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Three goons burst in through the broken door, one with a Sig Sauer Special, one wielding a battered old Tokarev, and the last carrying an Ithaca Stakeout, with a mag extender. Before I could defend myself, the one with the Sig (and psychotic, twitchy expression) had knocked me to the floor, his teeth grinding together and his eyes popping out of his head.
"Masterless, Nicky, Secure this fuckin' place.!" The one with the Tokarev had "Imperial Russian Heir-Wannabe-turned- cabbie" written all over him, and the other was a pale, flaxen-haired Aryan stereotype with a wispy blonde moustache.
"Nicky" the pale gimp said, "You take the point, I'll do back-up."
"No way, Masterless! I always get shot doing that."
"OK, I'll be back-up, and you take point."
The swarthy little brown-haired man thought for a moment, then said "Sure!" and happily went down the hall towards my bedroom.
"Jeeze, Bickle, where'd you find this maroon in the first place?" The one called Masterless muttered.
"Getcher ass after him, goddammit; See if the fugitives have gotten away. And DON'T BE ALL FUCKIN' DAY, I gotta date with my babe, Salma, tonight!" Bickle snarled.
"Fugitives?" I said from my position on the floor. "You must be mistaken, there aren't any-OW!"
This last came as Bickle kicked me in the ribs. The pain was exquisite, as I doubled over, writhing and gasping for breath.
"Are you talkin' to me? Are you talkin' to ME? I don't see nobody else (KICK!) So you must be talkin' to me. Hey, Mook, if I need anything, I'll(kick) beat it outta you. Now, shaddup (kick) before I get pissed off."
I was having difficulty breathing by this time, and I just lay there gasping. One of my neighbors peeked hesitantly around the doorway. It was a Miss Jabberina. A slender, quiet, and wanly pretty girl, we'd said "Hello" to one another in the hallway.
"What's going on here? Why have you broken down Professor Bernstein's door?"
Bickle looked back at her and pulled a small case out of his jacket, and flipped it open to reveal an official- looking badge.
"Bail agent's business, M'am; the professor has been harboring fugitives from the law. Now, if you'll please go back to your apartment, we can get on with our investigation."
"But" she said, hesitantly, "I'm sure that-"
"M'am, your cooperation in this matter would be appreciated; an agent maybe along to take your statement."
This line seemed to mollify her somewhat and she left without further protest.
Bickle pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat down facing me.
"Now, 'Pro-fes-sor',(pronouncing the title with exaggerated care), what can you tell me about the whereabouts (he produced what looked like a "wanted" flyer) of these two gentlemen?"
The individuals pictured were...Wulfgar and Zero.
(TBC)
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