Chapter 2

When they were on the roof of the building, which was close to the end of the alley, Mick was somewhat surprised to note it was easier to see up there than down below. Probably, he figured, because of the lights from nearby buildings.

“Grab a seat,” Shorty said, walking to the parapet separating the roof from the lower one next to it. “But don’t lean back.” He laughed.

Mick decided it would be safer to use the parapet to rest against, and did, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

“My home away from home, sometimes,” Shorty said when they were settled. “Not that I got a real home anymore. Lost it and…Hell, you don’t need to hear my sob story. How about you?”

“If I had one…have one, I don’t remember it,” Mick replied. “Honest truth, like I said, I don’t remember anything other than my name. At least I think it’s my name.”

“Whether it is or not, it’s what I’m calling you. You think the hit to your head rattled your brain?”

“That would be my guess. The problem is, who hit me and why do I have someone else’s ID?” Mick looked up at him in question.

Shorty shrugged. “Maybe it was in your pocket and you took it out for…whatever? Though…” He frowned. “The guy the license belongs to could be a relative, maybe. Like I said, wrong hair, wrong eyes, wrong nose, but the rest of it? Could be.”

“Since I can’t see myself, I couldn’t say.”

Shorty dug through his pack, coming up with a small, cracked mirror. “Here, take a look.”

Mick did. His hair was brown, his nose was straight, and his eyebrows were very different from the man’s in the photo. Still, he could see a vague resemblance to the man in the shape of his mouth and the jaw line. According to the license, the man’s name was Andrew Loman, with an address, or a partial one, that Mick hoped was in the city—whatever city this was. The license had been bent and creased enough that most of the address was illegible. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Denver, as in Colorado,” Shorty told him.

“It says he’s…” Mick calculated from the birth date. “Thirty-two. So maybe my big brother?”

“Could be, ‘cause you’re not that old from the look of you. I’d guess maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, at best.”

Mick agreed, from what he could see in the mirror before he gave it back. “If I knew who hit me…”

“Probably punks planning on robbing you, unless there’s someone out there who doesn’t like you and thought they’d get rid of you.” Shorty chuckled. “Didn’t work if that’s it ‘cause you’re still alive.” He paused, shooting Mick a questioning look. “You want to report you were mugged to the cops, in case it wasn’ta mugging?”

“Maybe I should, but would they believe me? I mean, why would someone want me dead? Okay, stupid question, since you don’t know and for sure I don’t, either.”

“They might be able to figure out who you are, if nothing else,” Shorty pointed out. “‘Specially if they talk to the guy on the license.”

“Who might be the person who attacked me. If he was trying to make it look like I was mugged, and thinks I’m dead…”

“And you aren’t, yeah, he could try again if that’s what went down. Not a nice idea. Okay, how much of the address can you read on the license?” Shorty asked.

“House number.” Mick frowned. “Okay, probably a house because it doesn’t look like there’s an apartment number. There should be, I think. And the first two letters of the street name—S C, or maybe S G. Hard to tell.” He showed Shorty.

“They’re both capitalized so my bet is the S means South.”

“So no damned help at all.” Mick sighed.

“Not unless you want to do a lot of walking. I got the feeling, with all the blood on your clothes, that wouldn’t be such a great idea in nice neighborhoods. By the way, if you were jumped you didn’t fight back.”

Mick got what he was saying when he looked at his hands. They were dirty, but there weren’t any cuts or bruises on his knuckles. Maybe he’s right and I was attacked by someone who wanted me dead? But how did I end up in the alley, and where did the license come from, because he’s got a point, the man…Andrew…could be a relative. That makes no sense at all. One thing occurred to him and he voiced it. “Maybe I didn’t fight back because I was drugged?”

“Possible, I suppose.” Shorty nodded then shrugged. “Let’s worry about it in the morning. We need to get some sleep while we can. Be glad it’s a warm night since I don’t have an extra bedroll. I think I got a sweatshirt in here, if you want to use it.”

Eyeing him, Mick replied, “If it fits you it’ll be too small.”

Shorty laughed. “I go for bigger so I can layer up when it gets cold.” He dug through his pack and came up with a stained, gray sweatshirt which he handed to Mick.