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Mike Donnelly and Agent Don Creel cruised the bars of North
Philly with a tourist pass that had the rum-bottle and palm tree mark of Lord
Penn.
Creel was eating something greasy and half dough. The
Guinness in Mike’s stomach soured. He took a few deep breaths and moved
upwind. Last night the beef-and-cheese sandwich would have tempted him, but now,
after hours of watching Creel pack his guts and listening to the man complain,
Mike only wanted to walk away. He pulled his zipper to drain his bladder in the
gutter.
But Creel was his local contact. Cindy would want to know
why, and no one lied to her. Not openly, not in a way that could get them
caught. As it was, Creel was on her hit list. The jerk had the training to go
FBI. He had to have, or he wouldn’t have made it to the Project’s elite core
of agents. Mike scowled.
“Hey, where did you train at?”
“Hmp?” Creel’s long, Ichabod Crane neck swelled and he
choked down a mouthful of sandwich. “Train?”
“Where did the agency send you for training?”
Urine spattered from the cobbles to his shoes and Mike
grimaced. He finished and pressed the velcro closed, only then turning to face
Creel.
“Yeah. Training. Fort Bragg or Fort Benson?”
Creel ducked away, walking down the street mumbling
something. Mike stepped close, grabbed the man by the arm and forced him around.
The sandwich flew from Creel’s hand and the man scowled.
“That was beef. Real beef –“
“And so is my fist. Where did you train?”
Squirming a little, Creel frowned. “Bragg. Why?”
“Because we train with the FBI at Benson. Only grunts train
at Bragg.” Mike shoved Creel away and stalked down the street.
Stumbling over the cobbles of the street, Creel yelped. He
caught himself and jumped at Mike. Mike spun, snapped a kick at Creel’s belly,
and the man flopped back, rolling over on the wet bricks to his stomach in time
to keep from soiling himself with vomit.
With a snarl of self-contempt, Mike grabbed Creel by the back
of the neck to get the man’s face out of the gutter. He held him while Creel
heaved and spat, then choked.
Hauling Creel up, Mike shoved a white bandana at him.
“Clean yourself up, damn it. Show some dignity, at
least.”
Creel gave a slow nod. Wiping off his face and mouth, he shot
small, worried looks at Mike, than away.
Mike stared hard. “You done?”
In total silence, Creel nodded, trying to hand Mike the
bandana.
A look of disgust on his face and those beers worrying at his
stomach, Mike scowled. “Toss it.” He walked up the street.
Frowning and afraid, Creel looked at Mike, then the bandana.
With an almost exaggerated care, he folded it and shoved it in his back pocket.
Mike called over one shoulder, “Creel! You planning on
spending the night there?”
“Huh?” Creel blinked. “No, sir.” He rushed up to Mike
and stumbled along side of him for a block before stopping to take Mike by the
arm.
A cold look from Mike and he dropped it.
“Agent,” Creel said, his face burning in the light of the
dawn, “I was given this –“
“Shut up.”
“What? I mean, sir?”
“Shut up. You deaf or something?”
A slow, bashful smile on his face, Creel nodded.
“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Find a taxi. I want to get some sleep before we start
again.”
“You bet!” Creel grabbed his lapel phone and spoke into
it.
Mike stopped near a door that was cracked along the bottom
and frowned. A huge man squatted near it. The man gave Mile a sullen glare. Mike
clenched his fists. The man squeaked and darted away.
Something in the back of Mike’s head made his brain itch.
He started after the man but Creel whistled.
“The taxi.”
A low hum was coming from the sky. Blasting trash and muddy
water out of the way, a hover car dropped to within a few inches of the street.
Using a speaker, the driver said, “Well? Get in. I ain’t
coming to a full stop. Not in this ‘hood.”
Mike climbed in the back with an eager Creel on his heels.
As the car shoved up, the big man was back, staring at the
door.
Creel snorted a laugh. “Waiting on his daughter. She must
have a big client for him to stand out in the cold with no bottle to warm
him.”
“Hm?” Mike frowned. “What did you say?”
“His daughter.” Creel’s eyes rolled in his head and he
gave a low, lewd whistle. “Man, Sue’s so sweet the bees follow her instead
of flowers. She’s fantastic, the best ho I ever forked.” He pointed down at
the man as they slid away. “That’s her father, JJ Hannah, and that’s his
house.”
He gave a slow wink that Mike only caught out of the corner
of one eye.
“Dude,” Creel was saying, chattering again. “Can you
imagine trash like that owning their own home? Not even here.”
The cabby muttered a laugh. “Hey, that pinhead don’t own
nothing’. The judge, Harrison, owns the place and figgers he owns little
Sue.” The man shuddered and the cab slid a few yards, then he righted it.
Mike glanced down at the row house but it was
gone in the snow. Scowling, he rubbed the back of his head to scratch an itch
that lay deeper, in the subconscious every good cop develops, if he survives
long enough.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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