Royce Mullins and The Case of Virtue's Burn, A Novel: Chapter 6

by Jeff Hart

The last man I punched was the owner of a vegan grocery store. In general, I don’t take issue with the vegans, but I’d recently discovered this particular soy-milquetoast had been having it tantric with Claudette who, at that point, I had still planned to make my common-law wife. I caught up with the vegan in the produce aisle and clipped him in the ear. He told me that no amount of fisticuffs would make Claudette love me again, and then he had me arrested.

They say violence isn’t the answer, that it won’t make you feel better. If that’s the case, why did the afterglow of that one punch last me all the way through the arraignment?

A psychologist might tell you that a well-delivered sucker-punch, like cigarettes, like booze, is just an escape from your problems, not a solution. He might tell you that those vices only pull a man further down into a spiral of depression, leading not to answers, but only to harder drinks and harder punches. And I might ask that psychologist for a light and, while he’s looking for a match, sock him one in the mouth.

Because if he’s such a keen observer of the human condition, why didn’t he see that coming?

In summation, I felt like hitting somebody and the two intruders rooting around in my office definitely had it coming. Paul Fennel warned me in an eerily prescient phone conversation not to step to these guys, but in addition to the aforementioned vices, I also enjoy disregarding good advice.

Two steps into the office and I’ve made the intruders as the pair of jarheads that followed me into Ahmet’s that morning. One of them stretched out on my futon, cleaning under his fingernails with a butterfly knife. The other waited for me by the door, smiling. He’s the one I swung on.

My heart started to pound, the rush nearly deafening until the crack of my knuckles against the jarhead’s chin exploded like a starter’s pistol. The futon whined as the other one sat up, startled. It was a good punch. Buried his chin into his chest. Staggered him. I darted past him. I keep my gun on a bookshelf, hidden in Claudette’s emptied out memory box. The jarhead on the futon had started to laugh and clap his hands. Behind me, I could tell the first one had already regained his balance, just as I put hands on the memory box.

It was empty.

“Bang,” said the jarhead, grinning now with teeth outlined in blood.

The jarhead pointed my own heater at me, an engorged looking magnum I kept to put the fear into people. At the wrong end of it, I was at least happy to note that it worked. I put my hands up.

“Christ almighty,” said the jarhead, lowering my gun. “You didn’t have to hit me. We just want to talk.”

“You could’ve made an appointment.”

The other jarhead tittered and laid back on the futon. The first dabbed at his lip with the sleeve of his coat. He introduced himself as Yossarian, his partner as Pilgrim. Aliases, for sure, which never boded well when dealing with unhinged military types. Yossarian stuffed my gun into the front of his pants, but kept his grin aimed at me. I’d seen his type of smile before, lazy and accommodating, all teeth and enthusiasm, and yet somehow malevolent. On a southerner like Yossarian, it was a smile that said everything was peachy for now, but you might want to get out of town by sunset.

“We understand you’re working with a guy named Paul Fennel,” said Yossarian.

“I maintain a strict professional confidentiality with my clients,” I lied.

From the futon, Pilgrim let loose a tuneless whistle and ruefully shook his head.

“I’d appreciate if you could avoid jerking me off,” said Yossarian, his grin not flagging. “We already know what we need to know about you. What I said before, that was just some polite preamble to segue into what we want from you.”

“And what’s that?”

“We want Paul Fennel.”

“What for?”

“Revenge.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. First Dot warned me that Fennel was red-flagged, and now these two off-the-reservation jarheads had come around for some kind of payback. Granted, I’d only met Paul for the first time that morning, but I couldn’t figure how a socially awkward kid with some overactive sweat glands could get in deep with this kind of element. It didn’t add up. Then again, the weird burn on Paul’s chest didn’t make a whole lot of sense either.

I decided to go fishing.

“This about the girl?” I asked. “The one Fennel asked me to find?”

“Girl?” Yossarian glanced at Pilgrim. “You telling me that queer hired himself a private detective to help find him a girlfriend?”

“I guess that about sums it up.”

“Well, the heart wants what the heart wants, I suppose. But we ain’t here about any girl, Mr. Detective, and I’d surely appreciate it if you would keep your stupid fucking questions relevant to the task at hand.”

“Your revenge,” I ventured.

“Correct, sir,” said Yossarian. “Our Paul, he is not a man that’s easy to find. Unlike present company, he does not work and sleep in one easily accessed location. He won’t let us find him, but you, apparently he trusts you.”

“We only just met.”

“And that’s good. It means you won’t have any compunction about pointing and whistling the next time you plan to see him.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’d be doing your men in uniform a great service, for starters. Also, we intend to pay you handsomely in the currency of not coming back here and killing you.”

On the futon, Pilgrim snapped his knife closed. Counting John the Bulldog and Bo Harkins, this made four people threatening me bodily harm in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe Dot was right about my instincts being for shit. The urge for violence had certainly leaked out of me.

“One question,” I said. “I’ve only met Fennel once, but he didn’t strike me as the type to make enemies. What did he do?”

“That’s a fine question. Glad you asked.”

Yossarian tossed an arm around my shoulders, hugging me close.

“Let me tell you a little story about your client.”

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

Photo by Fabio, from Flickr.