Devine's Providence: A Novel Read online

  Left. Right. Left. Right. Keep up a good pace, in a straight line, and you’ll look sober! Left. Right.

  The sound of my oxford soles slapping against the wet pavement made a sharp, rhythmic clisp sound.

  Left. Right. Left. Right. Clisp. Clisp. Clisp. Thud. Clisp. Thud.

  I stopped and looked down at my feet. That thud was new to the party. As far as I could tell, I still only had two feet—no wait, now it’s four—no, definitely still two. I looked around, but a dense fog had settled and the old-fashioned streetlights couldn’t cut through it more than a yard or two.

  I continued walking, but this time slower with my ears listening for any other noise at all.

  Clisp…clisp…clisp…

  There was nothing now but my own footsteps and late-night traffic on the highway in the distance. Spending precious concentration on listening meant less concentration to go around toward things like walking straight, so I was forced to steady myself as I slowly pinballed off of the passing streetlights and building walls. Then, as I picked up the pace, the other sound returned somewhere behind me.

  Clisp. Thud. Clisp. Thud. Clisp. Thud thud. Clisp.

  I stopped, but the thuds continued. I whirled around and squinted into the fog behind me. The heavy footsteps quickened and then shot off sideways before stopping. From the sound of them, whoever they belonged to wasn’t very far.

  Experience and instinct kicked in, and I suddenly felt very sober. Something wasn’t quite right. The situation was just too suspicious for it to be another stranger passing in the night. I was being followed, and they didn’t want to be seen.

  The good news, I supposed, was that the ever-thickening fog didn’t play favorites, and my mysterious stalker likely couldn’t see me as much as I couldn’t see them.

  I silently slipped off my shoes. My dress socks were instantly soaked from the wet pavement. There are few things in life as intolerable as damp socks, but I had other things on my mind to distract me. I quietly padded toward where I had heard the last of the thuds.

  Just as I thought, there was an alleyway in-between two brownstones. I crept right up to the corner without looking around it, and strained my ears to listen. Soon enough, a soft but distinguishable sniff broke the silence of the night. My follower was right around the corner, mere inches away, likely waiting and listening for me to continue my stumble down the street.

  I slowly backed away and crouched behind some nearby trash bins. I picked up a loose rock from the sidewalk and hurled it forward into the fog, where it bounced off a streetlight with a clang and bounced onto the road.

  Perfect.

  That was as good of a cue as the stranger needed, and I heard movement from the alleyway.

  I watched from the shadows behind the trash bins as a burly man hobbled past me.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  He was large—very large—and heavy on his feet. He was wearing a long green coat and a ragged brown flat cap pulled down over his brow. His enormous nose had been broken—possibly several times—and his ears were cauliflowered like a boxer’s. As his profile moved past, I could make out a large scar on his cheek that ran from just under his eye to his chin.

  Apparently I’m being followed by a bad guy from a Dick Tracy comic.

  He disappeared into the fog, and I slowly crept out to follow him. I was expecting him to go at least as far to where I had thrown the rock, but the thuds stopped abruptly just ahead.

  Shit. My shoes.

  As I scurried through the fog, the outline of the big brute came into view. He was crouched over, looking at my brown oxfords. He snapped his head up and saw me, his yellowish eyes growing wide.

  I stood as still as I could in my condition, which wasn’t without a good deal of swaying. My mind raced to try to come up with something clever to say. But the wit didn’t come fast enough, and soon the ogre was upon me.

  He grabbed me by my lapels and lifted me clear off the ground. I swung my foot forward and kicked him square in between his legs, but in only my wet socks the impact was minimal and he didn’t even flinch.

  He gritted his teeth and his eyes narrowed as he pulled me close to his face.

  “Listen, brother,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll lay off the Marc Winters case.”

  I flailed around like a fish on a hook, but his grip was so tight there was no use. The earth spun frantically below me like one of my vinyl records.

  “First off,” I slurred, “do I look like I know what’s good for me?”

  The brute’s grip tightened even harder and he let out a low growl. I felt my face get incredibly warm and could taste the scotch on my breath. The earth spun faster still.

  Ohhhh boy…

  “Second,” I continued, “You’re wasting your time. I’m not on that case.”

  The gorilla spun me around and held me up high against a lamp post. The back of my head smashed into the metal and my vision split into two. I was getting very warm now, my muscles so weak I couldn’t fight back. Cool sweat dripped off my forehead.

  Oh no oh no oh no…

  The thug spoke.

  “Well let’s just keep it that way, capiche? No more talking to cops.”

  “Cops? I wasn’t—”

  The beast kept me held up against the pole with one hand but his other giant mitt backhanded my face. It felt as if I was being beaten with a cinderblock. Before I could process what was happening, his open palm came back in the other direction, whacking the side of my head and sending blood—my blood—flying onto the sidewalk. I was too drunk to fight back or break free. Too drunk to be scared, even. With each whack upside my head, all my efforts went into just trying to see straight.

  What happened next is not something I’m very proud of. It’s not something that’s taught in any self-defense class or law enforcement training. But in this case, it actually worked.

  I vomited.

  It was unintentional, to be sure, but with getting knocked around like that after as much whiskey as I’d had, it was bound to happen.

  And happen, it did, straight into the thug’s face. He let out a noise that can only be described as “like someone who’s been vomited on”, and finally released his grip on me. As I fell to the ground, all I could think was, “Wow, I feel better!”

  I landed hard on my moist-socked feet—gross—and took the opportunity to sucker punch my assailant in the gut. He lurched over and grabbed for me, but his eyesight was limited by the regurgitated contents of my stomach. I summoned enough strength to sweep his leg out from under him and he tumbled face down.

  Just then something hard and heavy hit the back of my skull, and the world turned red before quickly fading away. As I collapsed on the sidewalk, I turned to see what had hit me, and who was behind it, but all I could see was a silhouette of a faceless gray figure standing over me.

  And then, blackness.

  Chapter 7

  OUT OF THE FOG

  What’s right is right.

  Zachetti’s words echoed over and over in the abyss, coming from all directions. I slipped ever further down into the darkness. The nausea was gone, replaced by a feeling of weightlessness. I struggled to gain control of my limbs, but it was as if I was caught up in an ocean current. I fell past images, constructed like tableaux in a museum. First there was my ex-wife, slipping away, futilely reaching for me with her arms outstretched. Then there was Marc Winters’ lifeless body falling as a shadowy figure watched from the broken window. Who else was in that room? I couldn’t make them out.

  Then Zachetti appeared, pulling me down the rabbit hole even faster, as the scar-faced thug laughed overhead.

  I have to get out of here.

  I have to wake up.

  I thrashed about and swam for the surface. Finally, I garnered enough strength to push my eyelids open; a herculean
task in and of itself. A pair of pretty eyes came into focus, staring back at me.

  Chelsea?

  She had gotten old. Wrinkles lined her face, which was now much fuller.

  How long have I been out?

  Her silken raven hair was now gray and wispy.

  “Welcome back, Harry,” she said.

  Her dulcet voice was now high-pitched. Her green eyes were now blue.

  She actually looks remarkably like…

  “Terry?” I asked, fighting to sit up.

  “Easy there, flatfoot,” said Terry, pushing me back down with a cool facecloth on my forehead. “Don’t overdo yourself. You’ve had quite the ordeal.”

  My body was slow to respond, but my eyes darted around the room. I was on an antique sofa, in a small but tidy office/storage room. A filing cabinet and a wooden writing desk with a computer on it sat against one wall, while a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit was bolted to the other. On the shelves sat boxes of vitamins, supplements, and bottles of something called “kombucha”, all stamped with a green seal marked “ORGANIC.”

  This must be the back room of Terry’s store, two floors below my office.

  “Wha…what happened?”

  My mouth tasted like bile and blood, and the back of my head felt warm and wet. I reached up to touch it, and found a sizeable lump. The sides of my face ached, and my right eye was tender to the touch.

  At least my feet were dry.

  In fact, I was barefoot, and above the waist stripped down to my undershirt. My jacket and tie were draped over the back of a nearby office chair, and near them, my blood-stained dress shirt.

  Most guys wore jeans and a t-shirt on their days off, even out to the local bar. I was never one of those guys; always dressing professionally was a habit I had picked up from my father. The unfortunate result of this was a high dry-cleaning stipend and far too many pieces of nice clothing ruined.

  “Here,” said Terry, shoving an old oversized mug in my face. It had been white at one time, but was now yellowish with the faded seal of Johnson & Wales University on the side and a handle that had been super-glued back on more than once. I gingerly took it from her as she cradled the back of my head up like a baby.

  A baby is just what I felt like. Unable to walk or talk, and getting fussier by the minute.

  “It smells like feet,” I managed to get out.

  “Hush,” she said. “It’ll fix you right up.”

  I took a small sip and instantly regretted it. It was the most disgusting…drink (Tea? Juice? Raccoon piss?) I had ever tasted. It was like I had sipped liquid tree bark that had been doused in cough syrup and set on fire. I nearly spilled it all over myself in my haste to get as much space between the concoction and my mouth as possible.

  “Come on, Harrison,” Terry said, reluctantly taking the mug back. “It’s not that bad. It’s all natural.”

  “Well then,” I coughed, “it naturally tastes like shit.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows in an effort to clear my head.

  “What the hell happened to me?”

  Terry sighed, resigning to the fact that couldn’t stop me from getting up.

  “Found you passed out on the sidewalk, blocking my doorway. My goodness, Harry, I’ve seen you on benders before, but this is ridiculous.”

  “Blocking your doorway? I was right out front?”

  Terry nodded. The fog was so thick, both on the street and in my head, I hadn’t even realized how far I had made it.

  I tried to pull up whatever memories I could of the previous night. I squinted, as if the events were there in front of me, just out of focus.

  I remembered being followed…the big lug that threatened me…and then…nothing. Something—someone—had hit me from behind. It wasn’t the goon, he was in front of me. I tried in vain to just remember any details, but I just couldn’t.

  “Yeah,” I said slowly, rubbing my face, “this wasn’t the work of alcohol. Not entirely, anyway.”

  “I figure a bar fight. At first I thought you were mugged, but that’s a rarity for this neighborhood. And you still have your wallet. So you must have pissed someone off, darling.”

  “Leave the detective work to me,” I said, sitting up fully. “No, I pissed someone off all right, but it wasn’t a bar fight.”

  “What was it then?”

  “A warning shot.”

  Terry visibly tensed up.

  “Listen, Harry, you’ve always been the model tenant, and you’ve become a dear friend, but I really don’t want any kind of trouble in my building. Whatever it is you’re dabbling in…”

  “I’m not dabbling in anything. I’m the one getting dabbled.”

  “That sounds weird.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  My head was throbbing.

  Terry sighed. “No, Harry, I actually have no idea what you mean. Now do you need me to call the police?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No cops.”

  “At least let me drive you to the hospital. You probably have a concussion.”

  “I’m fine. You’ve done enough already. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, really, and I promise you have nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of punks trying to seem tough. I’ll take care of them. But for now, I need to get up to my office.”

  I stood up, swayed for a beat, and then my knees buckled and I collapsed back onto the sofa.

  “You are one stubborn man,” Terry said.

  “No I’m not,” I replied, getting to my feet again.

  Terry swooped in and propped me up.

  “Alright, tough guy. I’m going to at least help you up the steps.”

  I relented a nod.

  Slowly, step by step, we made our way through Terry’s store, her supporting me lest I tumble over again. By the time we reached the sidewalk out front, though, I had more or less gotten my whatever-the-opposite-of-sea-legs-is, and the world had thankfully stopped spinning. Still, I looked up at the daunting staircase with dread.

  “One step at a time, flatfoot,” Terry said, nudging me forward.

  We climbed the first flight pretty easily, but I had to break on the second-story landing. According to the sign, “The Blazing Joint” tanning salon was closed, as usual.

  “What’s the story with this place?” I asked. “They never seem to be open. Funny way of doing business.”

  Terry’s lips pursed in a peculiar fashion.

  “Open by appointment only. They’re always early with their rent. Matter of fact, they’re my favorite tenants.”

  She hissed out a laugh as I rolled my eyes. I leaned on her shoulder and we continued up the stairs. As we neared the top, I felt a pit grow in my stomach. Terry had noticed my office door at the same time I did. We stopped in our tracks.

  “Say, Harry, you don’t suppose you left your door a bit open like that, did you?”

  “No, Terry, I most certainly did not,” I whispered.

  “Are you sure? Maybe you just don’t remember?”

  “I was sober last time I left. And besides...”

  I pointed to the door frame, where the jamb was completely torn up.

  “…I have a perfectly good set of keys on my keychain, none of which is a crowbar.”

  Terry grew wide-eyed.

  “I don’t like this at all, Harry.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Wait here.”

  I carefully swung the door all the way open and quietly stepped in. I picked up an umbrella I had hanging on the coat rack behind the door. If I was attacked again, at least I’d have a formidable weapon.

  As long as the attacker is made of rain.

  The place was completely ransacked. Papers covered the floor like leaves in a forest in October. The drawers from the desk and filing cabinets were removed completely and
tossed aside, their contents splayed about indiscriminately.

  I went from room to room, and they were all the same. Sofa cushions upturned, shelves swept clear, and closets emptied. The sugar container next to the coffee pot had even been emptied, leaving a layer of crunchiness on the kitchenette linoleum.

  Monsters.

  The throw rug underneath my office desk lied just as I had left it. I crouched down and flipped it over, revealing the floor safe underneath. After scrolling through the combination, I found the contents undisturbed. I removed the snub-nosed revolver, tucked it into my rear waistband, and locked the safe back up.

  “It’s clear, Terry,” I called out, “come on in.”

  Terry gingerly walked in, shaking her head.

  “Oh no, Harry,” she said, taking her cell phone out of her pocket. “Your office! This is just the type of trouble I was talking about. Now we have to call the cops, and they’ll be grilling me, I don’t like this at all, Harry…”

  “No,” I interrupted. “We can’t call the cops.”

  Terry squinted at me. “Why on earth wouldn’t we call the cops? Look at this place! You’re messed up in something serious, Harrison.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “No, you tell me about it! Why don’t you want the cops involved?”

  I picked up a chair that had been knocked over, put it upright, and plopped down.

  “Because this shit is that serious.”

  “I thought you said this was just a couple of punks.”

  “It probably is. But I have to play this smart. And I don’t know who I can trust. Yet.”

  “Well,” was all Terry said. She leaned against a corner of my desk.

  “Well,” I repeated.

  We remained in silence for a bit.

  I didn’t consider myself still part of the Winters case anymore, but someone else sure did.

  Not that there was even a case.

  According to the police, it was closed. Ruled a suicide. Whether it was actually a suicide or not, that’s the way they—someone—wanted it. And whoever that “someone” was must be pretty connected. Connected enough to get a coroner’s report faked, which is no easy task. Connected enough to hire a thug—or thugs—to beat me up and ransack my office, all because I may still have an interest in the matter. Which I don’t.