No Rest 4 Wicked Botniks Chapter 19
Bobby Malone #10: The Stuck-In-Limbo Dance
CHAPTER 19
Bobby Malone #10:
The Stuck-in-Limbo Dance
When he finally discovered how bad his sticky situation was, Bobby Malone let out a deep breath and rolled his eyes. Great. Gee, thanks, guardian angel, Mister Whatever-Your-Name-Is.
The good news was that while Bobby was stuck to the chair, the chair itself was not stuck to the floor, a massive oversight on the part of his captors. It was a little heavy, but hardly immovable. He shifted his weight and scooted himself a few inches back with a groaning, squeaking, scraping grunt of the wood on the concrete floor.
Bobby glanced around, checking for some reaction from any unseen hostile. But he heard and saw nothing.
He tried—stupidly—to stand, but the Plastifast made it impossible for him to arch his back or straighten his legs, and the chair was just too big and heavy. So he settled for several exasperated grunts and more useless noisy scootling. “Real funny, guys!” Bobby shouted to nobody in particular. “Damn Rooskies,” he muttered to himself.
But to Bobby’s surprise, he got an answer, and not a Russian one. There came a distinctly nasal whine of a reply in Plain Meric from the darkness off to his left:
“Well well well, look who finally decided to wake up.”
Shit. He would recognize that snarky, high-pitched Nyorkie accent anywhere. Abner. Which meant Bish, Abner’s partner in crime, was now probably close enough to——
Heavy footsteps off to his right and a deep, throaty growl preceded the sucker punch to his ribs.
“Hooof!” Bobby retorted, ever the rapier wit.
The hulking brute smashed his fist into Bobby’s cheek, and Bobby bit his own tongue. He spat out a dribble of blood and smiled. “Hiya, Bish,” he croaked, a little more eloquently.
Abner giggled, still out of his line of sight, and said, “I never mind the paycheck, but it’s nights like these I love my job.”
Bobby Malone grinned defiantly and answered, “You know, for a few minutes there, I thought I might have died and gone to Hell. But after hearing that ear-raping voice of yours, Abner, I’m sure of it. This must be Hell.”
That earned him a second body blow. Bish was friends with Abner, and he was not amused by Bobby’s little crack. Well, Bish was a blockhead anyway, and humor had never been his strong suit.
Now his two captors both stepped into full view under the harsh lights and stood before him, eager as cats that had spotted a mouse. Since he was stuck there anyway, Bobby took in all the visual details he could and tried to read the two of them like the poker player he was at heart.
First, Bishop Flannagan, or “Bish, the Fish”, who was such an easy read he was practically a punchline. Hardy-har. Bishop was Irish or at least Scotch-English, with bright orange-red hair and a forever-flushed face to match it. The poor man would never tan; all the sun gave him was burns and melanoma. His drinking habit (from which he got his nickname Fish) did nothing to help his complexion.
Bish stood there in his dapper blue suit and pants, with a once yellow tie made greasy, dull, and bronze from wiping away sweat and blood, his own and others. The tall silver flask of gin was showing in his breast pocket. The man was a sledgehammer, pure and simple; blunt force trauma was his game. Big Fish Bish was clearly looking for an excuse to take out his anger management issues on a dumb and woozy detective plastered to a chair.
Now to the other player, a much harder read, make no mistake. Abner Valentino was cunning and subtle, whereas Bish hid nothing.
Abner had a sharp chin like a straight razor; his whole body resembled one, as a matter of fact. He was lean and mean, and sharp and pointy things were his game. Abner had a long, tall nose that once could have been called “aquiline,” the way they talked about old Roman noses. But after many years of hard knocks, his nose had become crooked and bent completely out of shape. He had fought guys the hulking size of Bish and lost.
Hanging precariously on that nasty wizard’s nose were a silly-looking pair of old-timey spectacles. He had gone to the black market for the lenses. The left one showed some digital spot as it appeared “in the Zero”, as the kids say, and the right one held a Gizmo Gooey AR-reader he had bought cheap off the street. Who knew what he was being shown as he stared at Bobby through that right lens? Probably a P.I.’s sluggish vitals and the locations of obvious weak points: heart, lungs, and liver.
Abner was smaller than Bobby in both height and weight class. He always thought he could’ve been a featherweight champion, but he didn’t have the muscle or the strategy for it, and now he was far too old to start. A stringy, brown-and-gray mullet hung off of his head, proud as any Mohawk’s doo.
Bobby concluded from his expression of smug glee that Abner thought he was in charge here, and maybe he was. Abner was always in charge of Bish, and right now he looked like he was about ready to let him off of his thin leash.
Bobby would have to tread carefully now, especially since he couldn’t actually tread anywhere yet. He had figured out which fuckers stuck him to the chair, but not much else had changed. Out of the Russian firefight, and into the calloused hands of Harry Hoyle’s cruelest collection agents.
He was still glued in place in the middle of nowhere, waiting for what came next.
It was a tough spot to sit in, but Bobby Malone would just have to roll with the punches.
END OF CHAPTER 19
→ READ THE NEXT CHAPTER?
→ Return to Chapter Selection ←
→ Read the Previous Mary Chapter?
→ Read the Last Isaac Chapter?
→ START OVER AT THE BEGINNING OF PART TWO?
→ CHECK OUT THE GLOSSARY.
