When Rick came to, he found himself hanging off the roof of the Ritz and over the lights and clamor of upper Broadway. He always told Gloria he wanted to see more of the city, but he never meant like this. The back of his head stung from the blow, and he could taste blood and bile in the back of his throat. He felt like vomiting, right onto the street below, if not from his current situation, then because of all the whiskey from the night before.
Someone was still holding onto his left hand, and he craned his head up to see what was happening. A huge hand was wrapped around his wrist, and above the edge of the building was a thick, bald head with a beak nose and dark, bulging eyes staring back at him. Rick recognized him immediately and wished he hadn't. It was Ox, Bigalow's top enforcer. If Raul Callahan was Mr. Big's brain trust and right hand man, then Ox was surely the left.
"What are you doing, Ox-ey? Surely we can talk this over," Rick yelled above the background noise of honking cars and drifting music from the theaters below.
"Mr. Big wants the girl, Armstrong, and you've got one last chance to tell us where she is."
"And if I don't wanna?"
"Then I let go." Ox smiled, cherishing the thought. He hadn't forgotten the last time he went away, doing two years hard time after Rick Armstrong, PI, foiled the Chinese laundering scheme.
Rick patted his lower back and felt the bulge beneath his belt. He couldn't believe the big oaf didn't pat him down, but then Ox was never known for playing with a full deck of cards. In one swift move, he pulled out the revolver he kept there and pointed it up at those dark eyes, that then seemed a little more bulbous than usual.
"Weren't expecting this, were you, Ox-ey? I'll tell you what, I'll make you a promise. If you drop me, I swear to God, I'll drop you."
The giant grunted, and Rick felt a tremble, like the whole city being shook up by an earthquake. Ox was losing his grip, and Rick's weight was pulling him over the edge, inch by inch. There was a look of intense concentration on the enforcer's face, and Rick suddenly wished he was drunk. At least the pain of hitting the pavement and feeling his bones splinter into a thousand little pieces would've been dulled some. If he even survived the fall, that is.
Rick steadied the gun in his hand and took aim right between the eyes.
"Sweaty hands, Ox? No need to cash in on that promise so soon."
"I can't hold on!" sputtered Ox. He leaned further over the edge and reached out with his other hand, grazing Rick's palm as the muscles in his other hand went limp.
The instant Rick felt himself dropping, he pulled the trigger. The slug rocketed with a bang, hitting Ox just above the left eye and drilling a hole through his brainpan. The enormous corpse collapsed on the rooftop with a dull thud, but Rick was too busy yelling to hear. The sensation of falling knocked his stomach right up to his gullet, and his life, as they say, flashed before his eyes.
He could see Gloria, the pretty young thing that adored him. He suddenly wished he hadn't pushed her around so much. Then there was Joe and Lenny, his old buddies on the force that convinced him to re-enter this sort of life. He wished he'd pushed them around a little more. And then there was Delilah--sweet, angel-faced Delilah. She sure had landed him in a mess. Rick always knew that dames could be trouble, but this, he felt, was ridiculous. He should have told her no that last Tuesday, when she came into the office and launched into her story about an old flame with a penchant for tracking her down and beating her. Rick knew right off the bat that something fishy was going on. He didn't usually do protection or take domestic cases, just the ones the normal cops needed a little extra help on, but something about her face and that blonde hair of hers had him all wrapped up around her little finger. He would've run away with her if she'd asked. She had to find somebody to help her, though, and she sure wouldn't have if she'd told the truth--that she'd been a secretary for one of Mr. Big's bookies and had run off with as much dough as she could carry.
Just when he was about to make peace with his old man, Rick felt his forearm slide down against something and grasped with his hand. His fall had stopped short. He'd grabbed onto the railing of a balcony two floors down, and though his body stopped, his hat was swept right off his head, left to drift like a leaf through the air to the sidewalk below.
"Nice trick, Rick, old boy," he said to himself with a confident grin. "Let's see if you can manage it again."
He let go and stared down at the next balcony, timing his drop perfectly. He caught the railing of that one, too, and laughed. It looked like his luck was starting to change.
"I think I'm getting the hang of this."
This time, he landed on a fire escape and ran down the rickety metal stairs all the way to the foot of the building. He looked back at the rooftop ten floors up and whistled. The fall wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be. Laying right at his feet was his trusty felt fedora. He stashed his revolver back in its holster at his belt, tucked under his heavy coat, and then picked up his hat, dusted it off, and placed it firmly on his head, tilted at a jaunty angle.
"Sorry to leave so soon, Ox-ey, but you've got your brother to keep you company now. I've got to see about a girl."
He straightened his jacket and spit a wad of blood onto the sidewalk. It felt like he'd lost another tooth. No big deal, he thought to himself, but he thought he might need some whiskey to clean the wound. His loafers tapped against the pavement as he disappeared into the neon lights and the crowd of upper Broadway.
The mechanical man cocked his head, causing the tiny motors in his neck to whir audibly. He set the book he was reading--a worn copy of Heaven is for Angels by Johnny Lightly--down on the table, and his heavy hands tapped against the hard wood. Behind his eyes, round and glowing like flat light bulbs, gears were turning, and light pulses of electricity circulated as his processor and memory banks collected and stored the information he'd just inputted.
"Charlie, I have a query!" he called aloud.
"Sure, Tommy. What's up?" came a voice from the next room, gruff but distinctively female.
The robot stared down at the cover of his book, which featured a gritty illustration of a man in a long trench coat and hat peeking around the corner of an alleyway, his gun cautiously drawn as he pushed a pretty blonde girl against a brick wall behind him.
"Where may this unit find a fedora?"
Someone was still holding onto his left hand, and he craned his head up to see what was happening. A huge hand was wrapped around his wrist, and above the edge of the building was a thick, bald head with a beak nose and dark, bulging eyes staring back at him. Rick recognized him immediately and wished he hadn't. It was Ox, Bigalow's top enforcer. If Raul Callahan was Mr. Big's brain trust and right hand man, then Ox was surely the left.
"What are you doing, Ox-ey? Surely we can talk this over," Rick yelled above the background noise of honking cars and drifting music from the theaters below.
"Mr. Big wants the girl, Armstrong, and you've got one last chance to tell us where she is."
"And if I don't wanna?"
"Then I let go." Ox smiled, cherishing the thought. He hadn't forgotten the last time he went away, doing two years hard time after Rick Armstrong, PI, foiled the Chinese laundering scheme.
Rick patted his lower back and felt the bulge beneath his belt. He couldn't believe the big oaf didn't pat him down, but then Ox was never known for playing with a full deck of cards. In one swift move, he pulled out the revolver he kept there and pointed it up at those dark eyes, that then seemed a little more bulbous than usual.
"Weren't expecting this, were you, Ox-ey? I'll tell you what, I'll make you a promise. If you drop me, I swear to God, I'll drop you."
The giant grunted, and Rick felt a tremble, like the whole city being shook up by an earthquake. Ox was losing his grip, and Rick's weight was pulling him over the edge, inch by inch. There was a look of intense concentration on the enforcer's face, and Rick suddenly wished he was drunk. At least the pain of hitting the pavement and feeling his bones splinter into a thousand little pieces would've been dulled some. If he even survived the fall, that is.
Rick steadied the gun in his hand and took aim right between the eyes.
"Sweaty hands, Ox? No need to cash in on that promise so soon."
"I can't hold on!" sputtered Ox. He leaned further over the edge and reached out with his other hand, grazing Rick's palm as the muscles in his other hand went limp.
The instant Rick felt himself dropping, he pulled the trigger. The slug rocketed with a bang, hitting Ox just above the left eye and drilling a hole through his brainpan. The enormous corpse collapsed on the rooftop with a dull thud, but Rick was too busy yelling to hear. The sensation of falling knocked his stomach right up to his gullet, and his life, as they say, flashed before his eyes.
He could see Gloria, the pretty young thing that adored him. He suddenly wished he hadn't pushed her around so much. Then there was Joe and Lenny, his old buddies on the force that convinced him to re-enter this sort of life. He wished he'd pushed them around a little more. And then there was Delilah--sweet, angel-faced Delilah. She sure had landed him in a mess. Rick always knew that dames could be trouble, but this, he felt, was ridiculous. He should have told her no that last Tuesday, when she came into the office and launched into her story about an old flame with a penchant for tracking her down and beating her. Rick knew right off the bat that something fishy was going on. He didn't usually do protection or take domestic cases, just the ones the normal cops needed a little extra help on, but something about her face and that blonde hair of hers had him all wrapped up around her little finger. He would've run away with her if she'd asked. She had to find somebody to help her, though, and she sure wouldn't have if she'd told the truth--that she'd been a secretary for one of Mr. Big's bookies and had run off with as much dough as she could carry.
Just when he was about to make peace with his old man, Rick felt his forearm slide down against something and grasped with his hand. His fall had stopped short. He'd grabbed onto the railing of a balcony two floors down, and though his body stopped, his hat was swept right off his head, left to drift like a leaf through the air to the sidewalk below.
"Nice trick, Rick, old boy," he said to himself with a confident grin. "Let's see if you can manage it again."
He let go and stared down at the next balcony, timing his drop perfectly. He caught the railing of that one, too, and laughed. It looked like his luck was starting to change.
"I think I'm getting the hang of this."
This time, he landed on a fire escape and ran down the rickety metal stairs all the way to the foot of the building. He looked back at the rooftop ten floors up and whistled. The fall wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be. Laying right at his feet was his trusty felt fedora. He stashed his revolver back in its holster at his belt, tucked under his heavy coat, and then picked up his hat, dusted it off, and placed it firmly on his head, tilted at a jaunty angle.
"Sorry to leave so soon, Ox-ey, but you've got your brother to keep you company now. I've got to see about a girl."
He straightened his jacket and spit a wad of blood onto the sidewalk. It felt like he'd lost another tooth. No big deal, he thought to himself, but he thought he might need some whiskey to clean the wound. His loafers tapped against the pavement as he disappeared into the neon lights and the crowd of upper Broadway.
***
The mechanical man cocked his head, causing the tiny motors in his neck to whir audibly. He set the book he was reading--a worn copy of Heaven is for Angels by Johnny Lightly--down on the table, and his heavy hands tapped against the hard wood. Behind his eyes, round and glowing like flat light bulbs, gears were turning, and light pulses of electricity circulated as his processor and memory banks collected and stored the information he'd just inputted.
"Charlie, I have a query!" he called aloud.
"Sure, Tommy. What's up?" came a voice from the next room, gruff but distinctively female.
The robot stared down at the cover of his book, which featured a gritty illustration of a man in a long trench coat and hat peeking around the corner of an alleyway, his gun cautiously drawn as he pushed a pretty blonde girl against a brick wall behind him.
"Where may this unit find a fedora?"
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