The Killing Man

At night this area was solid bumper-to-bumper parked cars, wedged so tightly together you wanted to see how they came unstuck in the morning. A smart one had a two-foot space in front of him with his wheels cranked hard away from the curb so he couldn't be pushed up, and I walked right past it like a Jersey tourist before I knew it didn't fit and the slight metallic creak of a door was wrong and everything exploded at once.

Ducking and twisting was automatic and something whispered by over my head. Then a pair of bodies were on me, fists smashing at my kidneys and bouncing off my neck. I rammed my elbow back and felt teeth go under it and the back of my head mashed the guy's nose who was holding me. I was off balance and before I could use my feet another flying pair of arms nailed my legs together in a crude tackle and we all hit the pavement with me on the bottom. My .45 was still tight in the shoulder holster and I felt a hand going under my coat and yanking it clear.

It wasn't a mugging. I felt the needle go into my hip and within seconds the drowsiness started. Somebody was cursing and spitting blood behind me, and when I had no strength left the restraining arms fell away and I heard a voice saying he wanted to kick my brains out for breaking his nose.

It wasn't dream time. There were faraway sounds and feelings of being in motion. I could hear voices, but didn't know what they were saying. And it was black. I felt tired and wanted to sleep, but I was in a limbo all alone.

Time itself had no meaning. Its passage I could record by the throbbing where my body hurt, but no other way. So I just let it all happen, thinking of what a damned sucker I had been for letting myself get trapped. I said, 'Shit,' and my ears heard it and I let my eyes slide open and lifted my head up.

Somebody said, 'He's awake.'

There was barely any light and it came from a small open bulb thirty feet away. I was tied to a chair, my arms and legs snug to it and two turns of rope holding me tight against the back. There was no sense wasting any strength thrashing around. Pros had done this job and I could barely make out the form of one of them in front of me, his face an indistinguishable pale orb. There was another behind me and he wasn't breathing right. He kept swearing under his breath and spitting on the floor.

A hand came out of the darkness and tilted my head back. The beam of a small flashlight swept across my eyes and the voice said, 'It's all worn off. He's wide awake.' It was an accented voice, but nothing I could place.

The other one sounded like he had a bad cold, his words whispery deep with a rasp to it. He moved in closer, but I still couldn't make out his face. 'Tell us about Penta,' he said.

Sometimes you have to mouth off. I told him, 'Up yours.'

His hand came around and there was no way I could move. It was a flat-handed slap with a hell of a lot of meat behind it and I could taste blood in my mouth.

'One more time, Hammer.'

'Asshole,' I said.

The hand got me again, harder than before. My ear was ringing so badly I hardly heard the other voice say, 'Knock if off. We haven't got time for this.'

'You just let me . . .'

'Damn it, you're not playing with some patsy. He's been through the rough stuff before. Give him the sodium pentothal.'

I thought now somebody would come in close enough for me to get a good look at them, but an oily smelling towel was tossed over my head, then somebody pulled my sleeve back. I felt the cold touch of an alcohol swab, then a needle went into my forearm.

Again, reality drifted away. It took all my defenses with it and I could hear and speak and even see light through the worn towel. A little part of my brain told me if I fought real hard I could lie right through the truth serum, but then, why bother lying when telling the truth was so much fun?

'Who is Penta?'

'I don't know.'

'Where is Penta now?'

'I don't know.'

'When did you meet Penta?'

'I never met Penta.'

'Who is Penta?'

'I don't know.'

The first voice said, 'Let's increase the dosage.' I felt the needle again. There was another long pause before the questions started. I gave them the same answers. It was almost a pleasure to be able to do it.

Another needle, and this time they waited almost too long. The sleep was coming on me.

The voice said, 'I am Penta.'

Only my brain made an idiotic grin. If I said he wasn't, it would mean I knew Penta.

My tongue said, 'Good for you.'

'Do you work for Penta?'

They were trying it again.

'I work . . . by myself.' The words didn't come out easily at all.

The raspy one said, 'He's going.'

'Well, that's it,' his partner told him.

'You think he was faking it?'

'I don't know how he could.'

Sounds were too faint now to register and I felt myself being jostled around, then the sleep came and the strange, fuzzy chemical dreams that had no direction or substance, shooting off into one area after another like a firefight pattern of tracer bullets gone wild.

Awakening was in slow motion, one part at a time. I stayed immobile until I had things back in focus again, trying to remember what had preceded the odd stupor I was in. Then the mental door unlatched and it was all there, not totally clear, but discernible enough.

The ropes holding me in the chair had been loosened, with just enough tension there to keep me from falling off the chair. I shook them loose, then leaned forward and stood up. I was shaky, so I didn't move for a minute.

No drugs were lousing me up now and I could see better in the light from that dull bulb than I could before. I was in some kind of a garage, the oil and grease smell thick, dull forms of heavy machinery on either side of me. On the floor, in front of my feet, was my hat. Next to it was my .45.

Bending down was easy. Getting back up wasn't. I put the .45 back in the holster and straightened out my hat.

No, that wasn't a mugging. That was as far away from a mugging as you could get. I still had my money in my wallet and when I looked at my watch it read four fifteen.

A wide sliding door was on the other side of the light with a normal door built into it. I twisted the lock, pulled on the knob and went out to the street. A sign over the door read SMILEY'S AUTOMOTIVE in old hand- painted letters. I walked to the corner slowly, saw where I was, then crossed the street and went another long block to where the lights were, waited a good five minutes, then flagged down a taxi.

The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. 'You okay, mac?'

I nodded. 'Yeah, just been one of those nights.' I gave him my address and closed my eyes.

Pat looked at me with total disgust and jammed his hands in his pockets. 'Mike, what kind of clown crap you call this? You let ten hours go by before you give me the story of what happened. You think we wouldn't have responded right away?'

'They were pros.'

'Pros can leave marks behind,' he reminded me.

'What did you find?'

'Okay, nothing of importance. The chair, ropes. Somebody spit blood on the floor. Type O positive.'

'And that's half the population,' I said. 'At least there's somebody with some teeth out of whack and another dude with a busted nose probably sporting a pair of beautiful black eyes right now. You get anything more