Fist First

by Nigel Mustard

  The room had just become a few degrees colder, in Fahrenheit of course, because that is what Americans recognise as the true measure of hotness and coldness.

  Janney shivered and picked up the ream of paper that had squirted all over the floor like big piles of extra wide Italian tagliatelle (with words printed on).

  He began to comb through it.

  He combed the long blonde strands that glistened in the pale half-light. It was a ritual that he had taken part in partaking for years. Prior to any activity (e.g. American Gridiron Football, copulation) that would require his close attention and an eye for detail, he would brush his hair.

  He then began to go down the printout line by line, stopping only twice for bathroom breaks, and once for a lunch at a local New York Pizza Joint that barely lasted more than an hour. He also stopped briefly for a Steaming Hot Cuppa Joe (twice) before and after lunch.

  In short, Janney (who was coincidentally wearing shorts) was relentless in his pursuit of the truth.

  Less than six hours later, he had the evidence he needed.

  He stuffed the pasta-like printout and the microfiche carefully into his big, big bag and marched triumphantly out of the library. Chloe followed close behind.

  He threw his hand in the air as if he was about to speak at a town hall meeting about, for instance, the problem with gypsy traveller families amassing in coordinated but unlawful groups.

  He hollered:

  ‘TAXI!’

  A non-mustard yellow car screeched to a halt only two feet away from his (two) feet.

  Only in New York.

  He opened the door and let Chloe get in first, chivalrously.

  The driver put his right arm over the right headrest, and turned his head to the right to look over his right shoulder, like they always do. He held a cocktail stick between his teeth and wore a gold medallion. He had a blue wax cap. His face was weathered and stubble populated his face like short hair. Rosary beads dangled from the rear view mirror.

  ‘OK, where to, sir?’ Spoke the cabby. He had a clear and distinct New York accent.

  ‘To the New York Police Station, driver. To the New York Police Station.’ Said Janney.

  ‘Yeah, to the New York Police Station.’ He said again, looking out of the window wistfully at a small boy with blonde hair who had just dropped his hot dog and was being screamed at by his father.

  Chapter 40

  Saul Lowenstein shoved his beady eye balls towards the eye scanner. It beeped obediently.

  He placed his clammy tips (finger) on the small electrical pad. A robotic voice replied.

  ‘ENTER, LOWENSTEIN, REUBEN.’

  The shutters whirred up and Lowenstein was welcomed by the sight of twenty of Spang’s henchmen facing him, all armed with cleavers, knives, and blades of every kind. They squeezed into a narrow corridor, blocking the entrance to the atrium behind.

  They tittered as they saw Lowenstein, and made a gap in their wall of bodies, just big enough for a human to squeeze through.

  Lowenstein the human forced his portly frame through the gap. He felt the hips and blade handles of the henchmen rubbing against him as he sidled past.

  His clammy palms became even clammier – clammier than ever before. Of course, the resemblance to actual clams was trifling, it being a crass and unhelpful term in this instance.

  He was nervous. He was about to enter Spang’s Stateside (slang for USA: (The) United States (of) America)) hideout for the first time.

  He had parked his cheap car in the short stay car park, and then been ushered through security at New York Airport and whisked to Spang’s airside hangar by corrupt TSA agents (glorified bag searchers). Spang obviously had the whole place on lock down.

  Having made his way past the wall of manmeat, He walked down a small dark corridor and opened a grey office door, walking into (obviously) a different room. But he was amazed at what he saw.

  The floor was Greek marble, waxed by hand to a brilliant shine. The walls were covered in gold leaf, with ivory and ebony hand-carved trinkets depicting foreigners (depending on your perspective) engaged in various sexual positions. The graphic nature of these positions, and the seeming disregard for the pleasure of the female in each, pointed to the fact that these trinkets were years, if not decades old. They were probably worth thousands of pounds each, deduced Lowenstein’s intellect.

  Pictures by famed artists from every era were framed in the normal way and nailed to silver columns. The artists included, but were not limited to, Mr Michael Angelo and Mr David Hockney. Heard of ‘em? Lowenstein had written lengthy essays on them all.

  The silver columns stood either side of a lush, plush red carpet which Lowenstein recognised as finest Egyptian silk – priceless to all but the richest people in the world, who paid a high price indeed.

  Stuffed and mounted heads of exotic animals peered angrily down from the wall; their heads had been torn from their bodies and been sold to the damn highest bidder. A Siberian Tiger. A Griffin. A Boa Constrictor. A Fox. A Wyvern. Each beast had had their eyes replaced by marbles – marbles so expensive that you wouldn’t find them in your damn local toy shop. They could only be bought online in specialist marble trading sites.

  As he neared the end of the columned path, he passed the ultimate indulgence: a medium-to-large sized chocolate fountain.

  Several of Spang’s henchmen dipped marshmallows and small, cold, chopped pieces of fruit into the infinitely dripping chocolate. They wastefully allowed some splashes of chocolate to fall to the floor – probably never to be eaten by human lips or tongues.

  They didn’t even care.

  Lowenstein shook his head at the sheer indulgence that Spang surrounded himself in.

  He reached the end of the columned path and turned right to a recessed area in the room – three huge marble steps sat underneath a two inch thick platinum plinth which sat underneath a throne made of solid gold which sat underneath a small Chinaman wearing a blue velvet robe.

  Johnny Spang.

  ‘Lowenstein-san! What do you think of my new home?’

  ‘Mr Spang, sir, it’s most…. Becoming of you.’

  ‘Excellent… Excellent.’ Spang jumped from the throne and sailed ten feet through the air, landing with a clickety click approximately 1.25 feet in front of Lowenstein.

  ‘I like dis place, Lowenstein-san. I like New York. And I had it in the palm of my hand.’

  As he said this, he turned his palm over to reveal a small origami dragon which sat patiently on his palm.

  For the uninitiated; Origami is the Japanese sport of folding paper. For us pink-skinned westerners, it seems at first, second, and repeat sustained glances, utterly pointless, yet treasured by the Easternfolk for many centuries. In The Land Of The Setting Sun, those who fold the neatest edges get the sweetest honey.

  ‘I had pulled on the mayor’s heartstrings, and his ball-chords, and I was about to control the city. But now I learn he is dead, presumably at the hands of Hitoshi… on the orders of Magnelli?’

  He crumpled the small paper dragon in his palm and threw it to the floor. As it hit the floor, it combusted into burning flames and made a sound a bit like this:

  ‘Poof.’

  ‘And now, Lowenstein-san, I am angry. When I get angry, I kill people. If Magnelli thinks he can stop me taking over the City Of New York by killing that Irish bottlesucker Crawford… He is most mistaken.’

  Spang extended his arms to extend fully at each side and rotated slowly.

  Lowenstein’s brain was racking. He ran every possible outcome through his head in a matter of mere seconds.

  ‘Mr Spang, sir, if I may conjecturalise for a quantum. I do believe you have a right to demonstrate ire, even indignation. Promises were made to your person, and subsequently those promises have dissipated.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Interrupted Spang, who had, by now, stopped rotating. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have fostered a strategy which will enable you to conquer Magnelli and secure
the city.’

  ‘Why would I twust you? You have worked for Magnelli for years.’

  ‘Because, Mr Spang, I recognise a winner. I have postulated over every outcome since your move to the metropolis, and each postulation culminates in one outcome. Johnny Spang will be the next King Of New York.’

  ‘Keep talking, Lowenstein-san. Keep talking.’ Lowenstein clearly had Spang’s attention. If Spang’s previous comment doesn’t prove that, then take this sentence as confirmation.

  ‘Affirmatory, Mr Spang. The initial step will be to orchestrate a meeting between you and Mr Magnelli. Soon.’

  Spang somersaulted backwards into his throne, sucked longingly on a piece of dried papaya, and crossed his legs.

  ‘I find you a most… surprising… man, Lowenstein-san. Come, let us continue this conversation.’

  Which, my dear friends, is exactly what he did.

  Chapter 41

  Dirty face. Dirty hands. Dirty pants. Dirty hat.

  Stoker had transformed from New York’s top cop to a dropout homeless.

  Sure… he had changed into dirty clothes. Simple.

  But he had also transformed his body language. Stoker was a brilliant man, he uniquely combined brains and brawn, and cleverly changed his posture, attitude and his breath to match that of a homeless man.

  The only thing he had refused to change was his shoulder to floor leather jacket. He somehow felt safer in it. Like a damn suit of armour against all the bullcrap coming out of City Hall.

  He hobbled at the back of the line at the soup kitchen in Queens (part of New York).

  Stoker knew he was a dead man if he got caught in the city. He was New York’s… hell, maybe America’s most wanted.

  Killing the Mayor and Chief of Police in one night? That’d be a one way ticket to the electric chair. Calling at Death Row. Stopping at nothing. Calling only once for an appeal. Not stopping there for long. Only to refuel. Calling then at the electric chair.

  He had asked Janney to clear his name, and trusted the kid to do everything he could. But he knew it would take days or maybe weeks, and until then he would be a damn bunny rabbit being hunted by a thousand fox-y Policepersons.

  Coming back into the city was foolish, but Stoker didn’t care. He had to kill Magnelli, Spang and that monster Hitoshi. His life wasn’t worth more than revenge.

  Stoker also didn’t care to admit to himself that he was scared of leaving New York. He’d been here for all of his forty four years – only leaving a handful of times on Top Secret Police Missions.

  New York was all he was - and all he wanted.

  Cool Jazz music started playing from the bridge above. Some talented busker no doubt, chewed up and spat out by the system. Could have had a stable job, been an office manager, or a senior office coordinator. But his face didn’t fit – so he had been made redundant. Another victim of the damn system. Now making a living blowing pipe on the bridge and getting a dollar a time from tourists.

  Only in New York.

  The sound of sirens blared rudely from a hundred cop cars.

  How many of them were hunting Stoker?

  He shook his head and kept his ears open in the queue. The sirens weren’t that close, but he knew that once the rumours of this tall, handsome stranger turning up in Queens Soup Kitchen, it wouldn’t take long for them to piece it together.

  Frank Stoker was back in the City. Yeah man… the big cat was back in the tiger pit… and soon, dude, believe it… it would be feeding time at the zoo.

  The jazz music kept playing. Most people despise Jazz, but New Yorkers love it. Stoker is a New Yorker, and as a consequence, used his ears to gratefully process the incompatible note sequences.

  Stoker wiped away the foetus of a tear, banishing it back into its little duct on the inside corner of his left eye.

  ‘No damn time for tears now, Frank. You gotta think, dammit’, thinked Stoker to himself. ‘You’re here to find out information on Magnelli from the seedy underbelly of the Big Apple.’

  Stoker smiled to himself at the intentional and considered play on words regarding seeds and apples.

  Stoker moved forward again and found himself at the front of the queue.

  He looked up and made full eye contact with the sweetest damn dame he’d seen since Chloe Crawford.

  She must have been eighteen years old, with large breasts.

  Stoker raised one eyebrow, a bit like James Bond, but with enough differentiation to avoid any copyright issues.

  He made and held direct eye contact with her, which is what confident men do when prowling for women.

  ‘Well, I guess being homeless has its perks.’ His words entered the atmosphere like a rocket hurtling back towards earth, full of dour Russian astronauts and those space dogs with helmets on.

  Stoker cleverly held his bowl over his mouth as he spoke. His breath was vile due to his sucking on a piece of old discarded rope he found near the entrance to Queen’s. All part of the disguise – but he didn’t think for a moment there would have been any sweet dames down here in the gutters.

  ‘Sandy Spinks is my name, and soup is my game!’ She stated, as informative as it was sexy.

  ‘Soup… soup…. oh yeah. I’d forgotten about that, despite me being a starving homeless. Something must have taken my mind off it.’

  His dark eyes moved down to her breasts, and moved back up, slowly, over her sternum, trachea, adam’s apple, chin, lip, upper lip, beak, nose, and then inevitably, as she ran out of features to inspect, back to her eyes.

  She blushed. Stoker had seen girls blush a thousand times. He didn’t sweat it.

  ‘Gee, Mister, I don’t normally get to chew the fat with the guys in the queue… especially not guys like you!’

  Sandy was eighteen and from Texas. She had brown hair and wore a low cut top.

  Stoker couldn’t help himself but fall back into the age-old dance.

  ‘Say, is your soup… hot and wet?’

  ‘I… I guess it is, Mister, yeah.’ She stammered, unappealingly. But then brushed the hair out of her eyes, in a sexy way. That’s better.

  She wanted him.

  He knew it.

  ‘You had your break yet? You look beat.’ She was the prey, and Stoker was the prey-catcher.

  ‘I guess I could close up for ten minutes’, she said, winking with one eye.

  ‘Open up, I’ll come on in and help you stir the minestrone...’ said Stoker, coolly.

  Well, as you can imagine, this raised sweet hell with the twenty to thirty downandouts behind Stoker in the queue, who selfishly put their idle hungriness above the lustfulness of two attractive people… but see if Frank or Sandy cared a jot.

  You just fucking well see if they gave a shit about anyone else’s feelings.

  He climbed into the cabin and wasted no time, striding over to the girl and clasping his hand gently round the back of her cranial dome (head).

  ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ He enquired, hungrily (but not for soup). His hot breath smelt of creosote soaked rope and testosterone.

  ‘Oh… yes…. yes…. a thousand times yes!’ She squealed.

  ‘Then kiss you I shall...’ Replied Stoker, before doing just that.

  Their faces melted into one, a writhing mass of face skin. Their two tongues entwined like fighting snakes - or better, mating snakes. Saliva was unlikely to be the only bodily fluid transferred between the two this sweet evening.

  And I ain’t talking about the fluid called soup. (Winking face).

  Stoker’s two hands grabbed a cheek each from the ass of Sandy. He squeezed. She moaned.

  He did it again. She groaned.

  That was quite enough foreplay for Stoker.

  ‘Would you like me to make love to you?’ He enquired, hungrily.

  ‘Oh… yes! YES! YES! YES!’ She screamed, in an over the top fashion.

  ‘Then make love to you I shall.’

  Stoker took off his dirty clothes and presented his penis, which he had shrewdly k
ept immaculately clean. The rod of flesh stood magnificently, a couple of degrees above parallel to the floor. She took it in her hands, then her mouth, then her vagina - in that order.

  Yeah, you could say that Stoker made Sandy Spinks a very happy girl.

  After they were both all done (for clarity; both had orgasmed) Stoker rubbed her shoulders for one minute in a token gesture, poured himself large portion of minestrone soup, taking two buttered rolls and an above-regulation grind of pepper, and stepped out of the cabin.

  Despite being used as sexy euphemisms by Stoker and the girl, the soup had remained totally independent from the sexmaxing and as such was untainted, and totally fit to consume.

  He barged through a few skeletal hoboes who were furious at the delay.

  ‘Sorry guys, but you know what you gotta do when nature calls.’ Said Stoker, turning back and coolly taking a sip of his soup. Whilst it wasn’t scalding, it was hot, and burned his lower lip.

  Whilst he berated himself for being so impatient; let the soup cool before you sip it for the last damn time Frank; he didn’t even flinch.

  Most of the homelesses laughed and admitted that they weren’t really angry and said things like ‘Good on you pal’ and ‘God bless you, big man’.

  All in all, a happy ending and a good scene.

  But Stoker hadn’t come here (only) to fornicate. He had made a few easy friendships with street urchins in New York over the years, and he knew if he could get in touch with one of his contacts, they would likely have information on the plans of Thomas Magnelli.

  If you wonder why a vagrant youth would have even basic knowledge of the secret movements of an international crime boss - just understand that this is how New York works.

  Of course, Frank Stoker was no fool – this really should be evident by now if you have been paying attention – and knew the type of risks this carried. His face was a known face in the shadowy underworld, and if only one bad spook had caught a fresh faceful of the visage of Stoker – well that could be curtains.

  He heard sirens again, sweeping over the underpass (or under the overpass) above him. Getting closer. Had someone tipped them off? He had to act fast. Information was his game, and we are living in an information age, as everyone keeps tediously repeating these days, and using as a stick to beat people with, but which isn’t necessarily true, or indeed relevant to this paragraph.