The Arx by Jay Allan Storey Page A

hauled him to his feet, dragged him back to the cruiser, and shoved him roughly inside. He passed out. When he woke up they were hauling him out of the car. They propelled him through the front doors of the station and up to the booking desk.
    “Let’s see some ID,” a cop at the desk said.
    Frank swayed as he struggled to reach the wallet in his back pocket with his cuffed hands. The larger cop grabbed it for him and plunked it on the desk.
    “Frank Langer,” the desk cop said, reading the driver’s license. “Do I know you?”
    Frank leaned on the desk but said nothing.
    “Morton,” the desk cop crooked his finger at the one who’d handed him the wallet. The two drew aside. “This guy’s a cop,” Frank heard him whisper. “A detective – you remember – the Mastico thing?”
    “That’s the guy?” Morton said.
    “I’ve seen his picture,” the desk cop said. “I recognize the name.”
    Morton shook his head slowly. “Christ – no wonder he’s out getting hammered.”
    They returned to the booking desk. Morton took Frank’s watch and ring and handed them to the desk cop, who slid them and the wallet into a brown envelope.
    Morton whispered to his partner for a few minutes. They returned and walked Frank, more gently this time, to one of the holding cells. Frank put up no resistance.
    They took his belt and shoe laces.
    “Why couldn’t they do that for Gloria?” Frank mumbled as they removed the handcuffs, took off his jacket, and shoved him inside. He collapsed on the cot.
    “Sleep it off,” said Morton. He slung the jacket over his shoulder. A thin, rectangular object fell from one of the pockets and floated to the cement floor. Morton reached down and picked it up. It was a business card.
     
    When Frank woke up he couldn’t remember everything that had happened the night before, but he was pretty sure he shouldn’t be where he was – at home in his own bed. He rolled out and, after a failed attempt to stand, collapsed to the floor. His head throbbed; each pulse threatened to split his skull apart. The left side of his face stung with pain. He reached up and felt crusted ridges of dried blood on his cheek and forehead.
    He fought the urge to be sick long enough to make it to the bathroom. After voiding everything he’d eaten the day before, he struggled from his position over the toilet, stood shakily, staggered to the sink, washed the vomit from the corners of his mouth, and did his best to clean up the diagonal scrapes across his face. He stumbled down the stairs to the living room. On the couch was a shape under a blanket. Several strands of long brown hair hung down past the blanket’s hem.
    Still half asleep and confused, he headed for the kitchen, where the automatic coffee maker had just started bubbling. He was going to light a cigarette, but changed his mind and decided to take a shower. Feeling better after the shower and a couple of Ibuprofen, he went back downstairs. In the living room, the blanket was now neatly folded and lay on the coffee table. He moved to the kitchen.
    "Hi Frank," Rebecca Hanon said, as she tilted the decanter over a cup. “You look like shit. Coffee?”
    “Sure, thanks,” Frank said, surprised at how pleased he felt seeing her again. Fragments of what had happened the night before came back to him and he felt a rush of warmth on his cheeks. He fought off a sudden wave of nausea.
    “You brought me back here?” he said.
    “The cops found my card in your coat pocket,” she said, pouring coffee into the cup and handing it to him. His hand shook as he reached for it. “They thought I was your therapist,” she continued, “and I didn’t say anything to contradict them. I heard what you did. You’re lucky they figured out who you were. They didn’t want to charge you with anything. I convinced them to let me take you home.”
    She leaned back against the kitchen counter. “One of the cops said you mumbled something about going back to your old