Chapter 1

1

Mick felt someone shaking him. Then the smell of bad breath and an unwashed body assailed his nostrils as a man said, “What’d you do? Tie one on and pass out here? Not so smart, dude.”

He opened his eyes, trying to figure out where he was. All he could see in the dim light were brick walls, dirty pavement, and what might have been the wheels of a Dumpster. He struggled to sit up, then a wave of nausea hit him and he vomited, spewing nothing but bile. He inched away, tried again to sit up and succeeded, leaning back against the wall behind him. Pain flared at the side of his head. Carefully touching it, he felt dampness and wondered if it was puke or blood.

“Looks like you got hit with something,” the same person said. “Punks attack you?”

Carefully turning, Mick saw an older man dressed in a tattered jacket looking at him with something close to compassion. “No clue,” Mick muttered, touching his head again.

“You got blood there, and all over your clothes,” the man pointed out, taking a rag from his back pocket. He sat back on his heels, studying Mick while trying to wipe the blood away. “Got a name? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I’m Shorty, ‘cause I ain’t so tall.”

“Umm, Mick?”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Yeah, Mick.” He knew that much, but ‘Mick who?’ was the question. He felt the pockets of the jeans he was wearing, hoping to find a wallet. There was nothing.

“Looking for this?” Shorty asked, handing him a very creased driver’s license. “You had it clutched in your hand when I found you. I figured it might be yours and you probably didn’t want to lose it, so I took it.”

The name on it didn’t register. Neither did the other information or the photo. I guess it could be me, but it sure doesn’t feel right. “You tell me, is this me?” he asked, handing back the license.

Shorty studied it, and then Mick, before shaking his head. “Possible, if your hair was blond and your nose was broke sometime. Look at the light.”

It took Mick a second to get that he meant the light coming from a fixture over a doorway across the alley. He did as Shorty asked and the man peered at him. “The license says brown eyes. Yours are blue.” He handed the license back to Mick.

Before Mick could reply, Shorty said, “Keep the rag over the damage ‘til you stop bleeding,” and stood, holding out a hand. “Let’s get somewhere a little less public and then we’ll talk. That’s if you trust me.” He shrugged.

“Don’t have much choice, do I?” Mick replied wryly as he let Shorty help him to his feet. For a moment he felt dizzy and nauseous again. He pressed one hand to the wall to steady himself while still holding the rag against the wound.

“Where’s the rest of your stuff?”

“Huh?”

“Your jacket, ‘cause I bet you had one, from what you’re wearing, and maybe what the ritzy guys call a messenger bag,” Shorty said.

Now that he was upright, Mick took a look at his clothes—a blue shirt and decent jeans, both blood-stained, and a new-looking pair of sneakers. “If I had them, they’re gone.”

“The punks stole them when they jumped you?”

Mick shook his head, grimacing. Not a good idea. He removed the rag and touched the wound. It felt as if the bleeding had stopped, which was a good thing as far as he was concerned. “Could be,” he replied. “I don’t remember.”

“Being jumped?” Shorty asked as he picked up his large, battered backpack with a rolled-up blanket strapped to the top, slinging it over his shoulder.

Mick frowned. “Anything. I don’t even know what day it is.”

“Not good. It’s Wednesday, okay Thursday since it’s around three in the morning, give or take. Come on.” Shorty started down the alley.

Mick stuck the license in his pocket and followed, wondering where they were going. He found out moments later when the man stopped by loading dock. To the side of it there was a fire escape, the bottom steps several feet above the ground. Shorty hopped onto the dock, looking down at Mick. “Think you can get up here?” Shorty offered his hand, again

“Yeah.” Mick grabbed his hand and managed to clamber up, fighting off another wave of dizziness when he made it to the top of the dock.

Shorty jumped to grab the bottom step of the fire escape and scrambled up. “You coming?”

Mick caught hold of the step, although with more ease than Shorty had. At that point Mick realized he was at least half a foot taller than Shorty.