"Terry Harkness awoke from his slumber when he heard a slight sktch from the direction of the hotel room's closet. The former CIA operative with hair-trigger senses waited, as was his habit in these matters, a full five seconds; then he heard the slight noise again. Triangulating it with his keen ears, he deduced that it was being made by a shoe on the linoleum. Amateur, Harkness thought instinctively, you should've worn tennis sneakers. Automatically lunging for the gun he always kept nearby, a habit he'd acquired during his undercover days, Harkness spun and shot at the intruder while still trying to shake the cobwebs of slumber from his eyes.
"Unfortunately, the other man--he could see it was a man in the pale moonlight that filtered through the Venetian blinds of the window--was not as complete an amateur as he'd have preferred, and had begun moving evasively as soon as he'd realized that he'd blown his cover. Nonetheless, the bullet grazed his arm; but held in his other arm, Harkness beheld a rather nasty-looking handgun.
"'Who are you?' Harkness demanded.
"The reply consisted of a short, sustained burst of hot lead; catlike, Harkness avoided the bullets and, with one powerful somersault, came within five feet of the assailant. Unlike him, he would not miss from this range.
"'Drop the gun!' he commanded. The man complied.
"Harkness's mind was racing. 'Who are you?' he repeated. The man remained silent.
"'Who sent you?' he pressed. 'Talk now, scumbag, or I'll shoot!'
"His would-be killer grinned, revealing ugly, uneven teeth in a mouth exposed beneath the black stocking that covered the upper half of his face. 'You vun't dare kill me,' he said with a trace of a Hispanic accent. 'You vant answers? Drop your gun, too.'
"'Now, who said anything about killing you?' Harkness asked innocently.
"Then he shot the assailant in the kneecap.
"The man would have screamed with agony had Harkness not immediately leapt upon him and clamped his hands around his mouth, effectively muffling the perp. After all, he didn't want any valiant staff members barging in; this wasn't one of those cheap dives he had so often frequented--sometimes on business, sometimes not--in the old days.
"'They may be able to save your leg,' he snarled into the man's scrunched-up face. 'It depends on how fast you'll be able to get to a hospital and the quicker you answer me the faster you'll be able to reach one, comprender, amigo?' The man nodded, sweat pouring off him like a river. Harkness could smell his fear. 'And don't scream,' he ordered, letting go and backing off, gun once more levelled at the wounded man.
"'Sheet, man, you crazy!'
"'Crazy is as crazy does. Now, who sent you?'
"'I dun't know, man!' whispered the Latino. 'Just a--ay!--a voice on the tellephone. He--aack!--wouldn't say a name. Sheet, you really effed up my leg. Hurts so bed.'
"'If you're in too much pain, that can easily be remedied', the impassive ex-spy responded, shifting his gun hand meaningfully.
"His would-be assailant quivered like a tub of Jello.
"'We-e-ell?'
"'All right, all right! I trace de call. It come from fancy-shmancy hotel uptown, de Hofbanhausen.'"
Hofbanhausen?
Yagh! I dunno. I've got German on my mind for some reason.
Make it the Ritz.
Just imagine, a constructive idea out of you.
I can do annoying too. You want mke to do annoying? Write!
"'It come from fancy-shmancy hotel uptown, de Ritz. Don' shoot, pliss, I dunno vhat room! Got paid half up front, half after I bump choo off.'
"Harkness went to the door an glanced up an down the hallway. Empty. Perfect. 'HELP! HELP!' he bellowed in his celebrated foghorn voice."
Foghorn Leghorn!
Kinda figured that constructive mood wouldn't last.
"'There's--'"
Oh pleeease pleasepleaseplease make a Foghorn Leghorn in this story! I love, I say, love Foghorn Leghorn! To death that is! Hee!
If it gets you to quite bugging me, then fine. I'll make a Foghorn Leghorn joke. But later. Okay?
Yes.
"'There's an injured man in room 471! HELP!'
"Confused voices started up in thew other rooms immediately. He slammed the door and raced for the window. Then he paused. 'How much they pay you?'
"'Huh? Forty-four t'ousand. In halves. Vhy?'
"'Just checking my price tag.'
"'Vhere you goin'?'
"'Same way you got in, amigo. Ciao!'"
I'm tired. I think I'm gonna quit now.
The whole thing?
No, just for now. Until--
Oh, please can I say I say it this time?
Sigh. I guess. Go ahead.
Until next time, that was MetFanMac, signing off!


TODAY'S BOOK: "All Creatures Great and Small", by James Herriot ((c) 1972)

Labels: novel