Royce Mullins and The Case of Virtue's Burn, A Novel: Chapter Five
by Jeff Hart
I imagined my insides to be as roughly calloused as a day laborer’s thumbs. In my line of work, you develop a certain tolerance for the unexpected gut-punch. Even a blow delivered by a master of casual brutality like Bo Harkins couldn’t slow me down for long. It was more the whole getting tossed in the trash thing that I was sore about. That, and, even after nosing around the Unfettered Souls Wellness Center, still not having a clue how to find my client Paul Fennel’s indentured soul mate. I’d returned to Ahmet’s bodega to figure out my next move. It was to call Dot, my exotic guide on the creepy back-roads that spider off the information superhighway.
“You’re making some interesting friends,” began Dot, dispensing with the formality of a greeting as she resumed our conversation from hours ago.
“I’ve hit a wall with Maker.”
“Did it hit back?”
“Just a love-tap. Tell me you’ve got something.”
“The Chief Motivationalist, he’s exactly what you’d expect. He self helps himself, but that’s capitalism, baby. Nothing wrong with that.”
“So he’s dirty?”
“You think a guy with a smile like that would be clean?”
“My client’s got him running whores out of Midtown. You turn up anything that filthy?”
“I think the exalted Maker would cringe to hear you describe his Virtues as whores, Royce. You need to expand that narrow mind.”
“What’s your point?”
“The point is that this isn’t a brothel you’re dealing with. These aren’t hey-sailor whores. You can’t approach Unfettered like you’re freeing the sweet immigrant girls from the exploitative grip of the pimp in the whalebone Rolls. These are kool-aid drinking converts. Maker might put a high price on the service of servicing each other, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re willing participants.”
“My client’s got the feeling they maybe aren’t so willing.”
“And you believe him?”
I hadn’t considered this. A sad sack like Fennel shows up on my doorstep with a work order from God and a forensic curiosity scalded into his chest, and I hadn’t thought to question if he might be playing me. My gut, that well-exercised and observant muscle of mine, told me it wasn’t necessary.
“Yeah. I believe him.”
“Fennel’s a person of interest. Bright red flag.”
“Him? Come on.”
“The less you know, the better.”
“Don’t stonewall me. He’s a rube.”
“Maybe you’re the rube.”
“Maybe your intel is for shit.”
Dot pointed an exhale right at my inner ear. Over the years I’d developed a keen sense of how exasperated a woman had become by the force and mass of her sighs. It was unusual to have Dot this ruffled.
“As a friend,” she began, her words suddenly measured, “I think you’ve made a bad read on this one. Your instincts-maybe they aren’t so sharp lately.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You botched that job for John the Bulldog, Royce. That’s common knowledge.”
“John and I worked that out.”
“I bet. You barely got clear of that one, and now you’re jumping into a job for this kid with nobody to vouch for him-”
“God vouched for him.”
“This Fennel kid, you might think he’s a lamb, but he’s put you in the mix with some bad ingredients. If I was you, and even granting that hypothetical puts me at a sudden intellectual disadvantage, I’d sit this one out. And for the record? My intel is never for shit.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, but the kid’s deposit is nonrefundable.”
“Royce-”
“I’ll be in touch.”
I thought that I’d burned through my reserves of macho pride back when I started sleeping on a futon, but here was that old bar-fight feeling cracking its knuckles, all because one woman with barely a supporting role in my life had questioned my priorities and worried for my safety. Unacceptable. The Fennel job still seemed simple enough to me and whatever static Dot had tuned into wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. And as for bringing up John the Bulldog, well, that was a low blow. My instincts weren’t failing me. I was just on a bad run.
Ahmet’s phone rang, probably Dot calling back.
“What I don’t understand,” I began, trying to resume our usual breezy rapport, “is why you don’t think I can handle a simple puppy-love case.”
“I think you can handle it,” stammered the quavering male voice on the phone. “I’m sorry if I gave you a different impression.”
“Paul?”
“Hello, Mr. Mullins,” replied Paul Fennel, sounding at any moment like he might vomit on the receiver.
“Paul, how did you get this number?”
“The phonebook,” he said, sincere.
“But how did you know I was here?”
“I wanted to ask you to breakfast tomorrow, Mr. Mullins. I think by then we might have plenty to talk about.”
“Why don’t you just stop by my office?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Your office is actually the other reason why I’m calling. There are some men in there. I thought you should know. I don’t think they mean you immediate harm, but I wouldn’t make any sudden movements, all the same.”
“Men? What are you talking about, Paul?”
“They’ve likely already found your gun.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have to go. We’ll talk at breakfast.”
“Paul?”
“Mr. Mullins,” he said, and hesitated. “I think you’re doing a good job.”
He hung up. As I walked out of Ahmet’s my stomach turned over. Maybe not as cast-iron as I believed.
Now I had some idea of what might have gotten Dot spooked. Only Dot ever called me at Ahmet’s. How Fennel had tracked me down so easily was a concern. He was nervous on the phone, that didn’t seem like a put-on, but I couldn’t help but feel like I was being handled. Fennel’s sweaty fingertips were pushing me, I just wasn’t sure where.
The more pressing concern was the intruders. I could see them from the street. They’d turned my office lights on, making no effort to conceal themselves. That was a good sign. It meant they didn’t plan to loop piano wire around my throat the moment I walked through the door. However, Paul had indicated they might be prone to violence.
Mood I was in, that sounded alright.
Jeff Hart lives in Brooklyn. His other writing can be found over at Culture Blues.
Photo by Fabio, from Flickr.