Night-night

[MARCUS]

There was a beep. Another. And another. He opened his eyes and looked around. His vision was still blurry. He felt a cold sting in his left arm, and saw a steel needle shaft and thin tube sticking out of his vein leading to an IV fluid drip. A man in a white lab coat walked over to him. He recognized his face, it was Dr. Klitschko. This must have been his clinic, but he had no recollection of how he got there. He tried to sit up.

"Are you trying to die of exsanguination?" Klitschko asked, in his deep Russian accent.

"What?"

"Are you trying to bleed to death?"

"Of course not." Marcus groaned in reply.

"Then I suggest you lie down."

Marcus followed his instructions. "How did I get here?"

"Hell if I know." Klitschko played around with a toothpick in his mouth. "You could have come in a bicycle or even wheelbarrow for all I care. You're a lucky one, your bowels should've spilled out like a gutted fish, and fortunately the burns you sustained are only minor." He checked his watch and began walking away.

"What time is it?" Marcus asked him before he was out of earshot.

"It's just after seven. In the evening."

He'd been asleep for almost an entire day. Laying back down on the bed, he took a deep breath and exhaled, staring at the ceiling. The white paint had no patterns or designs engraved onto it. It was smooth all the way through, only interrupted by the fluorescent lights that occasionally flickered. A little more of that and it would have been perfect for a horror movie set. His thoughts wondered, trying get what little recollection he could muster. The crazy woman. Did she get out alive? Well of course she did. If he made it out, chances are that she was still breathing.

Klitschko discharged him after nine in the evening. As he started getting dressed, he could feel his heavily bandaged body ache. Despite the mild burns he suffered on his left arm and backside of his shoulder, the pain was still unrelenting. It felt numb, yet like thousands of pins and needles were taking turns having a jab at him.

"By the way." Klitschko added, as he was prescribing Marcus some medication. "I had a look at that girl you sent me."

"You mean Cassie?"

"I didn't quite catch her name. You'd better stop sending strays to my clinic."

"We're calling them strays now? We both know you've handled worse." Marcus joked.

He stopped writing. "You think this is funny? Wait till you're lying on one of my beds again and I'll harvest your organs for your overdue payment."

Marcus kept silent.

"It seems like she's been having fuzzy memories, a loss in her sense of time and hallucinations. Usually, the cause of these symptoms relate to the use of drugs used to treat a variety of anxiety disorders, agitation delirium and muscle spasms. Because they have a sedative effect they are sometimes used to treat insomnia and the anxiety that can accompany depression."

"Doc, you're gonna have to break that down for me." Marcus cut him off.

Klitschko signed before going over it again. "The drugs she's taking are dampening activity in key arts of her brain, especially those involved in the transfer of events, from short term to long term memory."

"Do you have any idea what kind of drug she's taking?"

"Drug? No, more like a cocktail of drugs. There were various symptoms that she exhibited, but my guess is these symptoms are probably as a result of some homemade pills used to keep her kind submissive and err... how do you say it....err....compliant. The side effects however, often tend to be lethal when taken in excess or without proper prescription. I'd keep an eye on her if I were you."

"Thanks a lot, doc." He stepped out of the clinic and looked up at the sky. It was raining. When it rains like this nothing good happens. It never has, and his face still hurt.

"By the way." Klitschko called to him by the doorway. "Who is she to you?"

"Nobody."

Klitschko's expression was stern. "My advice, its better it stays that way, for her sake."

"I know. You didn't ask me about the burns."

"Too much knowledge is an agony."

____________________________________________________

He walked home with an uncomfortable limp. Probably sprained something. Klitschko had lent him an umbrella but it could do little to shield him from the elements. Despite the downpour, the night life activities were still underway.

The lights coming from the various bars, restaurants and street lights reflected off of the wet asphalt, leaving a glossy view of another world that seemingly existed below his feet. The climb up the stairs to his apartment was an arduous labour, only comforted by the relief that he would be back in his humble abode.

Once inside he very carefully and slowly removed his clothes and bandages, and took a warm shower. He got out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his body. He went and sat on one of the chairs by the window of his apartment to ponder the events of the day.

Damn that woman. The one he fought with at the warehouse was beyond natural. The things he saw her do were unnatural. He wouldn't stand a chance against her and he knew it. Her eyes though, even in the dark, they were like a cat stalking its prey. The Mad Crow was singing in the distance. Playing a slow blues tune. And now she knew what he looked like. Just terrific.

He definitely needed a drink, and the Crow's nest was sending out invitations.

___________________________________________________

Jones was right. It was like the assassin Olympics out there. Every trigger happy Jim and Jack with a gun had come out for the money Chen was bound to put out for his nephew's killer. He entered the crow's nest. It was fully occupied. He skimmed through the many faces. No one he knew. A seat at the counter just opened up.

"Ey! Marcos!" the bartender came over to him.

"Its Marcus." He replied with a sigh.

"Dats what I said. Marcos!" he swung his arms open as he said the name and tapped him on his shoulder.

Marcus groaned slightly at the contact and didn't bother arguing.

Benicio Del Toro, he owned the Mad Crow and often worked as a bartender from time to time. Though a bit lacking in vocabulary, he was very well informed. He knew things any intelligence agency wished they knew. Political meetings, hidden sites, alliances, technological advancements, who your wife's been sleeping with, stuff like that. Like a handkerchief, he had it on him. Word had it that he used to be a spy from some foreign country, and that he went rogue and started up his own network of informants, or so they say. Now he's selling secrets. Got to give the man some respect, he's mastered his trade.

"So, what can I get for you Marcos?" he began working his hands behind the counter.

"I'll have a beer and double shot of whiskey." He pulled out an envelope and slid it over the counter. "Along with some information."

He grinned. "Of course, of course. I hope I might have what you're looking for. You know, I had a man come in one evening just as I was about to close, this was sometime ago. Was probably in his 30s..."

"Benicio, you know I enjoy your stories, but can we keep it business tonight?"

Benicio completely ignored him and continued talking as though Marcus hadn't said a word to him, he could only sit and listen.

"He had a two top table and asked for top shelf champagne, candle lit and all that. Told me that they were celebrating, but no one showed. The guy looked morose, but had an appetiser, poured a glass for the person who wasn't there, then asked for the bill. I thought he was probably stood up, turns out it was his anniversary, his wife died a couple of months ago."

"Tough luck."

"Mmmm... yes indeed, his luck was at its end." Benicio stared into space.

"Can we get to business now?"

"Business? Ah yes!" He came back to his senses. "Of course, of course. What is it you need?"

"I'm looking for a man, he goes by the name Tondo."

"Mmm...mmm... you know, you're not the only one looking for that particular gentlemen."

"Tell me something I don't know..."

"Of course, though I doubt it would be of much use to you, considering the little, 'fire accident', that had occurred in the early hours."

"What are you getting at?"

"Oh, I'm just saying that it would have been helpful if the entire warehouse wasn't torched up. For.....err..... business purposes of course."

"There were unforeseen circumstances." Marcus leaned in a little closer. "Just tell me what you have Benicio."

"Tondo is the type of person that doesn't stay in one place." He handed Marcus a beer. "My sources tell me he's around, but after that little incident, not for much longer. My guess is that he plans on leaving for La Orolica soon. In a day or two maybe. Chen's bounty seemed to have expedited his stay in the river."

"Why La Orolica?"

La Orolica was another city in the southern province. Between it and Riverside was a large desert, and the only way across it was by train.

Benicio got a table napkin, wrote on it and passed it onto Marcus. "This is a possible location. I can't be sure of how many people he has with him or if he is even there at all. You'll have to find that out yourself."

Marcus got the napkin. "Thanks." He drank his beer.

"Though I must warn you, Marcos." He had a serious look on his face. "La Orolica is in a state of turmoil right now, and it's threatening to spill over to the river. Tondo and his group are just the first. If he manages to escape there, it's best not to follow. The government has been sending its military to get a grip on the situation. There seems to be some heavy resistance from some of the southerners who are not…content with the incumbent government." He poured himself a shot and raised his glass. "Tread lightly my friend."

Marcus raised his own.

Tonight, only the piano was playing. The lights went dark. You could hear footsteps echoing across the stage. Then they came to a sudden halt. The pianist started playing. The melody was simple, light and had a soothing effect about it. It was so familiar, yet unfamiliar. For a moment it took you to a particular point in time when everything was perfect, or was it? You couldn't place the feeling. A voice suddenly joined in the melody. A woman's voice. The stage remained dark, only a silhouette revealed the curves and edges of her frame as she slowly caressed the microphone stand like a long lost lover, and flexed and turned her vocals. What was this moment? Where was this time? The whole room was silent. As though everyone was in a trance. All were held captive by this enchanting enigma. Staring at the stage and waiting, waiting to have a glance at this dream, to unveil a moment made real, the unknown heroine of the evening.

He too was was captivated, as though induced by a magical incantation. He had never heard her voice from his balcony window before. Nor felt like this. He felt, elevated.

The music swelled. The pianist played more turbulently. She too stretched her voice. Then they both went silent. The spotlight slowly matured in strength until her face was visibly clear.

He couldn't believe it. "Cassie?"