BLACK MASK

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The night was foggy and the rain fell like porcupine quills into my sweaty skin. The back alley was dark and shadows sat everywhere. It exited out to the street where people rushed underneath umbrellas and trench coats. Pulled up collars and tilted hats and couples huddling together, paraded the brightly lit cityscape. He gave me the slip. It doesn’t seem possible, but he did. The rear entrance was still open and I’d planned to back track my way through the club to see if I’d missed anything, when a sound came from behind me and things became fuzzy.

 

The world began to tilt and the street lights became brighter. The rain fell harder. My legs became crooked and were beginning to give. I side swiped a couple of trash cans and made them fall. The wind thrashed about like being caught in a wind tunnel. The ground was coming up to greet me when it was stopped by two someones holding me up by the arms. The dark was becoming more intimate with my closing eyes. Everything swirled. My head throbbed and blood pounded with steady intensity. The last thing I saw was a face partially shadowed. I couldn’t make it out, but for one thing. He wore a black mask over the rims of his eyes: the kind you wear at masquerade. That was the last time I saw anything. The pavement kissed me kindly.

Something burned hot into my face. Bubbles popped from the water my head was resting in. I breathed in by reflex and inhaled what tasted like the Hudson river. My eyes opened wide and a cough kicked its way from my lungs. The trash was scattered around me like party goers recovering from last night’s gala ball. I rose from the payment like Lazarus from the pit. The back of my neck felt like it’d been used for a catcher’s mitt.

I stumbled my way toward the entrance of the alley by using the wall as a crutch. The morning had come and I greeted it in the same fashion I usually did. Unconscious and in pain. I made it out to the street where the sounds of early morning traffic and Chinese chatter flew through the steam-filled air. Half my trench coat was wet and my hair was flat. At this time, I really didn’t care. I crawled my way across the street and sat down at a table in the cove this restaurant had set aside for patrons whom wished to dine outside. The awning blocked out the sun. The restaurant sat across the street, opposite the Dragon’s Tail Club in the Bowery of Chinatown.

I ordered a tea with milk and lemon. And added a shot of Bourbon.

I gave myself some time before I made my way to my Packard

and trotted back to my office.

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