About Henry Fellows

Post 98:

Episode Eighteen

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Chapter Six Concludes

            There’s about half a second to wonder what the hell is going on before receiving a vicious kick to the liver. Everything from God to gravity tells me to go down, but somehow I come back, grabbing the attacker’s jacket and hurling two dirty uppercuts into his gut. He drops, but an attempted knee across the face is blocked and suddenly my feet are out from underneath me. I’m flying, crashing on my back—he’s already on me, reigning partially blocked punches down. This is a bad place to be. My forearms are turning to pounded meat and my wind is gone and I was never really that good at this crap anyway—

            “Alright,” I hear. Suddenly the punches stop. I look up and see a sardonic smile coming down. “You satisfied?” It’s Floyd doing the talking. I think he’s actually sitting in a chair. I’m receiving a world-class beat down and he’s positively recumbent. Gracious.

            “I’m satisfied. It’s ‘bout what I remember,” the man says, dismounting from the precarious position he had me in.

            “What the hell, Billy?” I moan, rolling around on Floyd’s hardwood. Feels like I just got taken by my little brother.

            “Sorry, Deer. Billy just wanted to make sure it was you. Called him in to help.”

            “Help what?” I ask, trying to sit up. “You know that hurts, right?”

            Billy offers a hand to get up. “Come on. You’re just out of practice. But you never could close out. Get you on the ground, it was always over.” He’s right. I got out of the game when all that ninja leg-lock ankle twisting crap was coming into vogue. Never really went in for it. Depended on my quickness and my head. And weapons. Which is why Billy remembers kicking the crap out of me when we used to spar.

            I take a minute, walking little circles in the flat with my arms akimbo, trying not to look at either of them.

            I’m bloody and pissed.

            “So I called Billy in,” Floyd says, feet up on a glass coffee table in the middle of the room.

            “Yeah, you said that.” Still wincing, I try to find a cruel rejoinder but the pain is beating back any semblance of wit. It’s a shame. The moment deserves some.

            I gather myself and get a proper look at Billy. William Kaftan, to be more accurate. Back in the day we did a lot of jobs together. It’s been years, but he looks about the same. Slight beard, a few grays starting to creep in. He’s still got the same wrestler’s build and the same pug face. A permanent who gives a crap expression. He takes a spot on the corner of the table between me and Floyd and I can see a few new scars over and around his eyes.

             “Whatcha been up to, Bill?” I ask, half sarcastically.

            “Same as you, moving around a lot, doing my own thing.”

            “Yeah. Same as me.” I know he’s taking a piss, but he’s also alerting me to the fact that he’s still in the game—a freelancer. “Too many of you guys floating around these days.”

            “Well, sometimes things need getting done, Hank. Hear you’re in a bit of a spot.”

            “So you’ve watched a TV in the last two years. Good for you.”

            “What’s with the animosity, brother? Thought you’d be happy to see me. I’m happy to see you, even with that douchebag mug you got going on.”

            All the jabbering is starting to annoy. Billy’s making me feel uncomfortable, the way he likes to, so I move over to the sofa and a little more space. There’s no doubt that Floyd called him in for good reasons. Kaftan’s a top-level operator, born killer, highly proficient with tech, bombs, the works. “Yeah,” I mutter. I can see Floyd putting his hands up, looking over at Billy.

            “What’s that?” It’s Floyd. I guess he caught me mumbling.

            “Nothing,” I say. I really don’t feel like talking. Not a lie.

            “What’s the deal? You don’t want Billy?”

            I can’t take it anymore. “Billy’s fine. He’s great. Can he help? Almost certainly. The guy’s a pro. Did we need him to give me a field test to authenticate my identity? Could’ve done without that. Pretty sure I’ve been through enough shit lately. I mean the pile is mile-high. You want to keep stacking it, fine.” I reach for my pocket, my pills. I’m really getting worked up. I want a mirror to see how red my stupid face is getting. “But Billy’s only here for money, correct?”

            “That’s affirmative, big guy,” Billy says, standing up. “Floyd said you’d pay a million to each of us if we helped.” I scoff at his bulky little body. He’s got one of those shiny loud t-shirts on, the kind cage fighters wear. What a tool.

            “Floyd? Help with what? We don’t even know what’s going on here. Who’s chasing me? Why? Who killed my parents? Again, why? What’s the link? Is there a link? Can anyone in this apartment answer any of those questions?” I bury my head in my hands. I sound really over the edge. Probably need to conjure up some forced apology; Floyd’s used to this nonsense, but Billy’s probably thinking he just tussled with a full blown nutter.

            “Geez, Floyd. You didn’t say he was this bad.”

            We all look toward the source of the comment. It’s new. Female. Slight European accent.

            “Oh no,” I whisper.

            “Hey buddy. Nice to see the new you. Heard you shmucks might need a brain around here?”

            Great. Her.