Goodbye Natalie
Chapter Twentythree: Rage and Furry
The sun glaring off the windshield hit Mudcat square in the eyes and felt like lasers piercing his brain. His eardrums painfully pounded like giant conga drums, keeping rhythm with his heartbeat. He’d sent the young prostitute, Cherry Bomb, into the drugstore for alcohol and cotton gauze to clean the seeping bullet wounds in his torso that kept opening and refused to heal. The stench in the car smelled like rotting orange rinds and the dried blood on his shirt stuck to him uncomfortably. He popped a couple more antibiotics and took a long drag from the crack pipe. Heroin and weed allowed him to endure the pain and the crack kept him awake, enabling him to keep a constant eye on his prey. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go much longer without sleep; he was beginning to hallucinate, the body’s mysterious natural phenomena of dreaming even while awake.
When Fallon Hunter reappeared from the Heartline Productions Offices and stood not twenty feet from where Mudcat was parked, adrenaline surged through him, erasing the lethargy. He cursed out loud, glancing impatiently toward the drugstore door, willing Cherry to get a move on. He was torn between following the quarry who’d inflicted the gunshot wounds, (and who would likely lead him to another of his intended victims, Frankie Valentine), or, wait for his little money-making ho. It had been a stroke of luck to come up on Cherry Bomb. She was a good worker and tolerable company, as long as she kept her mouth shut and didn’t distract him from his true purpose. So far, however, the skinny white bitch had led him nowhere, except on some meandering mystery mission of her own from one end of San Francisco to the other and even across the bay and back.
He knew where she and the fine China girl were holed up though and he wasn’t willing to let go of Cherry just yet. She’d pay for making him wait; hoes had to learn who was boss, it was always the same. When the bloodshot–eyed, fine-bootied Cherry emerged from the drugstore in a flurry of faux fur, click-clacking high heels on concrete, wild hair and approval-seeking false smile on her coffee-toned, pretty face, Mudcat was debating whether to slap her silly or take an extra ten minutes to satisfy his animal attraction to the delectable, slightly worn streetwalker. It wasn’t good to let em know you were soft for em though. As he readied to backhand the poor girl for taking too long, she braced herself for a certain bloody lip. Mudcat’s big hand was halted mid-swing however, by the sudden appearance of a good-looking white boy exiting the Heartline offices. From the look in the pimp’s eyes, Cherry knew this must be something big, it was enough to prevent her punishment and she was just relieved Mudcat’s attention was diverted elsewhere.
As she timidly reached for the crack pipe, she gauged Cat’s demeanor. He was intently focused on the white boy and she took full advantage, filling the pipe and inhaling lungs full of the soul-destroying narcotic, then rolling a fat joint as Mudcat’s eyes followed every move of the new target.
”Who’s that baby?” Cherry asked as she lit the joint and passed it.
“That babygirl, is a dead man.” Mudcat growled. Even in his near delirium, Mudcat knew making a move in daylight on the crowded street would be suicide, not that he was necessarily opposed to a suicide mission, it was just that he wanted to exact his revenge on the complete trio while they witnessed one another being systematically tortured. He wasn’t going to miss out on seeing the terror on their faces as he did what he planned on doing, ever so slow and methodically. When Frankie Valentine entered the coffee shop, Mudcat pulled Cherry close, she winced at the heat and smell of his breath and venom in his words.
”Here’s what we gonna do babygirl...” Mudcat laid out the plan.
When Frankie exited the coffee shop, he immediately noticed the young hooker leaning over adjusting her thigh-high stockings; pert breasts jiggled wildly as she vigorously brushed unseen lint from her mini-skirt. She straightened up and gave him a brilliant smile; she was a bit weathered but the pretty face more than made up for the rough edges and the thick, young lips being wetted by her long, obviously experienced tongue, were more than Frankie could resist. Frankie wasn’t normally attracted to street whores, but the attention this one paid him was impossible to ignore. Attractive, young, willing, and most likely cheap, was a combination he couldn’t turn away from.
Two minutes later, they were hidden in a dark doorway in the alley behind Heartline Productions, Frankie anticipating a satisfying and quick remedy for his recently unsatisfied needs. Cherry opened her jacket and pulled up the tiny halter-top, exposing sharply pointed breasts, mesmerizing the hot-blooded Frankie to a point where he hardly noticed the blue Monte Carlo pull up, blocking any retreat. Frankie’s excitement turned to panic when the car door flung open and Mudcat emerged, coming at him like a pro linebacker on a pee-wee league quarterback blitz. The last thing he saw was Mudcat’s huge fist coming straight for his face.
* * *
When Shelly got back to her desk at Stuyvesant Accounting, Mr. S’s private office door was closed, which usually meant he was with a client. She hurriedly threw off her coat and gloves then checked the voicemail to see if any priority calls had come in while she was on break. Meeting a Private Investigator and spilling juicy gossip was an interesting digression from her normal, boring routine. She wished she could have stayed longer that the brief twenty minute break allowed. She pulled Fallon’s business card out of her pocket and placed it in alphabetical order in the Rolodex. She thought about how Fallon didn’t appear to be much older than herself, but somehow seemed much more mature and confident...and intriguing. Maybe she’d call the number on the card and see if Fallon wanted to get together for after work drinks...or dinner.
Shelly checked her watch; the seconds ticked away ever so slowly; another long day stuck behind the desk. She envied and fantasized over the exciting life she imagined Fallon must lead as a P.I., then dusted and rearranged the clutter on her desk for the tenth time that day. She wondered who Stuyvesant had in there, probably some other boring, middle-aged man, going over endless rows of numbers in ledger books. The buzzing intercom interrupted her malaise.
”Shelly, could you bring us some coffee please.” Mr. Stuyvesant requested.
”Yes Nr. Stuyvesant.” She responded dutifully. Regardless of how tedious she found the job, it paid well and beat the heck out of being a waitress or a store clerk. She quickly appeared in the main office and set the tray of coffee and amenities on the credenza lining the far wall. In the reflection of the picture frame directly in her eye line, she studied Stuyvesant’s visitor. He was a large man, dressed dapperly in a double-breasted, dark suit. He had a prominent brow with thick, hooded eyelids and a hatchet nose, granite jaw and stern lips. Oddly, he wore a hat indoors, which cast a mysterious, grave shadow over his entire face. Conversation had halted when Shelly had entered the room and she felt her boss’s eyes on her as she fiddled with the tray.
”That’ll be all Shelly, thank you.” Stuyvesant said dismissively.
She carefully closed the door behind her and headed back to her desk. Buoyed by her recent visit with Fallon and curiosity peaked, she tip-toed back to the door and pressed her ear to the heavy wood. She couldn’t help to be inquisitive as to what business the dark stranger had with her boss. She could just barely make out bits of the conversation.
”This should cover your expenses.” Stuyvesant said as he slid a heavy, white business envelope across the desk. The stranger picked it up and judged the weight as he stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket.
”It’ll do.” His voice was low and gruff.
Stuyvesant scribbled noisily on a notepad and handed it over. ”She called with this address, you’re to pick up the trail, but don’t interfere unless absolutely necessary.” Stuyvesant instructed.
”I know what the job is.” The stranger replied.
Stuyvesant was a large man, but the manner in which the stranger spoke unnerved him. He was used to having the upper hand in boardrooms and at business meetings, but this interaction was out of his normal workings. He was nervous and felt a slight drop of perspiration trickle down his back. ”Yes, of course. It’s just that...well, at times your methods can be...shall we say, heavy-handed?” Stuyvesant regretted his words almost instantly.
The stranger peered at him intently. ”I do what’s necessary, I get results. That’s what I’m paid for...you don’t approve?” He asked.
”It’s not that.” Stuyvesant backpedaled. ”I personally don’t have an opinion one way or the other. I’m just relaying a message. The main thing is to retrieve the package and make sure there are no loose ends...as cleanly as possible.” Stuyvesant ended his statement and raised his coffee to his lips, he sputtered noisily, the brew was scalding hot.
The stranger lifted his cup and downed the contents in one quick swallow without wincing. Stuyvesant watched incredulously. The stranger spoke.
”Is there anything else?” The stranger got up to leave.
”One more thing Mr. Fingerelli...the girl is not to be harmed, if it can be helped.” Stuyvesant said weakly.
The stranger stopped and turned to face Stuyvesant. ”This ain’t
always clean and neat like moving some numbers around on a piece of paper so
you can steal from your clients, bookkeeper. Somebody gets in the way, they’re
gonna get hurt. People get hurt. That’s why guys like you need guys like
me. You ain’t got the stomach to do what’s necessary. You want the
turkey dinner without knowing how the bird got on the table, without getting
your pretty hands dirty. Somebody’s got to swing the axe bookkeeper, that’s
where I come in.” The room got quiet.
Shelly rushed back to her desk and pretended to be searching through some files as the stranger left. When he was gone, she went to retrieve the tray.
”Who was that Mr. Stuyvesant?” Shelly asked.
”No one you ever want to know Shelly.” Stuyvesant answered. From the look on his face and the hidden meaning in his words and tone of his voice, Shelly was rethinking her romantic dreams of mystery and intrigue. Maybe a boring office job and rigid schedule was where she belonged after all. Maybe a world of danger and adventure was better suited for those who were more able to handle the strain and pressure.
* * *
Back at the hotel, Fallon was in emotional turmoil. Kwan was gone, the chain lock on the hotel door had been forced and broken and panic swirled around her like restless spirits in a haunted cemetery. She had to gain control of her senses and maintain control of her emotions. Kwan’s life might well depend on how she acted in the next few moments. She willed herself to calm down and try to think analytically. First, she needed to examine the evidence that was available. She thought back to Alan’s detective manuals and forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. Good, now, what are the facts?
Kwan was gone with no note or message, the lock is broken which meant either it was chained and Joanie pulled the door open from the inside, inadvertently breaking it, or someone forced it from the outside. Under the circumstances, Fallon was inclined to think the worst. She couldn’t imagine that Kwan would’ve broken the chain and not leave a note, knowing Fallon would discover it and worry. If there was an intruder, was Kwan here at the time? And, who and why?
Instantly, Fallon was out the door, dashing down the flights of stairs taking two steps at a time. She needed to question the front desk clerk, immediately. Perhaps he had seen something, someone, or even better, maybe Joanie had left a message. When she reached the lobby, an eerie silence filled the empty cage where the clerk would normally be seated. The little TV droned quietly in the corner, a spilled cup of coffee lay on the back counter, and most ominously, the door to the cage was ajar. The clerk was gone! Fallon breathed heavily from the run downstairs and for a moment thought she might faint. The room seemed to be spinning and she fought to regain her senses. This was no time for little girl, scary-cat distress. This was serious business with lives in the balance. She was in over her head and for the first time in a long time, thought of calling the police. No time for long, inner debates either.
She darted into the clerk’s cage and fumbled for the phone, to dial nine-one-one. It was dead! She grabbed the phone cord and pulled, it had been yanked out of the wall connection! She rummaged frantically to find the socket and on hands and knees, tried to reconnect the line. As she was hopelessly attempting the reconnection, the door to the lobby opened and heavy footsteps approached. In her agitated state of frenzy, Fallon froze motionless. She was hidden from view, under the desk. The footsteps approached the desk and stopped at the counter. Her face was inches from the floor and only a breath away from the tips of the shoes of the person standing in front of the desk. Fallon held her breath and waited. She considered that her paranoid hiding might be an overreaction, but an abundance of caution seemed appropriate at the time.
Luckily, the feet moved onto the elevator before Fallon passed out from holding her breath and she scurried from under the desk, anxiously monitoring the lighted numbers above the elevator to see where it stopped. The third floor! Her floor! She had left the door open and her purse, and gun, were inside.
”Damn it!” Fallon exclaimed under her breath. She abandoned the nine- one-one call and rushed back up the flights of stairs, taking two and three steps at a time. As she neared her floor, she crept silently up the last few and peered around the corner to gain a view of her room. To her shock and dismay, the unknown stranger stood directly in front of the opened door of her room, looking in. She was panic-stricken and powerless. Her gun, mace and baton were all in the room, she had no weapon or mode of defense, her only logical recourse was to escape while she could, back down the stairs and get out of the building, get help, get away. Yet, as she watched the man now take a step through the open doorway, rage rose in her like she’d never felt before. This might be the one who took Joanie! If that was even the case of course, but, if it were...then might he be here now in order to do her harm as well? And if she ran, if she got away, what then? There’s no assurance she’d be able to get help in time to catch the intruder. Above anything and everything, even self, she had to find out what had happened to Kwan. But how? What could she do? Her hundred pounds were no match for this man, any man really. She looked around frantically.
On the wall of the hallway, hanging crooked and dusty from non-use, was a three-foot long fire extinguisher. If it were full, or even half-full, Fallon didn’t know if she’d even be able to lift it. The man had disappeared into the room and Fallon slowly stepped to the wall and lifted the extinguisher from the hanger. It was light enough for her to manage and she quietly removed the implement from its holder. Fear and trepidation flooded through her as she neared the door, one more step and she’d have to step right into view, face Kwan’s possible kidnapper or attacker or at the very least, an uninvited intruder. Thinking about the missing Kwan and how a stranger could just walk into an open room, and maybe do whatever her worst imaginings could conceive of to her friend, her Kwan! She stepped into the doorway, the man whirled around to face her, his face the picture of shock.
”You son-of-a-bitch!” Fallon yelled. Without hesitation, Fallon rushed the stranger with a force borne of rage and fear and frustration, clubbing him square between the eyes with the metal weapon, originally designed to save lives, now very likely to have taken one, knocking him to the floor, unconscious. She stood over her victim, wide-eyed and panting. She scrambled for her purse and pulled the Colt out, holding the barrel to the man’s face, tempted to shoot, willing to shoot should he even dare to make a wrong move.
Blood flowed from the wound to the forehead and for a moment, Fallon thought she might’ve killed the man. She checked for breathing and detected a slight pulse. Good, she could get information from him. While waiting for him to regain consciousness, Fallon tried to calm herself and gulped in large mouthfuls of air. She pushed strands of hair out of her face and gritted her teeth, waiting for him to awake in order to get any information out of him, in any manner necessary, anything that would help find Kwan. After a few minutes, she calmed down enough to think to tie the man up. Using strips of bed sheets, she bound his wrists and feet. Satisfied he was sufficiently subdued, she carefully patted him down for weapons and identification. There were no guns or knives or any type of weapon, she retrieved his wallet.
Staring at the i.d., Fallon tried to understand what she was looking at. It seemed odd and out of place, not real. She looked from the driver’s license to the man, from the man to the i.d., as if somehow the two didn’t match. She wiped the blood from the man’s face and re-examined the face and i.d. How could this be? How in the world, could this be? The man on the floor, the man she’d nearly killed in rage and fury...was Jake Barnes.
* * * * *
