George Martin - Lowball

“Gosh,” he said aloud. “I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’m coming down with something. I feel pretty weak.”

But the stone guy never made his move. Was he waiting for the van to arrive? Wally walked slower and slower. He faked a couple of sneezes. Even that did no good. Finally, feeling impatient, he decided to pretend to be lost. He gazed up at a street sign and made a show of being confused. Then he looked around, as if needing directions.

“Gosh. Where am I?” he said.

The gray rock guy approached him. He held something that resembled a little digital voice recorder. It seemed pretty sinister, he decided. Wally wondered what that thing really was, and what it really did.

“Hey,” said the rock guy. “Can I talk to you?”

It’s working! thought Wally.

“Sure, fella. I hope you can help me. I’m pretty lost.” Wally looked around. Maybe it would be easier to kidnap me if we weren’t out in the open . “How about we step into that dark alley over there and talk?”

The stone man stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh, I’m not falling for that! I know who you are. And I won’t let you take anybody else!”

“Hey, pal, I just want directions-”

The stone man punched Wally in the face with a boulder fist.

Sparks rained on the sidewalk as Wally stumbled backward, toppling a streetlight. It hurt like heck. The gray guy was strong. Wally shook his head, dazed, while the streetlight clanged to the ground and other people on the street quickly scattered.

“You can’t hurt me!” yelled the other guy in a voice like an earthquake. With his other fist, the one that hadn’t clobbered Wally, he waved the recorder in Wally’s face. He jumped up and down, gibbering, “You can’t even touch me!”

Uh oh . Had the kidnappers seen through Wally’s disguise? If he was going to get taken to their secret hideout, he needed to impress them, make himself irresistible. He’d show them he could fight pretty well before letting the other guy win.

“No, please, I don’t want to go with you,” said Wally. He leaped to his feet, and blocked another punch with a wide sweep of his forearm. With his other fist he landed a jackhammer blow to the kidnapper’s stomach. There was a loud crack and another burst of incandescent sparks like the dying embers of a Fourth of July firework. It knocked the wind from the other guy; his breath smelled like hot ash.

“Oof.” The rock guy fell to one knee. He glanced at the recorder. “Lying alien bastard,” he groaned. It crumpled in his fist, and then he sent the pieces whistling over the rooftops.

Wally wound up for a kick, but the other guy lunged. The tackle threw Wally against a mail truck. It crunched like a soda can and toppled over, blocking the street. They wrestled atop a mangled heap of metal and glass. Each punch and kick threw sparks like a Roman candle as iron scraped against stone. A chorus of shrieking car alarms echoed up and down the street.

“I know you’re one of them! Following me everywhere, reporting everything I do,” said the rock man. His eyes darted around really fast, like he had trouble keeping still. “Bribing my dentist, eavesdropping through my fillings! Poisoning my thoughts with fluoride!”

He kept up a steady stream of paranoid ranting, even as Wally slipped in a pair of incandescent jabs to the chin and chest. The kidnapper grabbed Wally by the shoulders and kept slamming him against the flattened truck until it felt like his rivets were coming loose.

Wally got a knee up. One hard flex sent the other guy skidding down the sidewalk with a fingernails-on-blackboard screech. He pulled free of the twisted wreckage of the mail truck and got to his feet just as the other guy wrenched a big blue mailbox from the sidewalk with the groan of tortured metal and popping of broken bolts. He swung it at Wally. Wally slapped the blow aside with an open palm. The mailbox exploded into a cloud of rust and fluttering envelopes. The bright orange rust eddied into his opponent’s eyes. He flinched, coughing. Wally used the opening for a solid roundhouse to the jaw.

The kidnapper’s head snapped around. The shower of sparks ignited a pile of mail.

The other guy kept twisting, and took advantage of the momentum from the blow to land a high spinning kick to Wally’s ribs. It sent Wally sprawling across the street. He landed on a compact car. Pain lanced down his side from shoulder to hip. A shiny dent now creased his old surgery scar. He didn’t feel like fighting much more.

“Oh, no,” said Wally. “I’m feeling pretty woozy now.” Which he was. It didn’t require any acting to make a show of stumbling to his feet. His ears rang. The ringing turned into sirens.

The kidnapper ran away. Wally tried to give chase but tripped over the flattened mail truck.

He was still laying there when the police arrived.

It was a tight fit in the squad car, but this time they did take Wally to the precinct. The kidnapper was long gone, but they hauled Wally in on charges of disturbing the peace, destruction of city property, mail tampering, and reckless public endangerment. He wondered what would happen when the adoption committee heard about this. At least the police let him call Ghost’s school, to arrange to have Miss Holmes take her home again.

The booking officer, whose name sounded like Squint or something like that, kept a large dollhouse on her desk. That seemed strange. She wasn’t very interested in Wally’s side of the story. She didn’t appear to be listening at all until Wally mentioned that the whole thing happened because he was defending himself from one of the fight club kidnappers. And suddenly the police were very interested in Wally’s story. Particularly in his description of the kidnapper. They put him in a room and left him waiting.

The room had two chairs, a wooden table, and a water cooler with a little tube of paper cones hung alongside it. A window with broken venetian blinds gave him a view of the station house. The precinct was a busy place. All sorts of people-uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, lawyers in suits, criminals and suspects-passed back and forth outside the room. Wally even glimpsed Darcy at one point. He knocked on the glass and waved at her; she seemed disappointed, but not surprised, to see him.

Wally pressed a paper cone full of cold water against his bruises. It helped to numb the ache. He wondered what Ghost and Miss Holmes were eating for dinner. He drank the water, laid his head on the table, tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach, and closed his eyes. He hadn’t quite fallen asleep when a voice roused him.

“I’ll be goddamned … Wally Gunderson.”

The voice was vaguely familiar. Wally sat up. And then he blinked. There were two men in the doorway. One he recognized.

“Cripes,” he said. “Stuntman?”

The man standing across the table wore a suit. Moving like a man in pain, he flipped open a thin leather case about the size of a wallet. “It’s Agent Norwood now. I’m with SCARE. More or less.”

Heart sinking, Wally stared at the badge. He couldn’t remember what SCARE stood for but he knew it was a pretty big deal. “Gosh.”

The other guy leaned across the table, extending a hand to Wally. He looked tired too, but in a different way from Stuntman. “Mr. Gunderson, I’m Detective Black.” He glanced at Stuntman. “And shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Yes. But I’ve got to hear this story.”

Stuntman closed the badge case hard enough that the breeze tickled Wally’s face. He tucked it back into a breast pocket.

“Howdy.” Detective? “Is this about the mail truck?”

The men shared a look. Stuntman rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“Uh, no,” said the detective. “Agent Norwood is helping me investigate the Jokertown kidnappings.”