Fist First

by Nigel Mustard

  Stoker walked through the shadowy area under the bridge and entered the subway, entering a long, dark tunnel.

  Time was not on his side, and he knew he needed to speak to the person in charge as soon as humanely possible.

  But when the clock was ticking, Stoker was anything but humane.

  Sure enough, two broken jaws, a dislocated shoulder and twenty two minutes later Stoker was brought in front of a small boy, no older than ten, but no younger than ten either: he was a exactly one decade old.

  The boy had curly brown hair, a pink, flesh coloured face, and wore (no word of a lie) a large purple top hat, a white silk frilly shirt, a purple satin smoking jacket, a deep blue cape, black mink gloves, a salmon satin neckerchief, bright white fine woollen trousers, a polished buffalo leather belt with gleaming gold buckle and a pair of burnished brown brogues. He held a small walking cane with a silver rose furnished florally at the top.

  Stoker extended his hand for the customary shake. The boy slapped it, rapping his cane twice on the floor, and commenced articulation thusly:

  ‘Pleased to meet you tall dark stranger,

  You really aren’t in that much danger,

  Allow me to introduce me’self,

  Robin Sparrow in good ‘ealth!’

  The boy spoke with a clarity of voice and a lyrical flow. His sentences rhyme.

  ‘OK, Robin Sparrow. I need information on Thomas Magnelli.’ Stoker had no time for the extravagance of youth. However, he was well aware of the urchin gangs on this side of the city and knew they were not to be trifled with. Sometimes it paid to be polite. Until it was time not to be polite.

  ‘Hmmm.. Magnelli, Magnelli. A name I know…

  Why would I tell you anything though?

  A stranger comes to my base at night…

  He’d better be prepared to FIGHT!’

  At that, a man with a shaved domehead climbed from the sewerhole next to Sparrow. He wore a string vest, and tight denim shorts. His boots were black and polished to a fine shine. His socks were not visible and clearly weren’t long enough to protrude above the top of the boot. His nose was of a normal length, a slightly wider than average width, and had been broken several times.

  Sparrow continued his verse, dancing a jig and tapping his cane. His gang all clapped along with smiles attached to their faces.

  ‘Meet the toughest man in all the sewer,

  Never been a fighter truer,

  Now handsome stranger with long black hair,

  Put up your dukes and let’s fight fair.’

  Stoker cracked his knuckles and flexed his biceps modestly. He would make short work of this – perhaps start with a single karate chop to the belly to knock the wind out of him.

  But he never got a chance.

  The bald man stood with mouth agape. ‘I know you.’ Says he.

  ‘Me?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘You.’ Says he.

  ‘Why?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘Saved me life.’ Says he.

  ‘When?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘Two years hence…’ Says he.

  ‘Russian gang?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘The very same.’ Says he.

  ‘Got you out of that torture chamber?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘Right you are.’ Says he.

  ‘Worth saving?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘Watcha mean?’ Says he.

  ‘Made the most of it?’ Says Stoker.

  ‘S’pose not.’ Says he.

  ‘Now’s your chance.’ Says Stoker.

  ‘Too right pal.’ Says he.

  With that, the bald man turned round, tapped the purple hat of Robin Sparrow three times and dove headfirst in an elegant swallow dive into the sewerhole. Less than three seconds later, a loud splash and the stench of faeces echoed into the chamber.

  Silence befell.

  Stoker stared hard at Sparrow.

  Sparrow stared hard at Stoker.

  The tension was palpitating.

  Suddenly, Sparrow erupted, laughing merrily.

  ‘Well what a queer way for a fight to go,

  I really mustn’t grumble though,

  You saved the life of our dear friend,

  And this little game has reached an end!’

  Stoker was riled. He heard the sound of boots attached to feet hurtling towards them down the tunnel and he didn’t have time for this.

  ‘Seems to me as though this damn game is still going on… I need to know what the hell Magnelli is planning… and you need to tell me right about now.’

  Stoker rolled his fists in the air in front of him, and growled menacingly. Robin Sparrow continued his birdsong:

  ‘True my friend and honest man,

  I will tell you everything I can,

  For you seem a nice and honest fellow

  I could tell from our first hello,

  There’s a rumour flying round the streets

  Magnelli’s got Spang some treats,

  As sure as my middle name ain’t Blibberty,

  They’re meeting tonight at the Statue of Liberty.’

  With that, Sparrow’s crew sprinted in all directions and disappeared. Sparrow himself hoisted his cape into the air, wrapped it around himself and spun on his heels. By the time Stoker knew what was happening, Robin Sparrow had disappeared and the only remnant of his crew remaining in the tunnel was that there were no remnants at all.

  But Stoker wasn’t alone.

  A cruel voice appeared from behind him.

  ‘Well, well, well, Mr Stoker. It appears as though I have you trapped like a handsome rat.’

  Stoker turned to see the bad face of Clarence Von Klatt – his nemesis from earlier adventures and the most despicable corrupt cop in New York.

  Von Klatt wore his white-grey trenchcoat, and his white hair hung long and dank from his head. His ice cold blue eyes stared deep into Stoker’s.

  He held a flashlight which shoved out light into Stokers eyes, blinding him. Behind him stood a dozen beat cops, all with AK47s pointed directly at Stoker’s head and genitals.

  ‘Frank Stoker, you have the right to request silence to be used against you, anything you say will be taken down in evidence in the court of law.’

  The classic words of arrest.

  Stoker sized up the situation. There was no way out – not even Frank Stoker could punch a bullet out of the air.

  Von Klatt smiled horribly and puffed on a cigarillo which he had probably illegally imported from Cuba, which is an evil land.

  He walked over to Stoker, swinging his cane in his hands and smoking contemptibly. He whispered into Stoker’s ear.

  His breath sounded somehow… evil.

  ‘I’ve got you, Stoker. Please accept my condolences for your dead friends… from Thomas Magnelli.’ He sniggered like a small naughty horse.

  Stoker was enraged – he threw his fist from his side and was about to make contact with Von Klatt’s ribs, when he was hit by two tasers which Von Klatt had injected into his abdomen.

  Stoker felt weak, then hit the ground, and then passed out. The last thing he remembered was being (hand)cuffed and deposited in a waiting police van.

  Chapter 42

  Janney and Chloe stepped out of the New York Yellow Taxi Cab and ran across the pavement, gently nudging a couple of small children out of the way who were childishly playing catch.

  Janney approached the front desk and spluttered, or spurted:

  ‘Let me speak to the acting Police Chief, stat.’

  Stat is police-speak for quickly.

  Molly McGee looked doubtfully at Janney.

  ‘Listen, hun, you can’t just come in off the street and expect to see the Chief straight away. The whole station’s up in arms at the moment what with the death of poor Captain Kowalski and the Mayor. You’d be better coming back…’

  Her words were viciously pummelled out of the air by the striking interruption of the young man with perfect hair.

  ‘And what if I was to tell you that I had evidence that
Frank Stoker is an innocent man?’

  The whole station became quiet, a hush you could have heard from next door, deafening in its silence.

  Every single eyeball on every single face of every single cop suddenly turned towards Janney.

  The room was silent.

  A pudgy faced white male cop aged twenty eight, with a grotesque beer belly, dropped his paperwork on the floor.

  And still, the room was silent.

  A slim and attractive black female cop, aged sixteen, shook her head and whistled.

  And still, the room was silent.

  A grizzled Caucasian cop, aged seventy, a year off retirement, who thought he had heard it all, blew air from his warm dry lips, making a loud ‘Ooh’ sound like an owl.

  And still, the room was silent.

  After a period not longer than three minutes, Molly McGee replied, quietly.

  ‘Listen, Mister. If you’re a friend of Frank’s, you’d better get out of here. Things have chang…’

  Her eyes vibrated in their sockets. She stopped speaking and stared over Janney’s shoulder. He spun round like the plastic-housed rotating cylinder barrel of some kid’s yo-yo toy.

  Looming over him was the ghastly spectre of Clarence Von Klatt. Rake thin and the best part of seven feet tall in his elevated heels, Von Klatt could have been as young as thirty five, or as old as fifty. He was ageless… timeless… a ghost.

  Janney stood straight, well over six feet of toned athleticism. Even with Von Klatt’s height advantage, Janney must have had three stone on him. But still… something about this skeletal man gave Janney the creeps, all the way down to his loins.

  Von Klatt laughed, putting a bony had on Janney’s shoulder, and speaking with breath reeking of garlic, sausage meat and Bavarian beechwood cigars.

  ‘And you must be young Michael Janney? And this is the poor bereaved Chloe. So sorry to hear about the death of your father, the good Mayor Of The City, who was most certainly not an alcoholic.’

  It was clear that Von Klatt was being sarcastic, and that in fact he did think that Eddie Crawford had been an alcoholic.

  ‘But enough of this, you say you have evidence that exonerates Frank Stoker? This is a most interesting development – and I am always keen to grease the wheels of justice. Let us discuss upstairs.’

  Janney had an uneasy feeling about this odd man but saw no other option than to tail him with Chloe. A dozen beat cops followed them up the stairs – but closely, like a man following another man in a certain type of sauna in the suburbs.

  They climbed the narrow staircase to the first floor (what Americans idiotically call the second floor) and into Von Klatt’s office.

  Janney noticed shrewdly that Von Klatt’s name was already being etched into the window.

  ‘Thought you were just the acting Police Chief?’

  Von Klatt turned round on his heels like a ghost. He made no sound, as if he was floating. His eyes seemed even more blue and bright at this moment than they had in any previous moment.

  ‘A mere formality, Mr Janney. I am particularly well connected, and don’t expect it long before I am announced as the permanent Chief.’

  They both sat at opposite ends of the desk (to each other).

  ‘I have had a stunning career, Mr Janney. I am well respected and feared in equal measure. I have waited for this day for a long time.’ He licked his lips as his eyes flicked over Chloe’s midsection and tailpipe.

  Janney crossed then uncrossed his legs redundantly. Von Klatt continued to speak, his blue eyes the colour of stained ice, but a gazillion times colder.

  ‘Anyway, young man. Enough about me. You say you have evidence to help with the Stoker arrest and trial?’

  ‘The Stoker investigation you mean? You’re talking as if he’s been judged, juried and executioned!’ Janney slammed his hand on the table.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. The investigation. But I should tell you, Mr Janney, that Stoker is no longer a threat to New York citizens. He has been apprehended not one hour ago by a team of officers, led by… yours truly.’

  Janney and Chloe gasped.

  ‘So, tell me, Mr Janney, what evidence do you have that can help us with the case?’

  Janney went on to explain the evidence he had found in the library. Chloe listened intently – she could keep up with most of the conversation.

  When Janney’s lips had uttered the final piece of evidence, Von Klatt smiled politely. His teeth were huge, sharp and bright white.

  ‘Interesting. Interesting. Tell me, Mr Janney. You have heard of Thomas Magnelli?’

  ‘I was the damn head bodyguard to Eddie Crawford. Of course I know that low down wormbag Magnelli.’

  ‘What if I was to tell you that I work for Mr Magnelli? And that Stoker is as good as dead. As, my young friend, are you.’ He pulled out his two trademark Taser guns.

  ‘You diabolical swine!’ Shouted Janney, jumping up but being pinned down by two burly cops behind him. ‘Poor show. Shenanigans! You can’t have captured Stoker!’

  Von Klatt continued.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true. Take a look at this CCTV footage.’

  He switched a flickswitch and the screen behind him lit up like a TV coming on.

  The images showed Stoker being heaved from the Police van and thrown to the ground. He was then picked up and dragged into the station. The cop who drove the van wiped his hands and pulled out a pack of high-tar cigarettes and began smoking in a satisfied fashion.

  ‘Stoker is being taken to a cell ten metres down the hall. No, no, don’t try to contact him. That will only make it worse for him… and I am afraid, for you. Now, Mr Janney and Ms. Crawford, I think it’s time you took a little trip. Mr Hitoshi, would you care to come in?

  Janney craned his neck like a crane (the bird) or like a crane (the building machine) and saw the monster Hitoshi walk in, samurai sword in his sheath behind his back.

  ‘I’ll shortly be taking care of Stoker. Mr Hitoshi is going to take you to Mr Magnelli’s warehouse to… look after… you, whilst Mr Magnelli eliminates the tiresome Johnny Spang. Then, I’m sure he has big plans for you both – you will be the only two remaining flies in his ointment.’

  With two fearsome blows to the temple from the handle of his sword, Hitoshi knocked out Janney and Chloe.

  Chapter 43

  Stoker was held by his hands and feet by eight cops and dragged through the Police Station. His former colleagues jeered and hooted at him – clearly they’d already declared him uninnocent.

  He was still dazed but thought he caught a glimpse of a couple being carried the other way, both with long, flowing blonde hair. Stoker was only attracted to one set of hairs, so, being heterosexual, he quickly deduced that that particular set of hairs belonged to a woman and the other to an unattractive woman… or worse… a man! Could it be Janney and Chloe?

  He couldn’t think straight and the thought quickly dissolved like a steel marble in a beaker of hydrofluoric acid.

  His head pounded. What the hell was going on? He constantly drifted in and out of consciousness (only once as it was only a short journey) and came to as he was thrown onto the cold floor of the jail cell. The door slammed shut behind him.

  For a couple of minutes he racked his brains for potential exits. Nobody in the city knew the NYPD Police House as well as Frank Stoker… Hell, he’d stuck more than his fair share of punks in here himself.

  If there was a way out of this damn cell, he would have known about it.

  But the building was more difficult to break out of than a loveless middle aged marriage.

  The station had been forged by Amish men in the 17th century. Their shunning of modern fads such as Bubble Gum Candy, Television, Cyberspace Magazines and Roller Derby had made them the most diligent and trustworthy builders in the history of the United States. The original walls were well over two and three quarter inches thick and made from thin, cracked wood, filled with crumbling, ancient plaster.

  To make thing
s worse -and to be fair probably what was actually stopping people breaking out - was that a Health and Safety Review (I can hear your eyes rolling!) in 1988 decreed that the building was unsafe and as such a two foot thick concrete wall was erected around the original shell of the building.

  They said ‘The Slammer’ (as it was nicknamed by crooks and villains) could withstand a direct hit from a big missile.

  Stoker was trapped.

  But he was not alone for long.

  But this wasn’t to be solitary confinement.

  But Stoker was about to make some new friends.

  ‘CLICKETY CLICK. CLICKETY CLICK’ went a noise, nearby. The noise was growing louder and louder… the textbook and time-honoured indication of the noise creator becoming closer to the eared listener.

  Clarence Von Klatt marched round the corner and sniggered at the sight of Stoker on the floor of the cell.

  ‘Well, Mr Stoker. Looks like you’re back under my roof. I must say I prefer seeing you on that side of the bars.’ He sneered camply and wiggled his hips. The gang of cops behind him laughed uneasily.

  Von Klatt blew smoke into the cell.

  ‘You seem terribly alone, Mr Stoker. Perhaps some company would suit you?’

  Stoker stood up on his feet in the normal way.

  He coolly fired a threat back at Von Klatt.

  ‘Anybody you send in here is going down.’

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Stoker. Perhaps. But if you survive this, be happy in the knowledge that you are about to be locked up, forever. And the only man who could have saved you has just been taken to Mr Magnelli’s warehouse to be… suitably interrogated.’

  Von Klatt sniggered again, smoke blowing from his mouth mischievously.

  ‘And whilst your friend Janney and that pretty girl he is with are disposed of… I am shortly to be named The Chief Of The Police. You can imagine the fun that Mr Magnelli and I are going to have. Ah… New York. By the time we’ve finished sucking it dry, they’ll only call it The Small…’

  He fumbled inside his white trenchcoat and took a small bite of a dry apple that had been sitting in his pocket.