I bid farewell to Cosmo and Honey Bear — he got a handshake, she got a hug — and I declined their offer of a lift back to the Sea Breeze. I figured the seven block walk would do me good. There was, of course, the last minute promise to stop back at their place on the beach after we had successfully retrieved Bearing Schuster's gruesome little prize from the ocean depths off of the Cluster.
The "seven-block-walk-will-do-me-good" part of it was a mistake.
I had managed one block at best when an oversized black Mercedes rolled up to the curb and disgorged two huge Cuban-looking antisocials in dark suits. Before I knew what was happening, one of them had fallen into step on each side of me.
"Just keep walking," the one to my left grunted, "and turn into the next doorway."
The next doorway happened to be the old Mercer House, a second-rate hotel that featured a lobby full of hookers and a couple of black kids who were obviously pushers in the local crack distribution network. They paid us no attention.
"Straight ahead, down the hall," my mountainous escort ordered. His partner was the strong silent type, managing only an occasional grunt and smelling like he had spent the dinner hour chewing on a plate of raw garlic.
They muscled me into the men's room and turned out the lights. The only illumination in the room came from a bank of windows above the urinals that filtered in neon from across the street. Old garlic-breath drew the lesser assignment and was stationed outside the door. In the heavy darkness of the foul-smelling place, my new traveling companion was little more than a voice coming at me from the shadows. I couldn't make out anything.
When I heard my name come at me from a decidedly different direction than where I knew the mound of muscle was stationed, I was taken off guard.
"Well, Elliott, it's been a while."
"Who the hell are you?" I blurted.
"Shut up and listen," the great big guard ordered.
"I understand you've decided to augment your income by taking on a little assignment over the holidays."
"You know how it is — high cost of living, inflation…" The absence of light had me disoriented. I was trying to figure out just exactly where the new voice was coming from and where he was in relation to the goon who was also hunkering out there.
"Please, please, Elliott, I really don't have the stomach or the time for your still trite sophomoric wit… but I do have a business proposition for you."
The voice, the speech pattern, the whole attitude was starting to crystalize into a blurry picture.
"Marshal Schuster," I muttered, "you son-of-a-bitch."
There was a hoarse, almost condescending laugh. "Very good, Elliott, very good! You always did demonstrate a certain native ability to recall things out of your Neanderthal past. Since I couldn't be sure you still retained that ability, I came prepared to give you other refreshers."
It was a crotch shot. The goon's knee caught me straight on, and my whole world exploded. If he wanted me to go down like a ton of bricks, I accommodated him. The second blow caught me in the ribs. The guy was an absolute marvel in the darkness. While vile stuff was still erupting from my stomach, his third effort crashed into the side of my head, and I went from all fours to doing an impression of a dog that had just been hit by a dump truck. The big guy planted two or three solid kicks in the area of my kidneys, and I was ready to surrender. Suddenly he stopped and jerked me to my feet. My mouth was full of blood, my head was exploding and my privates hurt so much I was breathing funny. I knew neither Schuster nor his goon cared, but I had already resigned myself to the fact that I would never walk upright again.
"Bring back old memories, Elliott?" Marshal wheezed. He sounded winded, which was a little hard to understand since his henchman had been doing all the work.
Old memories were right — old and bitter. The little bastard and an army of his sicko sidekicks had applied a similar pounding on me years earlier when I had caught their dubious leader with his hand in the till.
''Let me put it another way, Elliott. My father doesn't need those cylinders. I don't think they would be good for his health."
You would think that after nearly 50 years of getting his nose blunted, one would have learned when to keep his mouth shut. "Big Daddy has already paid the tab on this one. I couldn't expect someone with your warped set of ethics to understand this kind of logic, but I gave your old man my word."
"How typical of the Elliott Wages I've remembered all these years — lofty and noble and stupid as hell." Marshal sighed. "All right, Victor, kindly demonstrate just how determined I am that my father will not get the cylinders."
Victor teed off on me again. The gut shot doubled me over, and the second one felt like it unhinged my jaw. I felt myself rocketing backward until my battered body slammed up against the door of one of the stalls. I crumpled to the floor in an untidy heap.
"Remember, Elliott," Marshal said calmly, "I just don't want my dear old daddy to have those cylinders."
I was still trying to scrape my senses back together when the distinct sound of two sets of heels crossed the marble floor of the men's room toward the door. There was a momentary slit of light when they exited — and then more darkness. I waited for what seemed an eternity, then tried to suck in some air to see if anything worked. There were enough vitals functioning that I decided to try to get to my feet.
It took some doing, but I managed to conquer the remaining blocks to Ginny's third floor retreat at the Sea Breeze, slumped against the wall of the elevator while it took forever to make its vertical journey, and finally crawled into my sanctuary. An hour of soaking in a hot tub and two or three drinks seemed like the best bet to trigger the healing process.
The way things had been going, I shouldn't have been at all surprised when I discovered most of the lights were on and the sound system was emitting a steady ration of Whitney Houston.
Hannah Holbrook took one look at me and let out a low, throaty whistle. "I'll bet this is going to be one helluva story," she sighed.
I gave the lady the whole story, sparing none of the gory, ego-shattering details. It took less time than I anticipated, she listened carefully, almost objectively, even taking a few notes for good measure.
"So how long have you and Marshal Schuster been buddies?"
Between groans I managed to mutter something about us going back a few years and that seemed to satisfy her.
"Had any contact with him lately?"
"None. Haven't even thought about the little bastard, I'm happy to say."
With that the lady appeared to grow somewhat reticent, as though she was mulling something over in her mind. If I was reading her correctly, she was having second thoughts about whatever it was she was about to tell me. I groaned, hoping the gesture would discourage Hannah from asking any further questions, and headed for the bathroom.
Half an hour later, the hot water had soothed me somewhat and the world had stopped looking like I was watching it on an out-of-sync movie projector. Hannah, bless her heart, even made an appearance with a big soapy sponge which she deftly applied to my sore-as-hell back and also carted in two tall glasses of shaved ice thoroughly awash in Black and White.
"You're a godsend," I muttered gratefully.
"I know," she said confidently.
"Can I tell you something?"
Hannah nodded. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me that you're glad I'm here, that you think I'm beautiful, and that I'm real handy with a sponge."
"Exactly," I muttered, closing my eyes and sinking into the soapy water up to my chin.
The lady smiled, stood up and stared down at me. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you in private."