Undertow, Part 9

9 – Diamond Eyes

Back home, Roan washed another Percocet down with a beer, to take the lingering edge off, and changed into some clean clothes before digging out the cheap ornamental knife he’d taken from Harvey’s garage. It was cheap crap, nothing significant, but he had to confirm it.

Convincing a skeptical Dylan he was fine, he took the bike out in the rain, and went back into the city. When he took off his helmet, the misty rain was cool on his hot face, and it helped banish some of the logy feeling of the pills and beer.

The unusual thing about the Three Brothers Pawn Shop was that it was an actual independent pawn shop, and there were no brothers to speak of. It was just a “catchy’ name according to Jack, owner and proprietor of the shop. He was fifty two, and shaped much like a pear on toothpicks, with skinny legs and a bell shaped body that was widest at the waist, where his round belly strained every single too tight t-shirt he wore, and he had a white beard that fell all the way to the center of his chest and tapered to a Satanic point. Add to this gray-white hair always pulled back into a ponytail, a penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors, and sleeves of tattoos running straight from wrist to shoulder, and he looked like someone’s biker grandpa. Which was at least partially true, as, if you believed his colorful stories, he briefly ran with the Hell’s Angels in the ‘80’s. But now he was a legitimate businessman. Well, semi-legitimate; Roan often scented pot on him, and the sour metallic sweat of illegal uppers. (Nothing heavy duty, though, not meth or crack, so at least the guy had sane limits.)

Roan had casually known Jack since his beat cop days, as he used to work this area, and Jack was always happy to turn in stolen goods and finger the thief that tried to pawn it. No one liked a snitch, certainly not a former biker, but he preferred having a business license, which he could have had revoked if he ever got nailed selling stolen merchandise. So Jack was oddly enough one of the more trustworthy people in a rather sketchy part of town, and being as hard as a brick and twice as ugly, no one ever bothered him.

He also liked Roan. Jack was not gay, in fact he made a slightly homophobic joke in front of him when they first met, and Roan told him flatly, “I’m gay and I don’t think that’s funny, you fucking asshole.” That made Jack laugh, and later on he’d say he appreciated his “balls” in admitting it. What, like he wouldn’t? But Roan just took that for what it was, a kind of compliment from a man from a different generation.

“Hey, gay boy,” Jack said, as Roan entered his shop. From him, it was affectionate, although you had to know him to get that.

“Hey fat ass,” Roan replied, making Jack laugh. The key to Jack, as far as he could tell, was giving as good as you got. Anything less, and he thought you were a pussy.

“Got somethin’ for me?”

“Sorta, but I don’t want to sell it.” Roan pulled the sheathed knife out of his waistband, and put it on the glass topped counter in front of Jack.

He looked at it with a skeptical frown. “You steal it from a Chinese restaurant?”

“Actually, got it from a client. I want to know anything you can find about it. If it’s a cheap piece of tacky decorating, great. Just confirm it for me, okay?”

Jack picked up the knife and pulled it out of the brocaded sheath, looking at it closely. “Not a bad blade. Dull. Ain’t you the detective? Isn’t this your job?”

“I search for people, not things, though I’m beginning to think things would be better.”

“People gotcha down?”

“You could say that.”

Jack shrugged, putting the knife back in its sheath. “Things let you down too. Ask me about my truck. Fucker needs a new radiator.”

Roan took the hint, dug out his wallet, and laid a twenty on the counter. “Think the knife’s even worth this much?”

Jack took the bill, and made a comical show of holding it up to the light to confirm it wasn’t counterfeit. “Nope, even if this was counterfeit.”

That was what he figured. Why did he think it was significant? He wasn’t even sure anymore.  Oh well, at least he could confirm this was a go nowhere piece of shit before retiring it for good, and trying to figure out the real reason why Melinda Hall suddenly turned up dead.

****

Holden knew he’d visited  the hospital way too often when a heavy set Samoan nurse saw him, and instantly said, “I didn’t know Roan was here.”

She was already looking in her files when he told her he wasn’t (well, to his knowledge), and asked after Scott Murray’s room. She seemed highly dubious, and asked, “Are you family?”  Holden said he was his cousin, and before she could call him on it, he started overwhelming her with a made up story about his Aunt Patty’s and Uncle Frank’s acrimonious divorce, and how Scott ended up living with his parents for a summer. She simply told him Scott’s room number to end the story, which he expected. He did have an Uncle Frank, but that’s pretty much where the truth ended. Holden knew bullshit was his superpower, and if he could just start talking, he would get past the door.

Scott was alone in his room, but that showed you how much cache he had, as he had a room all by himself. No sharing with peons for him. Then again, Roan never shared a room either, but that was because he was infected and they were afraid if he changed, he’d eat his roommate. Scott was in no danger of doing that, unless his head injury had somehow turned him into a zombie.

Holden found him sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows, a fresh butterfly bandage on his forehead, a hollow look in his glazed eyes that suggested he was in a great deal of pain but trying to be macho about it. His bloodless, pale lips seemed to indicate that as well. “Hillie called you,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

“Of course he did, he’s the anti-Tank. You could probably order him to stand on his head and he’d do it without asking why. He’s a good Canadian boy.”

“As opposed to me?” He was trying to banter, but the pain was obvious, and only his eyes moved – his head and body remained perfectly still.

“Depends on what you mean by good,” Holden teased, grabbing a plastic chair and pulling it up to his bedside. “How’re you doin’?”

“I feel like shit. My head hurts and they won’t give me anything but fucking Tylenol, which does nothing. You got some weed?”

“Not on me.”

“Damn. I could use something.”

Holden could sympathize. After his beating he felt like shit too. Since he didn’t even have any of Roan’s voluminous painkillers, he decided all he could do was try and distract him. “What happened? Do you remember?”

“Not really. The Bears were running the puck up the boards, I intercepted it, and I think Zach might’ve shouted something at me, but one of the Bears was shouting something as well and I didn’t hear him. Then it was just … I don’t remember. Next thing I know, I’m waking up on the ice with the trainer asking me if I know my name and what day it is, while my head’s throbbing like a zamboni backed over it.”

“There’s really a hockey team called the Bears?”

“Yup. Although their mascot looks more like a mutant dog than a bear. Guess you can’t have everything.” Scott rubbed his forehead, wincing, and then put his hand down on top of Holden’s, resting on the edge of the bed. Was it accidental or deliberate? Hard to say. His hand was frighteningly cold, though. His fingers were like soft icicles twining around his palm. “They take care of the guy who did it?”

“Ethan said Jeff beat the shit out of him.”

“Good.” Scott sighed, and squeezed Holden’s hand. He squeezed it back, wondering what good he was doing here. Maybe Scott just wanted him there so he wasn’t alone. “I don’t suppose you could smuggle me in a beer, huh?”

“Is there a medical reason they’re not giving you painkillers?”

Scott considered that a moment, tired eyes gazing up at the ceiling. Holden checked, but there was nothing interesting up there. “I dunno. They’re not telling me much, ‘cept they wanna keep me overnight for observation. What, in case I freak out or something?”

“They probably want to make sure you don’t have bleeding in your brain that could kill you.”

“If I had any brains worth worrying about, I wouldn’t be a hockey player in the first place.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s my joke to make.” Scott’s eyes moved towards him, and he tried to smile, but it collapsed to a pained grimace before disappearing entirely. Poor bastard, he really was hurting. Maybe he should run home and pick up some of his emergency painkiller stash and bring it back for him. “Is there someone else you want me to call?”

He considered that, and just when he opened his mouth to respond, there was a faint roar, followed by a scream and shouting voices. Scott gave him a surprised look. “Is Roan here?”

“That wasn’t Roan,” Holden said, getting up and going to the door. Was it sad or scary that he knew Roan’s lion roar? He’d heard it enough to know that Roan’s roar was surprisingly butch, and not completely lion; there was a little dinosaur in there, or perhaps dragon. The roar he heard in the hall was a bit weaker, slightly watery, not half as sonorous or terrifying as Roan in angry battle mode.

Holden opened the door and looked out, throwing caution to the wind by actually stepping out into the hall. He saw the problem was down near the elevators, where a mangy looking but sizable  lion was tussling with a couple of orderlies that were attempting to subdue it. This was an odd looking lion in a couple of respects, mainly because its fur was basically black, with some white and brown tufts mixed in  a thin, shaggy mane that looked like it was missing a few hunks of hair. While it may have looked sickly, it still did a good job of raking a claw across one orderly’s face, sending him reeling away grabbing at his eyes, while it pounced on the other orderly’s head and started chewing on it like an overripe melon.

Almost without thinking about it, Holden had his phone in his hand, and when he held it up to his ear, he could already hear the ringing on the other end of the line. Amazing how much of this stuff was auto-pilot now. Roan picked up with a slightly impatient, “Yeah?”

“Get to County General now,” he said. “We got a lion running around loose. I think it’s sick.” Holden crossed the hall to an abandoned equipment cart, looking for anything that might have substituted for a weapon. Goddamn it, why couldn’t he have had  the foresight to bring his gun? Well, out of habit he did have his butterfly knife, but there was no fucking way he was taking on a lion in a knife fight.

“What? What are you doing at County?”

“Visiting a friend. Hurry up.” Holden then snapped shut his phone and put it back in his pocket. There wasn’t anything on the cart that was remotely useful, except there was a (thankfully) empty aluminum bedpan. Or was it some kind of draining tray? No matter, it had some heft, so Holden grabbed it and threw it at the lion, still mauling the orderly.

He hadn’t pitched a game in decades, but he still had great aim and decent speed – the pan hit the lion square in the skull and bounced off, careening to the floor with a dull clang.  The lion snapped its blunt head towards him, making a snarling noise that could have been mistaken for a squeaky hinge. Definitely sick, but that actually made it more dangerous. A sick animal was the equivalent of a wounded one. “Yeah, motherfucker,” Holden yelled at it. “Come bite me, you stupid piece of shit!”

The lion charged for him, claws clicking on the floor as it ran, and Holden darted back to Scott’s room, betting that he could beat a sick cat. He did, but just barely; he was hardly inside, back against the door, as the lion crashed into it on the other side, opening the door an inch and almost throwing Holden onto the floor. It hadn’t looked that heavy, so he had to assume he’d just really pissed it off. Well, that was also a superpower of his.

Scott gave him a bug eyed look. “What the hell is going on?”

“Loose cat. I guess it didn’t want to play fetch with me,” he said, putting all his weight against the door as the lion rammed it again, making a noise like a tom cat stuck in a car with a bad transmission before slamming the door again. Once more, the door opened a tiny bit before Holden quickly slammed it shut with his own body weight.

He hoped Roan would hurry up and play hero, because for a sickly beast, it certainly had a great deal of enthusiasm.