my skull was made of rock," he muttered, and saw what looked suspiciously like a smile dance around her lips. He hadn't been smiled at by a pretty girl in a while.
"Thank you, Miss-" Mike left it open, hoping she'd tell him her name.
She smiled. Right out in the open, this time.
"Pahlavi. Yasmin Pahlavi. You're welcome, Mr. Runey, but let's not meet like this again." She had a dimple in her left cheek.
"Call me Mike."
She smiled again, and pushed a few strand of her straight, black hair out of her face. Mike's heart started to pound again, though not from fear. He opened his mouth to ask for her number - hey, it could happen - when a voice completely derailed his train of thought.
"Mickey Runey?" He really didn't like people calling him that, especially not someone like this. The voice in question spoke the with the clipped tones of officialdom: all I'm-supposed-to-be-here-and-I-don't-want-to-have-to-make-your-life-a-mess-really, and that's-an-awfully-nice-life-you're-living-there-shame-if-something-happened-to-it. He distrusted those tones on an instinctive level. Lower-level bureaucrats always wanted to make somebody else's life harder. As far as Mike was concerned, it came of being a bureaucrat.
This one looked like most of the rest he'd ever dealt with. Middling height, middle build, just starting to slide to fat as time in a chair caught up to him. Slightly shaggy haircut, cheap off-the-rack suit, glasses frames straight out of the 1960s. Perfectly standard bureau-bum, but for the hint of something shiny where his shirt gapped over his chest.
Mike shrugged and stayed where he was, lying on the floor. He found that officials preferred talking to people from positions of power. So long as he didn't stand up and tower over the suit by a good head, he figured he'd be fine. Also, not giving up much in the way of information.
"Mr. Runey, I'm Sergeant Timmons, NYPD," the man pulled a badge out of his jacket and held it at Mike's eye-level. His tone probed, as Mike expected. Cops always wanted to use your own words to trip you up. "Several eyewitness have you knocking over a, ah, Ms. Cherry Jubilee, and then assaulting an unnamed man."
Mike shrugged when the guy paused. He hadn't known the big queen's name, and it looked like the cop still didn't, if all he had was her nom de guerre. So to speak.
The cop frowned.
"Mr. Runey, I'd really appreciate it if you helped me out here." There it was, the we're all friends here tone. Mike had heard that one a lot, too.
"Well, Sergeant Timmons, you haven't asked me any questions yet." Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw Yasmin's lips twitch.
For a bare moment, Sgt. Timmons stared down at Mike. The light from the fluorescents overhead hit the cop's glasses just right, completely hiding his eyes behind artificial glare. Somehow, it seemed to Mike as though the room had darkened. His pulse sped up at the shaded hint of danger.
"Of course." And now the cop's tone was guarded. "What do you remember of the brawl?"
Mike frowned. He'd been holding up one end of the bar, when suddenly everybody seemed to start throwing punches. He filled in Sgt. Timmons on what he remembered, carefully omitting references to his nightmarish dreams. And while he mentioned the creepy kid's creepier necklace, Mike chose not to mention how it seemed to reach for him right at the end.
By the time Mike finished recalling the evening to the cop, Yasmin finished with him and moved on to somebody else across the room. Sgt. Timmons or no Sgt. Timmons, Mike was pretty sure he had a chance with her, and wanted to finish this up quick. Before she left.
The cop frowned at him again.
"Mr. Runey, you claim to have no memory from the time your assailant came out of the crowd and attacked you until the point where you awoke while Ms. Pahlavi treated you."
Mike nodded. Safer than quibbling with the cop's choice of words. And accurate enough, in its own way.
"So you also claim you don't remember kicking your
"Thank you, Miss-" Mike left it open, hoping she'd tell him her name.
She smiled. Right out in the open, this time.
"Pahlavi. Yasmin Pahlavi. You're welcome, Mr. Runey, but let's not meet like this again." She had a dimple in her left cheek.
"Call me Mike."
She smiled again, and pushed a few strand of her straight, black hair out of her face. Mike's heart started to pound again, though not from fear. He opened his mouth to ask for her number - hey, it could happen - when a voice completely derailed his train of thought.
"Mickey Runey?" He really didn't like people calling him that, especially not someone like this. The voice in question spoke the with the clipped tones of officialdom: all I'm-supposed-to-be-here-and-I-don't-want-to-have-to-make-your-life-a-mess-really, and that's-an-awfully-nice-life-you're-living-there-shame-if-something-happened-to-it. He distrusted those tones on an instinctive level. Lower-level bureaucrats always wanted to make somebody else's life harder. As far as Mike was concerned, it came of being a bureaucrat.
This one looked like most of the rest he'd ever dealt with. Middling height, middle build, just starting to slide to fat as time in a chair caught up to him. Slightly shaggy haircut, cheap off-the-rack suit, glasses frames straight out of the 1960s. Perfectly standard bureau-bum, but for the hint of something shiny where his shirt gapped over his chest.
Mike shrugged and stayed where he was, lying on the floor. He found that officials preferred talking to people from positions of power. So long as he didn't stand up and tower over the suit by a good head, he figured he'd be fine. Also, not giving up much in the way of information.
"Mr. Runey, I'm Sergeant Timmons, NYPD," the man pulled a badge out of his jacket and held it at Mike's eye-level. His tone probed, as Mike expected. Cops always wanted to use your own words to trip you up. "Several eyewitness have you knocking over a, ah, Ms. Cherry Jubilee, and then assaulting an unnamed man."
Mike shrugged when the guy paused. He hadn't known the big queen's name, and it looked like the cop still didn't, if all he had was her nom de guerre. So to speak.
The cop frowned.
"Mr. Runey, I'd really appreciate it if you helped me out here." There it was, the we're all friends here tone. Mike had heard that one a lot, too.
"Well, Sergeant Timmons, you haven't asked me any questions yet." Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw Yasmin's lips twitch.
For a bare moment, Sgt. Timmons stared down at Mike. The light from the fluorescents overhead hit the cop's glasses just right, completely hiding his eyes behind artificial glare. Somehow, it seemed to Mike as though the room had darkened. His pulse sped up at the shaded hint of danger.
"Of course." And now the cop's tone was guarded. "What do you remember of the brawl?"
Mike frowned. He'd been holding up one end of the bar, when suddenly everybody seemed to start throwing punches. He filled in Sgt. Timmons on what he remembered, carefully omitting references to his nightmarish dreams. And while he mentioned the creepy kid's creepier necklace, Mike chose not to mention how it seemed to reach for him right at the end.
By the time Mike finished recalling the evening to the cop, Yasmin finished with him and moved on to somebody else across the room. Sgt. Timmons or no Sgt. Timmons, Mike was pretty sure he had a chance with her, and wanted to finish this up quick. Before she left.
The cop frowned at him again.
"Mr. Runey, you claim to have no memory from the time your assailant came out of the crowd and attacked you until the point where you awoke while Ms. Pahlavi treated you."
Mike nodded. Safer than quibbling with the cop's choice of words. And accurate enough, in its own way.
"So you also claim you don't remember kicking your
Similar Books
Snow Storm
Robert Parker
Taken Love
KC Royale
The Ivy Lessons
J Lerman
Line of Fire
Simone Anderson
A Low Down Dirty Shane
Sierra Dean
Twist of Fate
Kelly Mooney
Fay Weldon - Novel 23
Rhode Island Blues (v1.1)
A Most Scandalous Proposal
Ashlyn Macnamara
Alcestis
Katharine Beutner
