Royce Mullins and The Case of Virtue's Burn, A Novel: Chapter Three

by Jeff Hart

I hadn’t gone even a block from my office, on my way to poke around a Midtown cult in search of a love connection for my literal godsend of a client, when I made the tail. It was a pair of Cro-Magnon neophytes with the ready-to-pop glamour muscles found on any city goon squad, but the rigid spines and precise, angular haircuts that told me besides rank amateurs they were also likely Privates or Sergeants. I couldn’t think of a reason that Uncle Sam would want to pick on me and I wasn’t all that curious, so I scooted around the orange vests piling up decapitated Chinese dolls and ducked into Ahmet’s bodega.

This week’s piece of advice: get to know the guy that sells you your cigarettes.

For instance, I could tell you that Ahmet’s the second generation of eyes to observe the Lower East Side from behind this particular counter. I could tell you that his folks came over from Turkey, that he’s on his third wife, and that he’ll only put the pork bacon on your breakfast sandwich if you ask real nice.

“Morning Ahmet,” I said, as I booked it for the employees-only door. “Some real weather we’re having.”

 “Whole neighborhood smells like pepper steak,” he replied, as he scurried to the back of the store to fling open the fire exit.

Ahmet’s helped me shake tails in the past. It always plays out the same. I hide in his office, he barks at my tagalong in half-fake Farsi while pointing out the back exit. It doesn’t take Operation Enduring Gullibility long to get the picture and go barreling into the back alley, hot on a trail that I never left. Or a trail that I never got on in the first place, depending on your preferred usage of trail-related cliches.

The coast clear, Ahmet poked his head in.

“I think they spoke Farsi.”

“No shit?”

“Definitely not from around here.”

“No shit.”

“What’d they want?”

“You mean you didn’t ask them?”

Ahmet frowned at me.

“How about a sandwich?”

With Ahmet gone to slice turkey, I considered which branch of the government I might have hacked off enough to send some barely camouflaged hatchet men my way. I couldn’t think of any, unless they were calling in Special Forces for not filing taxes. Could it be related to Fennel? I didn’t see it. Blowback from John the Bulldog? It’d likely be years before they got around to scooping up trash on Coney Island, no one was going to find that poor slob. Perplexing.

I picked up Ahmet’s office phone and called Dot.

I should explain that I am not the most technologically savvy. I’ve never believed in the whole Internet thing. Always smelled like a long con to me. I’ve also never owned a cellular phone, just like I’ve never strapped a flashing neon arrow to myself-I don’t want to be found that easy. Of course, this has led to me being referred to by some, including Dot, as an anachronism, a term that I’ve never particularly minded. When times get rough, be the man out of time.

I met Dot at a networking event thrown by those cutthroat sons of bitches at the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce. She looked to me how one of those anime characters with the purple hair and neck tattoos would look like if they suddenly decided to go straight and become a banker. Both of us on the job, both out of our element, we made a euphemistic exchange of business cards in the coat room. I’d been using her for my Internet ever since. She has this amazing trick where no matter where I call from, she knows it’s me. She never says hello.

“There was another art burning here last night, Royce,” she began, as if resuming a leisurely conversation we’d been having. “It was beautiful. Until they had to cancel on account of the Chinese.”

“Isn’t that just like the Chinese to intercede on behalf of the arts.”

“You make me laugh,” she said, although she didn’t. “I’m glad you called. I was worried.”

“Oh?”

“Your name has come up a lot lately in conjunction with a certain canine gangster.”

“Thank you for the heads up on that.”

“Invest in a telegraph and next time I’ll tap you out a 911.”

“My name come up anywhere else?”

“Here and there. You should come see me. I’m at the Trump McCarren.”

“Sorry, Dot. I hate what they’ve done with the place. “

“If this isn’t a social call, I’m sure you won’t mind if I start running the meter.”

“What have you got on a guy named Wayne Maker? Runs a help-me-help-you racket.”

“Why Royce, I think it’s wonderful that you’ve finally decided to file down those rough edges of yours with some third party administered self love. For a guy like you, finding yourself should be a cinch.”

“It’s not me I’m looking for. Guy named Paul Fennel. Scrubby little weirdo. Run him too.”

“Fennel like the pasta?”

“Like the plant. You’re thinking of fusilli.”

“Mm. In that case, call me after dinner. I might have something for you.”

Dot hung up.

Ahmet had my sandwich ready when I wandered out of his office. While I ate, I took stock of myself in the hubcap mirror hanging over his front door. Early thirties but could pass for late forties, a t-shirt and jeans, and the shadow of a beard that didn’t quite fill in right.

“What do you say, Ahmet? Do I look like the kind of guy that needs a rigorous soul saving?”

“A rigorous shower, maybe.”

“I think that’ll do.”

Outside, I stopped to watch a group of puzzled sanitation workers trying to figure out what to do with a squid that had fallen from the sky mangled but alive. One of the orange vests emptied a bottle of water on the thing and it slapped its two intact tentacles against the sidewalk in confused appreciation. I sympathized.

I headed uptown to get unfettered.

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Jeff Hart lives in Brooklyn. His other writing can be found over at Culture Blues.

Photo by Fabio, from Flickr.