>>
|
c44286.jpg
Prince Scarlet Flutter
c44286
The gun was carefully slipped into the shoulder holster that rested just inside his suit jacket, found by some sort of muscle memory. It was disconcerting to know such a thing so easily. Phineas swallowed, reaching out a hand to the rough bricks at his side, pressing against it to lever himself up, grabbing the hat that lay beside him and placing it on his head as he did—it fit perfectly. His side ached, probably only from the fall, but a more pressing issue was slight disorientation—and of course the lack of memory. It was strange but he could remember all basic things, could even remember bits of his childhood and so on, but recent events seemed to have faded away. Despite his efforts, the alley itself defined identification. Simply a grimy alleyway between two tall brick buildings. A large city then. What’s more, they bore likeness to the kinds of buildings one would find nearer an industrial area, and the smell of dirty water and smog supported such a thought. The nearness of voices and crowds, however, indicated that he was at the very least on the edge of the populace.
This is certainly not. . .a normal place, or situation. His eyes were drawn to the streetlight at the alley’s end. A sign. If I could only see a street sign, perhaps. . .
However, walking proved to be somewhat more difficult; he managed a few feet before he stopped, leaning against the wall again, world tilting. He could already feel the dizziness leaving him and that he could make it to at least a hospital, but another thought stopped him. Though finding medical aid seemed to be the best course of action for the moment, that would possibly mean having to pay and he had no idea whether or not he could do so, and beyond that. . . He had woken in an alley, with a gun and a dead man laying not ten paces from him. Perhaps it was best if police were not involved.
Only police and criminals end up in these situations, he mused, wondering all the more what he had been doing in the alley, who he was beyond his name.
His hand slipped into his pockets in hopes that something would be explained. He found no wallet but from his left pocket he pulled out a key and a wad of bills. It was old, rusted, and the small disk of metal plate with a room number and motel name etched into it seemed cheaply made. Morton’s Inn was a rather seedy motel, if one were to judge by the key itself.
From his right pocket he drew out a small flick-knife and a long, thin line of wire with a small wooden handle at each end—a garrote. Most assuredly not weapons of the average fuzz. Phineas’ ears folded back.
Probably criminal, then.
The knowledge was somewhat unsettling, but he shook it off. There was still the curiosity of the names, the note, and now the motel. He made another attempt, then, at starting down the alley, skirting the corpse, to find a sign. It stood across the street, down some ways, but he could just manage to make it out in the light of the streetlamps. Adams St. It held little meaning, but from looking in both directions along it, he could see that going right would lead him further into the industrial area, and going left would take him towards a more downtown area, where he could perhaps find help, or at least the room that belonged to the key.
|