The blow connected with the side of my head, knocking me off balance. I threw my hands up, dropping my keys. My assailant grabbed my arm and punched me several more times in the head.

Then, my attacker released me before punching me one last time. I fell to the ground stunned and seeing sparkles before my eyes. Like fucking confetti. I put my arms up, preparing for more punches. But there were only footsteps hurrying away. My head swam in woozy circles while I moved, slowly, to gather my books and papers under the dull yellow circle the street lamp cast.

I'd parked by the light post, like a girl is supposed to. My car was well-lit, my keys were in my hand, and I'd been aware of someone approaching. He'd moved quickly, I recalled, but not alarmingly so. Not until he was nearly on top of me. Then, it happened in a handful of seconds.

I leaned against the car to minimize the swaying of the asphalt as I unlocked the car door. I tossed my armload into the back seat, slid into the driver's seat and started the car. I ran my tongue over my lip and found a nice split in it.

I pulled my car around and headed after the only departing car. Had to be him. I watched him turn a corner at the light, then hurried to catch up. I cut through a gas station parking lot, then fell in behind the sedan, far enough that it would be hard to make out anything about my vehicle beyond two square headlights. We drove out of town and into one of the subdivisions. I slowed to a crawl as I followed.

The sedan pulled up to a house. The house didn't go with the new Impala. Then, the car door opened.

Oh damn. My attacker was a woman.

I pulled into a neighbor's driveway and cut the lights. I could just make the woman out as she walked to the front door. She knocked on the door. Then, knocked again. By that point, I had pulled out my SLR camera and its night-vision lens. I brought the camera up and took several pictures. Then, the door opened and she disappeared inside.

I waited. Took some pictures of the house number. A light came on inside the house. I reached into the back seat of my car for a notebook. The motion shot pain through my shoulder as I twisted freshly bruised muscle. I wrote down what I had so far—license plate and house number. And what I was doing at the time of the assault.

That was curious—I'd gone to the office building on a whim to talk to the night cleaning woman on another case—a routine missing brother. He'd worked at the office building two weeks before he drank the invisibility potion. Or whatever it was that had caused him to vanish. I'd made a handful of trips to the building in the last three weeks.

I pulled out my laptop, booted it up and snapped the wireless internet card into the slot on the side. I put in the license plate number first. Amy Brickman. I ran my tongue around my mouth, rolling the name around. I'd heard that name somewhere. It wasn't coming to me. I tried a Google search, but got nothing. I sent Dimi a quick email; a pal with connections, he'd be the best one to ask.

Then I tried the house address. Another name that meant nothing to me. George Wendall.

I decided to get some answers. I pulled my car onto the street, drove a few houses closer, then parked against the curb. From my trunk, I grabbed the J-shaped tire iron that came with car. It isn't worth a damn for changing tires, but it works quite well as a weapon.

I strode over to Amy Brickman's car and leaned against it, waiting. I held the tire iron beside my leg.

She came out a few minutes later without even peering out through the blinds. She walked a few steps before she saw me. She paused, body tensing. She was a fighter—that much was evident in the lights of the subdivision street lamps. She pulled her hands up into fists, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

"I already kicked your ass once," she said with a humorless smile.

"Not well enough, apparently."

"Then I guess I'll have to do better this time."

"Without the element of surprise, you've got nothing."

She brought her fists up. No weapon. "You're out of your league here."

I moved closer. "I don't like team sports, anyway."

She moved back half a foot. "You don't know who you're messing with."

"I don't care. See, no one fucks with Bo Fexler."

"You think you're such tough shit—I jumped at the opportunity to kick your ass!"

The thought had only a second to register. Then, she lunged at me. I swung the tire iron into her arms, landing solidly against her left wrist. Then I jabbed the end into her midsection. She jumped back, avoiding the poke. Her face was twisted with anger. She grabbed at the tire iron, but I stepped in and punched her solidly in the face. I'm right handed for everything but fist-fighting—there, I'm ambidextrous.

I brought the tire iron up, gripped it in both hands and pressed it against her neck. Then, I swept my leg into hers, knocking her off balance, though she didn't fall. She grabbed at the tire iron again, so I let one end go and turned. I rammed my shoulder into her. She staggered back.

I swung the tire iron. I was too close to get a good swing, but I used my weight in the swing, knocking her across the chest, just above her boobs. This time she fell.

I stepped out of kicking range, debating how badly I should fuck her up. She rolled over, standing slowly, perhaps in pain. Then, as expected, she turned and lunged at me again. I turned sideways just before she slammed into me. We both fell.

The pointed end of the tire iron pierced the ground. Good thing because Amy landed on top of it, shoving the tire iron further into the ground. She rolled away, holding her stomach, trying to catch the air that had fled from her lungs. She groaned. With left arm and shoulder bruised to match the right, I shoved my legs under me and got into a crouch. I worked the tire iron from the earth. But there was no fight left in Amy.

"What the hell did you want with me, anyway?" I asked.

She hissed through clenched teeth. "Go fuck yourself."

"That's not a bad idea, actually."

She closed her eyes. I stood up but kept an eye on her. She opened her eyes.

I was done here. I walked back to my car. When I turned to get in, I saw that Amy was already getting up. She was moving slowly, holding one hand to her middle.

Adrenaline dulled the pain long enough for me to get home. I knocked back a pair of leftover Oxy's and crawled into bed.

As I was on that precipice that borders sleep, my phone chirped. I jerked. It was not a phone call but an incoming message. I reached over and took the phone.

I opened the email from Dimi.

Short and direct, he wrote, "Amy Brickman is a hit man."

That one sentence sent a jolt through my synapses, setting off several recollections. A hit man. Hit woman. She liked staged accidents, but she also carried a badass knife that rivaled Crocodile Dundee's. I'd never met her, but she'd been pointed out to me once as someone who could 'take care of things.'

My information indicated that Amy Brickman didn't mess with anyone without getting paid for it. I had a damn good feeling that she wasn't going to tell me who had sent her to take care of me. Or why.

Good thing I was pretty decent at this sleuthing thing.

Looking over my notes, something bothered me. I walked down to my car and retrieved my camera. Half-way back up the stairs, I recalled that no one had turned on any lights at the house. When answering the door, the person inside usually turns on a light. Or else the TV's on, providing illumination as well as some semblance of entertainment.

I booted up the laptop and put the camera card into the reader. I reviewed the photos. No lights came on.

I zoomed in on the shot as she opened the door. She had something in her hand. In the previous picture, I could see the door knob—above her hand. I sat back in my chair.

She had a key.

She let herself in. It was the sort of ruse I would pull. She wasn't half bad at it. But I'm better.

She wanted me to think that the owner of the house was her client. A set up. Why? Why was she trying to make him look like the bad guy?

The sun was just starting to stain the edge of the sky in grayish pink. I made my way to the bedroom. I dressed in tight black pants that look great on my skinny little ass. They sit awful low, though, so I have to wear skimpy panties. Panties are one more way to tease, so I rarely go commando. The tank top I picked was black with silver stars drawn on it. Two stars landed right on my boobs. And it was entirely coincidental.

I grabbed keys, pocket knife, wallet and pepper spray. I stepped into the bathroom to clean up and braid my hair into a quartet of tight braids. I had a nice collection of bruises along my neck and shoulder. I could have covered them with PanCake. I've gotten quite good at that. But I look more badass with them exposed.

I would have liked a gun, but Ohio law says no. My parents did teach me to be a law abiding citizen. It's not their fault I tend to pick which laws I abide by.

I sped across town, hoping to catch George Wendell shortly after he woke up. I parked behind his garage. Curiosity got the better of me and I peeked. There was a car there.

The sliding door at the rear of the house was a popular feature the last thirty years of houses. George's house was older, probably late seventies or early eighties. The doorwall looked original. Good. I grabbed the handle, lifted the door, and slid it open. The door rollers squealed, announcing my presence.

I walked towards the lights of the microwave and turned on the over-the-stove light. There was movement from the other end of the house. I had just enough time to sit at the table before a man walked into the room.

"Who the hell are you? I'm calling the police," he said. He fumbled for the light switch. When the lights came on, he stopped and stared. "What do you want?" His voice had changed.

Even looking my most badass, I don't look terribly threatening. Too lanky. And the boobs tend to give people the wrong idea about me. Weaker sex and all that shit.

"George Wendell?" I asked. "If someone were out to do you harm, who would be your first suspect?"

"What?" The coffeemaker clicked to life.

"Someone wants to do you harm. Who?"

"I'm calling the police."

"If you insist. I'll be gone before they get here. And then you're on your own against them."

"Against... who? Who are you?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. Gotta protect my own ass, you know. But I am trying to protect yours. I can't really explain, but let me just say that a plot was set in motion that would have resulted in you getting a serious beat down. Worse than I got." I crossed my arms and leaned my head to the side to better show off the bruises on my neck.

"But you know who?"

"I have some leads. But I need to know who might want to do you serious harm."

He shook his head. The coffeemaker piddled into the pot. A strangely comforting sound in that tense setting. "I don't know. I mean, I can't think that I've pissed anyone off that bad. There's Larry at work. Larry Pike. He's always hated me, but... I can't believe he'd want to hurt me."

"Does he have a key to your house?"

His brow furrowed. "No..." Then he squinted, as if that might cause the answers to appear on my forehead.

"Whoever is behind this has a key to your front door."

"The only person who has that is my ex-wife. God—she—I don't—I can't believe she'd—" The words stumbled over each other. Then he just stopped, slack-jawed. "You can't tell me—?"

"No. Sorry."

"Why should I believe you?"

I shrugged. "What's your wife's name?"

"Pamela Whitehurst."

The coffee machine drip-drip-dripped in the stillness, proving that time had not stopped.

A moment passed while the rage built inside of me. It pushed all words from my brain. "Ah."

I stood up quickly, shoving the chair out with my knees. I yanked the old door wall open, causing it to squeal in protest, and left.

I jammed the car into reverse. Changing gears got a short squawk out of the tires. Of course, I didn't have the address. I stopped at the police department, figuring I could kill two birds with one stone.

Wendy was at the front desk. When we're getting along, we leave bite marks on each other. I strolled right past her, which makes her chatter like an angry squirrel. She's even got the big tail.

I found the records clerk, a fairly new guy, thinks that by bending over backwards, he could get me bent over. "Hey, Steve, need a record. Incident report from last night."

"Uh—well—"

"It's not confidential information. You know that." I smiled at him. And he gave me a goofy grin back. The line is only half true. There are things that they're not allowed to leave on the reports for civilians.

He disappeared into the rows of files. I waited, half-watching the foot traffic. Many of the cops still know me from the days I worked there as a file clerk myself. And many of them still resent my transfer from file clerk to cold case files. And some of them just never liked me.

Steve returned with a still-warm photocopy of the incident report. He'd blacked out the information I wasn't supposed to have. I took the sheet, scanned the information, then handed it back to him.

"That's all?" he asked. He looked closer at the report, thinking he was missing something.

"Yeah. Thanks. Maybe this weekend we'll go for coffee." One of these times I'll actually follow through on it.

"Sure!" And he forgot to charge me for the report. Again.

I was back down the halls, narrowly missing a collision with a wide police officer who has always liked body-checking me into the wall. Especially in empty hallways.

I hopped into my car and nearly backed into a police car. He honked and gestured. I took it as the universe reminding me that I'm really the last person who should ever tempt fate.

Same reason I'd never go bungee jumping.

I heeded the universe's warning and went home for lunch. I cleaned up the apartment, tried to do some paperwork, surfed the internet, and otherwise passed the time until night fell.

As the purple veil of night was chasing away the last of the daylight, I readied myself mentally and physically. The bruises from the last skirmish were finally fading into my pale skin. With the sound of Garbage's "The World is Not Enough" blaring, I drove out to Amhurst Street.

I'd been out to that quiet street once before. It was an older neighborhood, populated largely by gray-haired folks. The streets were winding and most of the houses were hidden by trees, bushes and fences. I parked on the inside of a curve then walked down the center of the road to the house.

The windows of the house were dark except for one in the living room with that eerie yet hypnotic blue light that comes from the TV. I pressed the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened.

Pamela Whitehurst opened the door. "Oh my god, Bo, what happened to you?"

I brought my fist up fast, but grabbed the door frame instead. The quick motion startled her. "Nothing." The word was soft and I even smiled. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah." She stepped back, not realizing the danger. "You look like you ran into some trouble. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. But whoever did this to me won't be okay as soon as I find out who was responsible."

"So, what brings you here tonight?"

"Work."

"Oh, then you changed your mind about that job I was offering?"

I moved closer to her, still smiling.

Pamela moved back a little, bumping up against the side table. A photo fell over.

"You saw this happen."

"What? No!"

"Yes. You called in the police report. Gave your name as Janice White. As in your middle name and a variation of your last. But then you implicated your own husband."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You think George did this to you? Oh dear. I bet he found out that I was trying to hire you. He's been spying on me—"

I grabbed her by the arms and shook her once, hard. "Shh. You've made a very serious mistake. You have to understand that the more elaborate and complex the plan, the harder it is to work out."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's okay. I do."

She opened her mouth. After a moment, she squeaked, "Any thing you do to me, I'll report it to the police."

"You do that. But first, I have to do something. And then you have to have some sort of proof that it was me."

I lightly slapped her face. She jerked backwards, knocking over a few more photos. "No one fucks with me," I said softly. Laughing, I let myself out.

I was pleased with myself. My parents would be proud of how I'd controlled my anger, and my fists. They wouldn't be so pleased with what was to come next. But I'd never been real good at making anyone happy for very long.

The first night was a week later. I stood against the side of the garage about the time Pamela was due home from work. As soon as she pulled into the garage, I rounded the corner and stood behind the car with a wicked grin and my tire iron. She nearly wet herself and called the police. By the time the cops showed up, I was down the road, watching an empty house and appalled that someone would make that accusation. I also causally mentioned something about Pamela looking for revenge after I turned down the job she offered me.

I was back at Pamela's house a few days later. This time, just parked across the street. I waved to her when she came home. The next time was at her office building. Another little wave.

A couple days later, I was sitting on her back deck having a smoke when she got up. She saw me and screamed. I pretended not to see her, just took a drag on the cigarette. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her grab the cordless phone from the wall. I got up, strolled across the yard, hopped the fence and walked down the street to where my car was parked.

About a week later, after she got home from work, I crept through the neighbor's lawn with a couple rocks. The first rock landed short, thudding in the grass. I moved forward a little. The second rock nailed the window, cracking it, but there wasn't enough force in the throw to shatter the window.

I crept forward. There was a window on the side of the house and one on the front. Through the side window, I happened to catch sight of Pamela crossing the house to the rear in search of the noise.

I sped up, pausing at the front to whip another rock through the front window. Shards of glass fell from the frame. I was two doors down, already cutting through yards to reach my car, parked a block back.

A couple days later, I let the air out of one of her back tires while she was still at work.

Unlike most who seek revenge, I had no interest in making sure that Pamela knew who was responsible for her troubles. I wanted to muddy the waters. Especially if the police got involved. I try to avoid too much trouble with the police. I can only give so many blow jobs.

I borrowed a friend's truck and watched Pamela for a few more days. She checked over her shoulders several times, peered around the corner of the garage. She started carrying her purse by gripping the middle of it—like she was clinging to something inside of it.

Since I have no interest in being shot, I backed off.

I saw her once at a gas station. She came over to me, shaking from head to toe. "You—stay away from me!"

"I have no interest in you."

Her head cocked to the side. "You've been trying to teach me a lesson, haven't you? That's why you kept doing things—breaking windows! My tires! Please, stop, you have to stop."

I gazed evenly at her. "You sound a little hysterical. Something wrong?"

"You know what's been wrong! You've been tormenting me!"

"I have no interest in you. You're not paying me."

"But I know what you're like. People say that people regret messing with you. That's why I wanted to hire you, but you wouldn't take the job."

"So?"

"The only person I could find was Amy. And she doesn't do domestic situations."

I could respect that. "So, you couldn't get anyone to beat up your ex-husband."

She nodded. "She was supposed to lure you back to his house. Make you think he was behind it. Then, like you always do, you'd make him regret it."

"Did you do something you regret?"

She nodded. "I'm sorry. Please. Whatever you want, I'll do it. I just want you to leave me alone. How do I get you to stop?"

I smiled at her. "I'm not doing anything."

She shook, almost like a sob, but no sound came out. Her mouth opened and shut. Slowly, she backed up.

"Just because you heard that I'm this ruthless person who beats people up just for looking at me wrong, doesn't mean it's true. I mean, I heard about this fat man in a red suit who comes down chimneys. He's not real, you know."

This time a sound escaped her. Something anguished. She backed away a little further, then turned and got into her car. I saw her weeping on the steering wheel. I almost felt bad for her. I'd wanted her bent, not shattered.

I didn't waste much time on that. I finished filling my gas tank. I had another case. A lawyer wanted me to find his missing daughter.

He'd heard that I was a tough broad. That I don't scare easily and that I can be a bit ruthless.

Maybe I should tell him not to believe everything he hears.

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Clair Dickson