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I woke up the next morning feeling like someone had bashed me in the head with a two-by-four. Immediately thereafter, someone bashed me in the head with a two-by-four.
I came to on the davenport in my living room. My head ached like a country song. Some 350-pound gorilla sat in my easy chair, watching a terrible old Karen Jamey movie on the telescreen.
He turned his fat head toward me. “Howaya, Astronaut?” he asked. “Ya seem a little sore.”
“Not nearly as sore as you’re gonna be when you get to the end of this movie,” I said. “Here’s a hint: Jamey dies.”
“Thanks for ruining it for me, Astronaut,” he sneered. “Now I’m gonna have to ask for a refund.”
He turned his attention back to the set. I slowly raised myself up into a sitting position. Pain shot through my head like a fat kid on a water slide. I grabbed a half-empty pack of Palmettos from the coffee table and lit one up. The smoke did nothing to help my headache.
“Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” I asked, whether he minded or not.
He turned back to me, annoyed.
“Febreezi,” he said.
“Febreezi,” I answered.
“Febreezi,” he said.
“You know any other words?” I asked.
“Yeah, smart-ass,” he replied. “I know some other words. Heard a few good ones on the street lately. Heard that you’ve been sticking your head in a few places that it shouldn’t be. If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll mind your business and let your wife handle hers.”
“First of all,” I explained through a freshly exhaled plume of smoke, “she’s my ex-wife. Second of all, what kind of manners did your mother teach you? When you bash a guy in the face with a piece of wood, it’s common courtesy to introduce yourself.”
“You wanna know my name, Astronaut?” the Ape asked. He then lowered the footrest, stood up, and smashed a boot through my telescreen. The screen sputtered and sparked like an electronic firecracker.
“That’s my name. Now stop sticking your beak in other people’s honey. Ya got me?”
He lumbered across the living room and paused with his hand on the doorknob.
“Oh, and one more thing, Astronaut,” he said, “get yourself some rest. You look like hell.”
He turned the knob and walked out of the apartment. I stared at the crackling telescreen and thought about what I was going to eat for breakfast.
Charvez from Central Development had been kind enough to let himself into my office and stink the place up for my arrival. When I walked in, he was sitting in the waiting room, flipping through the latest issue of Post-Modern Detective. I hung my coat up on the rack and poured myself a cup of week-old coffee.
“Your ex-wife really helped you out of a jam last night, Astronaut,” Charvez said. “Why do you want to get yourself wrapped up in another one?”
I sipped my coffee and pretended he wasn’t there. Now if only I could get him to pretend it, too.
“I don’t understand you, Astronaut,” he continued. “You manage to carve yourself a hot piece of chicken like that and then you let her fly the coop. If I were you, I’d be in bed with her right now, making her feel dirty.”
“Instead, you’re you, and you’re in my office, and you’re making me feel dirty,” I sneered. “You got your money, Charvez. Now why don’t you get yourself lost?”
“Guess I got an internal compass, Astronaut. Always points to garbage.”
“So you spend all day following your breath around, huh?”
As if to prove my point, Charvez yawned, spewing more of his toxic odor into the air.
“I’m gonna get out of here, Astronaut, if that’s what you want. But let me make one thing clear to you; pull another one of those jobs like you did in July, and you’re mine. And if you’re mine, you’re Central Development’s. And if you’re Central Development’s, you’re International Security’s, and you do not want to be International Security’s, Astronaut. You used your Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card; next time, you’re not going to be so lucky.”
He ripped a page out of my magazine, crumbled it into a ball, and threw it on the ground in a terrifying show of power. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had another copy at home.
I didn’t like to admit it, but Charvez did have a lot of power over me. As a Surveillance Officer for Central Development, his job was to keep an eye on people like me and make sure that all was on the “up-and-up.” Translation: his job was to make sure that Central D. got their piece of the profit. Ever since Charvez had taken over the local post, it had been increasingly difficult for guys like me to bend the law. Guys like Febreezi, no problem. They just cut Central D. into the action and went about their business. Things weren’t so simple for those of us on the bottom. I had a hard enough time cutting myself in on the action, let alone Charvez and the rest of the goons down at Central D.
“I used to have a guy like you in my regiment back during the lode wars on Tarmac,” Charvez blabbered on.
“Are you still here?” I asked.
“All right, I’m gone,” Charvez said. “But you be on your best behavior, Astronaut. Remember, the walls have eyes.”
He hoofed it out of my office, slamming the door behind him. “Good riddance,” I muttered. Guy like Charvez’ll make ya mutter.
I sat down at my desk and thought back on the last two days. Something smelled funny. I’d known Martha for many years, been married to her for many more, and trusted her for many less. Martha was the kind of girl who would turn on a rattlesnake for the right price. I didn’t think for one second that this Febreezi business was above the board … a guy whacks you in the face with a two-by-four and you start to get a pretty clear picture of things, after the fuzziness goes away.
But it was a mystery, and I was the kind of guy who was a sucker for a mystery. I had to get to the bottom of it, not to help out Martha, but to satisfy my curiosity. Sometimes, ya pull a little string and you can unravel the whole sweater. I just needed to find the right string.
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