A slug of gin. A slug in the mouth. Either way it’s the same to me.
You wake up in an alley somewhere smelling like the inside of a dumpster, your head pounding like a Sousa march and a sour day-old taste at the back of your throat.
That was me last Thursday…the morning after I crossed paths with Bang Bang Tommy and his little gang of assassins. Did I say assassins? I meant “businessmen”. But if you ever find yourself doing business with them, take my advice: hang up the Gone Fishin’ sign and take yourself on a nice, long vacation.
I didn’t even have to open my eyes to tell where I was. The butt end of Jakarta has a fragrance all its own…a mixture of curry, rotting fish, excrement and broken dreams. I took one whiff and I knew exactly where they’d dumped me.
It really didn’t matter how I got here. The big question was, why was I here at all? Why was I still alive. It’s not like Tommy or his associates to leave something half done. The only reason could be that I was more valuable to them alive. What did I know?
The question nagged at me like a jealous wife as I picked my way between the stagnant pools of sewage and refuse. The remnants of last night’s festivities were playing havoc with my stomach. So I bought a bowl of noodles from a street vendor — a squirrely little woman with bad teeth and an attitude to match.
As I slurped down the soupy mess, the question came back again. What did I know? What did Tommy want with me? I knew that I’d better find the answer pretty damn fast. Or that sorry bowl of gelatinous noodles might just be my last meal.