Episode 46, “A Laudable Shade of Purple”

By Phil Elmore

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Peyton’s feet hit the hood of the car. He lowered his shoulder and put himself into the wind screen, cracking it, causing the driver to swerve. The car’s nose crumpled against the wall of the stripeasy. The driver switched off the car’s power plant as he and the passenger piled out.

Montauk was already in position, raking the hood and roof of the car with his automatic weapon. Peyton did not see Loran. The two men took cover, one behind the car, another behind the closest garbage bin. Montauk seemed intent on turning the car into plastic shards.

Peyton circled the car. When the taller of the two men realized the vehicle was no shelter, he turned and pointed his service automatic.

“Stop! Don’t come any closer, Peyton!”

When Peyton didn’t stop, the tall man emptied his weapon into the giant’s chest.

The bullets tore into his flesh. Peyton felt them pass; felt them rend his flesh; felt the one that punctured his lung. He dropped to one knee, staggered. The pain caused the ache in his burned arm to flare. His vision doubled, then tripled.

He laughed.

The taller man’s face turned pale. Peyton, still stumbling, reached out and grabbed him by the throat. He could already feel his body healing. It felt, in fact, as if it was working faster than it had in the past. That was probably because of the damage to his arm. His glands were working overtime to fix the damage, flooding his body with whatever it was they produced that accomplished these things.

“It’s going to take more than you,” said Peyton. “I should–”

“STOP!” shouted the second man. Peyton turned. This one was short and balding, with a fat face. He wore a stained trench coat. He was holding Loran by the neck joint, with his other hand, he pressed a small, black box to Loran’s head.

“That’s low, Moxley,” said Montauk, who had stopped firing and now pointed his weapons’ barrel to the sky. “That’s low even for you.”

“What?” asked Peyton. In his fist, the tall man struggled. “What’s going on?”

“Stun gun,” said Moxley. “Just an electrical transformer. Nothing more complicated than that. Takes its power cell and pumps out a hundred times the volts at low amperage. It hurts to get stuck with one… if you’re human. If you’re an Og, well, let’s say your pal here might not walk away from the experience.”

“Let’s not be hasty, Detective Moxley,” said Montauk.

“Shut up and put that ‘noomer on the ground,” said Moxley. “Everybody just disengage. We aren’t here to take you in. Peyton, stop choking Neiring.”

“He’s referring to his tall friend,” said Montauk. The Og laid his weapon carefully on the pavement. “Inspector Neiring, there. I might add that Inspector Neiring has achieved a laudable shade of purple.”

Peyton released Neiring. The inspector staggered back against the wrecked ground car, massaging his throat.

“How do you know our names?” Moxley demanded.

“You don’t exactly keep a low profile,” said Montauk. “You are known to us here in Hongkongtown.”

“‘Us,’” said Moxley. “By that you mean other Ogs? How many are there?”

“Enough,” said Montauk.

“Harry,” said Neiring. His voice cracked. “We don’t have time to argue like this.”

“What does he mean?” Peyton asked. He flexed his fingers. Moxley caught the movement and, if he was smart, understood that only Peyton’s regard for Loran kept the big man from wading through him.

“We didn’t come for you,” said Moxley. “We came for VanClef. Just your bad luck, we found you instead.”

“VanClef is mine,” said Peyton.

“You’re in no position to make demands!” Moxley said. As Neiring retreived and reloaded his pistol, Moxley gestured with the stun gun. “I mean it, I’ll give this creep the whole battery. He might live. You never really know, with an Oggy.”

“There’s no need to be overtly hateful,” said Montauk.

“VanClef has my daughter,” said Peyton.

“What do you want me to do?” Moxley demanded. “You think we can just keep this quiet? You’re a walking wrecking machine, Peyton. Do you realize the position it puts us in, finding you here? How many people have you killed?” Have you even kept count? Do you realize the gleeful holiday the news outlets have been having with them? Some of those murders were pornographic, they were so imaginative. You couldn’t have asked for more attention.”

“They were child molesters,” said Peyton. “Sexual predators. Garbage living among good people. One of them was going to rape and murder a little boy. None of the people I killed will be missed. The world is better without them.”

Moxley stared at Peyton, his expression hard.

“He’s right,” gasped Neiring. “God help me, he’s right.”

“He knows I am,” said Peyton to Neiring. A green blob of illumination danced across the wall of the strip easy. It moved left, then right, before finally alighting on Neiring’s chest.

Peyton looked at the blob of light quizically.

“DOWN!” shouted Moxley. He dropped his stun gun, shoved Loran away from his chest, and threw himself over the wrecked hood of the car. His momentum carried him into Neiring. The collision was not gentle. Blood sprayed.

Peyton turned; only then did he hear the shot, echoing through the channel between the buildings. That single sniper’s round prompted other gunmen to open up with their own weapons. Peyton, on instinct, dropped low to shield the fallen Moxley and Neiring with his body. He felt several small arms rounds rip into his back. He grunted.

A familiar pneumatic chatter filled the wide alleyway. That would be Loran and Montauk again. As Peyton looked down at them, Neiring rolled Moxley over. The fat detective had a bloody wound in his flank. Neiring ripped off the sleeve of his uniform and pressed the fabric against Moxley’s wound.

“It’s all right,” said Moxley. “It’s in and out. I don’t think it went deep enough to hit anything important.”

“You saved my life,” said Neiring. He looked up at Peyton, looming over them both. “And he saved both of us.”

“You really owe me lunch now,” said Moxley, muttering.

“VanClef is in the warehouse across the street,” Nering told Peyton. “We tracked him tanks to a radiolocator in his bloodstream. We came to arrest him. We… we really weren’t looking for you anymore, Peyton. Mox wasn’t kidding when he said it was bad luck.”

“Why?” Peyton asked.

“Because we both know what you’re trying to do,” said Neiring. “VanClef has been disavowed by the government. Go get him, Peyton. Get your daughter back.”

“What will you do?”

“We’ll let you go,” Neiring promised. “If you’re gone, somehow the dust can settle. I’m not sure how yet. But we’ll manage it. Leave Hongkongtown. Live your life. Let things get back to their crazy version of normal, around here.”

“Why would you do this for me?” Peyton asked. “Why? You said yourself, you can’t keep it quiet.”

“I believe in the law,” said Neiring. “But I believe in what’s right more.”

Peyton stood. The shooting was over. Montauk and Loran were scouting the far end of the alley, surrounded by corpses.

“Would you really have killed Montauk’s friend?” Peyton asked Moxley.

“Maybe if I had a power cell for the stun gun,” said Moxley. Something in his face was… off. Peyton looked at him carefully.

“Is it your wound?” Peyton asked. “Are you–”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mox. “Just get your little girl. I’ll pretend I never heard of you.”

“Why?” Peyton asked again.

“I had a family,” Moxley said. “Once.”

Peyton nodded. He turned and, flanked by Loran and Montauk, left the alley without another word.

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