw. I was bleeding there too from the ring. Said, “Shiss!” Added “Blon.” My tongue was swelling up.
Fat guy one threw me a dirty dishrag. Thought I would probably die of sepsis if it touched my open wound. Spit the blood from my mouth into the rag folded it, and pressed it against the side of my face anyway.
Fats Two was talking on the phone. Whispered to Fats One. Fats One said, “Who sent you?”
Replied something that sounded like, “That’s confidential.”
Fats one raised his fist.
I quickly responded, “Gul fren.”
“Fucking Mavis,” said SF fats.
“No, na yeh” I commented. I thought I was being clever. They ignored me
Fats Two whispered to Porky One again.
Porky asked, “Find anything yet?”
“Hired hour ago. This first stop.”
More talking on the phone and whispering. Fats Prime asked, “What did Mavis tell you?”
What I answered sounded a lot like, “Not much. He’s missing. She’s worried.”
More talking on the phone and whispering.
I said more or less, “We could save a lot of time if I just talked directly to whoever is on the phone.” Although it did not come out quite like that, I actually was getting used to speaking through my swollen tongue and frozen jaw.
They ignored me. Fats One said, “What’s she paying you — tattoos or blow jobs?” Thrilled with his cleverness he let out a surprisingly high pitched giggle.
I did not answer as I struggled with a clever comeback and failed mostly out of fear of retaliation.
He said more forcefully, “What do you charge?”
“Two hundred dollars a day. One week minimum. One half paid in advance.”
Some more whisperings into the phone. There seemed to be some disagreement.
Fats Prime finally turned to me and said, “We’d like to hire you to help us find him.”
I was gobsmacked. Wanted to say, “Fuck you” or “What the fuck,” even. Said instead, “Can’t, conflict of interest.”
Prime Cut One turned red-faced and advanced on me. I quickly said, “On second thought, I can probably figure a way around it.”
He stopped, smiled reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wallet. From it, he extracted 10 one hundred dollar bills and placed them in my hand not holding the towel. “You will get another thousand if you find him.”
Pocketed the money. Said, “Whose my client?”
Again with the whispering. “Me,” said First Lard Brother.
Asked, “What’s your name?”
“No name.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. Handed it to me. “My phone number. Call every evening at about five o’clock.”
“What can you tell me about Holland to help me along?”
Again the phone. The Fats One then said, “Ask Mavis. She knows more than she is telling you.”
They then both picked me up out of the bean bag and guided me toward the door.
“How do you know I won’t go to the police?”
“If you do we will have to kill you.” They both giggled in falsetto.
I knew that was bullshit but I was still scared shitless, literally and figuratively and I knew involvement of the cops was futile.
Once back in the hall, I ran to Ann’s door pounded on it and rang the awful buzzer. I do not know what I expected I’d do if she answered; cry in her arms perhaps. No response anyway. Pictured her standing in the middle of the room staring blank-eyed at the door.
Turned, grabbing the computer in one hand and the bloody rag in another, ran out of the building and back down the hill to Pino’s place.
When Pino saw me he said, “What the fuck happened?”
I ran by him and into the restaurant. Said as I passed. “Bathroom. Ice in a napkin quick.”
In the toilet, I threw the rag into the wastebasket. The bleeding had mostly stopped. Dropped my pants and drawers and sat. Saw that I really had shit my pants, a little not much, but enough to make me groan. My hands were shaking as was the rest of me.
When I left the toilet Pino was there with the ice in a napkin. Repeated, “What the fuck happened?”
Took the napkin with the ice, pressed it to my face, said, “Later, I need a taxi right now.” Pino went into the street flagged down a cab. I got in. Gave the driver the address of my condo on Fourth Street, waved to Pino, and slunk into my seat as far down as I could go.
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