The rest of the day turned out to be relatively uneventful for Dagwood, compared to some of the days he’d had in the past. He covered most of the city between his hotel and the Elizabeth River, which flowed as the lifeblood of Portsmouth. He spoke with five more members of the homeless community, two of which could tell him nothing. A third refused to tell him anything but seemed contemplative when looking at his business card. With any luck, he might get a call from them with answers to his questions.

The last two proved to be more than useful in their own way. They each named a sighting of someone who very much resembled Kevin. One said they had seen him with a motorcycle, while the other hadn’t. The person who had seen Kevin without his bike said that he’d been talking to a woman with dangerous purple eyes and a scar on her mouth. They hadn’t hung around, frightened by the woman, but they could at least offer him the location of someone else who might know more.

All of this Dagwood noted down very carefully. After establishing that he had all the information correct, he thanked his informants while giving them the customary cup of ice and half a sandwich, as well as some money and his business card. One thanked him in return. The other didn’t.

Intermingled with these interviews, he accepted a call from Mr. Briggs to report on his daily progress and to receive any of the latest news he might have missed. Two sightings of Kevin, one in Oregon and the other in Louisiana. While unconfirmed, these reports were believed to be a result of mistaken identity or wishful thinking.

Dagwood agreed, knowing there was no way he could have gotten so far off track in his hunt. Of course, Kevin could be planting evidence to lead him and the cops along, but a man of average intelligence who had lived an ordinary life typically didn’t have the resources for that.

He also interrupted a robbery in progress, stopping two teenage kids from leaving a Dollar Tree store with $100 of merchandise stuffed down their pants. Not much longer after that, he spotted a crying child on the sidewalk and waited with her until her parent arrived half an hour later, terrified but relieved. He didn’t accept the money he was offered for this act of kindness.

Eventually, the onset of twilight forced his work to a momentary end. The sky changed to gray to match the city streets, then deepened even further, marching towards blackness. Though the flow of foot traffic throughout the day constantly ebbed and increased as the hours passed, now there were more people than ever, all fighting against each other to get home first. All the homeless had fled, retreating to the shadows and underground sanctuaries to avoid having the wrath of some irritable businessman befall them. Later on they would emerge again, no longer to linger at the corners but instead roaming in search of a meal or a place to sleep. They were to be people with a purpose and he wouldn’t bother them.

Soon enough, the bars would start opening and the nightlife would be in full swing. That was when he would go to The Pit, rumored to be an underground fighting ring in the sewers where all bets were off. Anything went. Knives were just as fair as fists. At least, that was what he’d been told earlier. The woman with dangerous eyes was supposed to be around there somewhere.

Personally, he was betting on her being more of a manager, or a trusted person who held the money between fights. It was odd enough that a ring like that should be in a city like this. He didn’t think a woman like that would be a contender. That wasn’t sexist, just a matter of statistics.

But things like that didn’t start when the bars opened. No, they started when the bars closed, in the small hours of the morning when everything was still and anything was possible. That was when the drunks wandered in off the street, lured by rumors and promises, blinded by the thoughts of wealth. Someone would get wealthy, but it probably wouldn’t be them. It would be the regulars.

So, he needed to bide his time. If he wanted to avoid a nasty confrontation, he needed to be in peak performance tonight. The pressure was immense, but at the same time, he was relieved. Where there was pressure, there were bound to be diamonds. Valuable information.

I should tip off the police to it when I’m done there, Dagwood thought. Honorable fighting was the name of the game when it came to martial arts. Really, it was more a way of living than anything else, a practice which required devotion in all aspects if someone was to truly benefit from it. He had a problem with dirty fighting, as most experts did.

Then again, a fighting ring was honorable in its own way. He had observed one or two in his day, tracking down so-and-so, trying to find out where money was going when it shouldn’t be going anywhere at all. He was privy to the ways they worked, as a result. Money was placed up front. No cash, no betting. All the participants were willing, even if they weren’t in full control of their mental faculties.

Maybe Kevin was desperate for some quick cash and got involved. There were a dozen different possibilities, none of which he could really eliminate until he had a chat with the woman with dangerous eyes.

By the time he returned to his hotel it felt as if his sparse lunch had occurred several years ago instead of mere hours. Sighing, he picked up the phone in his room and ordered room service. Roast chicken breast with a side salad, raspberry vinaigrette on the side. He felt himself internally cringing at that last request, and it made him wonder when this sort of change happened to a person. When did a man stop ordering extra ranch and start requesting his low-calorie dressing on the side?

At least the service was timely, which was more than could be said for most of the hotels he’d stayed at in his time. A modest tip—low for him but probably high for the average person—made his server blush and stammer while thanking him. He ate sitting at the chair in the corner, and the food was good, if a little bland. He ended up using all of the dressing on his salad, which just served to point out how stupid the entire process was. After all the moving around he did, all the backbreaking and tedious work he did, what difference did it make what salad dressing he got?

Irwin would think this is stupid.

Irwin probably thought that a great deal of things were stupid. Dagwood had respect for that in a person. To some it might seem like pickiness, but to him it meant that a person knew what they wanted. Irwin was quirky and endearing, a man who wasn’t likely to be swayed by the ideals of society around him.

Dinner finished, he watched the TV for perhaps an hour before restlessness drove him back down to the lobby in search of the pool. A worker cleaning out the coffee pots pointed him down the nearby hallway with a smile. Her gaze lingered uncomfortably on him until he finally moved out of her sight.

Dagwood harbored a love-hate relationship with hotel pools. The child in him loved the carefree sensation of floating, while the adult in him enjoyed the fact that swimming worked out all parts of the body and was therefore one of the most efficient forms of exercise.

Need to burn off all those calories from my salad, he thought while dipping his toes into the warm water.

Then the sensible part of him shuddered at the very thought of these cesspools of germs, which were the perfect temperature for any number of bacteria to thrive. Chlorine and other assorted pool chemicals were meant to keep those in check, but the fact of the matter was that they really didn’t. Dozens of bodies throughout the day, urinating, sweating, sneezing, and perhaps vomiting in the pool, left behind traces that could never be entirely controlled without frequent cleanings from top to bottom. Hotels usually didn’t have that kind of time to spare.

At this hour of day, there were quite a few other people in the pool, but no one else was in the lap lanes. Most of the other swimmers were family members, parents and children. Mothers glanced at him, a lone man in a bathing suit who looked as if he could tear a tree from the ground without much effort; after whispering to their companions, they soon filtered away and left him alone.

He didn’t really mind it when people acted in such a manner around him. He held no illusions about his appearance and the way it might make other people feel. It was better to be cautious than to take a risk that you might regret in the future.

Left to his lonesome, he swam laps until he grew bored and then moved under the rope to float around on his back. Around 10 p.m., an attendant appeared at the fogged-up double doors at the entrance to the pool.

Dagwood rolled over onto his side, then righted himself. His toes barely grazed the bottom of the pool where he was. “Closing time?” he called over. His voice echoed strangely, distorted by the water and high ceilings.

The attendant waved his hand in the air, wobbling it from side to side. “Not a busy night. I won’t mind if you take a bit to finish up. Take a shower, too. Why not?”

Kicking out, Dagwood reached the side of the pool and hoisted himself up without bothering to use the ladder. Water poured down his body, streaming in thick lines that followed the curves of his muscles. His sodden swimming trunks clung to his skin, outlining the bulge between his legs in perhaps more detail than the attendant was comfortable with because he turned away with a cough.

“No skin off your nose, right?” Dagwood said, attempting to make the situation less awkward for the other man. “You still get paid either way.”

“Uh, yeah. Yes, sir.”

Alright then. Message received. No more of that.

A shower in the men’s locker area did nothing to chase away the smell of chlorine, and his hair only worked itself into a lank mass of tangles. He pulled it back into a loose knot at the back of his head, then dressed again. The attendant was nowhere to be found as he finally left the pool area and went to the elevator. Though before soft classical music filtered in through the elevator speakers, now there was only a muted hissing sound. Whether this meant the music shut off after a certain point or the speakers had malfunctioned, he didn’t know.

Those idle ponderings were wiped from his mind as he stepped out of the elevator again and saw that the door to his room was standing wide open.

“I shut that, didn’t I?” he murmured. He dropped his hand down to his waist where he normally kept his gun but there was nothing to grab onto, nothing to defend himself with. He didn’t like the idea of leaving an extremely dangerous weapon in a locker that couldn’t be secured, and so he hadn’t taken it with him at all.

Left with no other choice, Dagwood mentally prepared himself for a fight. Lowering his head, he approached the door.

“Hello?” he called.

There was no answer.

An inspection of the door revealed that the knob had been brutally tortured with some sort of tool until it gave up and dropped down, rolling against the wall. He struck it with the side of his shoe without realizing it was there, sending it clattering away.

Dagwood froze but didn’t hold his breath, making a deliberate effort to keep his pulse easy and measured. Panic would do him no good.

My files. My gun. My fucking wallet.

One centimeter at a time, he moved to peer around the door frame and took in the sight. Despite the fact that he was strictly controlling himself, his heart skittered in his chest.

The bed had been torn to shreds by either claws or a knife. Great clouds of puffy white stuffing and shattered springs jutted up from the eviscerated mattress, like some sort of interrupted dissection. The carpet had received similar treatment, exposing the flooring beneath. Shards of glass from the broken coffee pot littered the countertop, while the bathroom mirror was now mostly located on the floor.

“Fuck,” he muttered. His eyes roamed the room, searching for the culprit, but of course they were nowhere to be found.

His briefcase had been torn in half and now lay on top of the torn mattress, though it was difficult to notice at first because chunks of the broken nightstand had been tossed on top of it. If any papers were missing, he couldn’t tell because they had been torn up and pissed on. The stench of urine filled the room, accompanied by another reek that he was even less eager to identify.

His gun was missing, because of course it was.

Pushing his hands against his burning eyes, Dagwood waded through the chaos to reach the hotel phone where it lay draped over the ceiling fan. His own phone had been dashed against the wall, judging by the massive dent on the wall and the scattered pieces of plastic just beneath.

By some miracle, the hotel phone still worked, and he pushed the button for the front desk with a heavy sigh. It occurred to him belatedly that he shouldn’t be touching anything, disturbing evidence, but by then there was a click and a chipper voice answered. The woman on the other end sounded exactly like the one who’d admired his muscles before.

“Hello, you’ve reached the front desk. How may I help you?”

Dagwood sighed into the phone. “Hi. Someone trashed my room. You should probably get your manager and also call the police.”

A pause. “What room are you in, sir? Can you confirm for me?”

He recited the number for her, then listened as she tapped out something on her computer screen. A few moments later, she said, “Sir, please leave the room and wait out in the hall. My manager will be up shortly.”

“Sure.”

Then there was only silence on the other end of the line, so he assumed she was waiting for him to hang up first. He did so, then went out in the hall to wait as he had been told.

He hadn’t been waiting around for longer than a few seconds when rapid footsteps thundered in the distance, growing louder and louder. From the staircase down at the end of the hallway emerged a dashing young man in a vest, red-faced from his run up the stairs.

“Sir!” the man called out breathlessly in Dagwood’s direction. “Sir! Are you the one who called for us?”

“Yes,” he replied.

The manager took one look at the room and went silent, apparently stunned by the sheer violence of the break-in. “The police have already been summoned, but I didn’t think they would be needed. I didn’t expect…this. Are you okay, sir?”

Dagwood nodded. “I’m perfectly fine. I was downstairs swimming when…this…happened.”

The manager pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dab sweat from his face. “Well…All we can do is wait for the police. You will be compensated for your troubles. I’m so, so sorry this happened, sir. If there’s anything we can do…Anything you need…”

“A new room would be enough,” Dagwood said. Despite his exasperation at this turn of events and the fact that the destruction of his briefcase and files meant he was going to be set back quite a bit, he still tried to keep his thoughts clear. This man hadn’t done anything to him. He didn’t need to feel like he had anything to fear. Maybe another person would have demands or would even sue the hotel, but that just wasn’t necessary in his eyes.

The police arrived shortly, a partnered pair of formidable women who mounted the stairs with easy efficiency. Unlike the manager, they weren’t even out of breath as they walked over to Dagwood.

The taller one said, “I’m Officer Janis and this is my partner, Officer Red.”

Officer Red disappeared inside the hotel room to check things out, mouth set in a grim line. Janis stayed behind to take a statement from both of them about where they had been when the break-in occurred.

Dagwood answered that and the other few questions that came his way, which were of no real consequence. And then Janis asked, “Can you tell me what was destroyed or stolen, Mr. King? Notice anything missing when you looked around?”

“My briefcase and the files inside were destroyed,” Dagwood replied. He was very aware that he was treading on thin ice here, though he hadn’t done anything illegal. People in his line of work weren’t exactly best friends with the police, who often considered themselves the ultimate authority in all matters. Anyone else was merely a poser, or an obstacle.

Officer Janis produced a notebook from her breast pocket, and a pen from behind her ear that he hadn’t even noticed before. She scribbled something down. “What kind of briefcase? What sort of files?”

“The briefcase cost me like $20. I bought it used. I don’t know what brand. The files were from a case I was working on.”

“What sort of case? Are you a lawyer?”

He didn’t answer right away, choosing his words very carefully while Janis busied herself with noting down what he had just told her. “A…missing person case. I’m not a lawyer. My gun is missing.”

The quiet in the hallway of the building was practically deafening in its intensity. Dagwood noticed that some of the other hotel-goers had opened their doors and were peering out at the commotion. A few looked irritable and exhausted, rubbing their eyes, while the others held expressions composed equally of interest and worry.

The manager shifted on his feet, backing away from Dagwood. He did this very subtly, but not subtle enough for it to go unnoticed.

Officer Red reappeared in the doorway, holding her own notebook. A quick glance at the top sheet revealed a series of meaningless, scrawled letters that were probably some form of shorthand. “What type of gun?”

“A Taurus PT111 handgun.”

Janis narrowed her eyes. “That’s a concealed carry weapon. Do you have a license?”

“It was in my wallet. I’m pretty sure my wallet was in the bathroom sink.” Which was flooded.

Officer Red slid a glove over her hand and disappeared back into the room. She came out only a few moments later, nodding. “He’s good. It’s in there. You’re probably going to need to get a new one, Mr. King.”

Yes, being soaked in water usually destroys paper, doesn’t it?

“Can you please start speaking to some of the other patrons?” Janis said, looking at her partner. Red nodded and slipped away. Dagwood noticed with some amusement that the sight of a cop heading towards them made several of the onlookers back away and shut their doors. It wouldn’t do them any good, however. Before the night was over, every person in this wing of the hotel would be interviewed.

“Now.” Janis turned back to Dagwood and looked at him hard, but when she spoke again she wasn’t really addressing him. “Can you leave us alone for a moment?”

The young manager nodded and backed away, then turned to face in the direction of the elevator. Dagwood felt sorry for him, but he had an idea that any words of comfort he might pose would really do nothing. After all, he was the scary man with a concealed gun.

“Now, what sort of case are you really working on? You aren’t a lawyer. So, what is it?”

“You could say I’m a freelance investigator,” Dagwood said. “Or you could say I’m a bounty hunter. Either one works.”

Janis narrowed her eyes. “You’re here investigating that whole Kevin Leery business.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you think this break-in had anything to do with that?”

“I don’t know anyone who knows what I’m doing here, except for the guy who’s paying me.” Dagwood flashed a smile, to let her know this was a light-hearted statement, but she didn’t seem amused. Even though bail bondsmen were directly involved in the legal proceedings, able to do whatever they saw fit as long as it wasn’t outlawed, she couldn’t forgive Dagwood for what he was because his very presence undermined hers. What was the point in having police forces if someone was going to go around delivering vigilante justice, doing their job for them?

“But,” he continued, “they really paid attention to my briefcase, and they took my gun. That could be either premeditated or just a random, focused act done on a whim.”

“Yes.” This was followed by a long pause, during which she didn’t write anything down. She didn’t do anything at all except for stare at him. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I don’t think you can expect this to become a top priority for us.”

“Because of my job? That’s a little bit unfair.”

“And that’s just the way it will be,” she answered. Her voice was like ice as she stared at him. “Your job interferes with our job. We’ll do our best to locate your missing weapon but without any leads, I can’t promise we’ll find it.”

She couldn’t promise that they would even try, was what she was telling him. The police might as well figure that if he had no weapon, he would give up.

He wouldn’t. He’d just have to be much more careful.

After only a few more questions, Officer Janis declared them to be done. Dagwood let himself be led away by the manager, who took him down to the lobby to see about getting him another room. A pricey suite was provided for him, the price lowered down to the cost of the modest room he’d been staying in. They were also going to refund him for the amount of time he’d already spent in the room.

“We’ll also be covering the estimated cost of damages to your personal and missing belongings,” the manager said. His fingers flew across the computer keyboard, tapping out commands faster than the eye could follow.

Dagwood held out one hand. The manager flinched and he pretended not to notice this. “That won’t be necessary.”

“But I insist.”

Dagwood gave in. He’d been hoping to spare this man from getting in trouble with whatever corporate higher-ups managed this hotel chain in the region, but there was little he could do if his requests were refused.

He was given the new card to his room, along with a voucher to have his next three room service meals free. Then, the manager actually rode up the elevator with him and walked him to his new room.

“Please, sir, if there’s anything else we can do to make up for this disaster, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Uh, thanks. I will. Thank you.”

As he watched the manager walk away, Dagwood shook his head. It seemed like too much of a coincidence that someone had randomly broken into his room, out of all the hundreds of rooms in the entire hotel. That, combined with the destruction of specific personal items relating to his case, told him he had best be even more careful from here on out. If he was to continue to follow that chain of logic, then either someone at the front desk had given a stranger his room number—which was illegal, by the way, unless he was called up to give permission—or he was being followed.

Dagwood used his key and stepped inside his new room. Though it was a suite, it was Holiday Inn in Portsmouth and not Palms Casino Resort in Las Vegas. Everything looked as it had before, albeit bigger. There was now a sort of living room area just inside the door, which led down to a hallway which passed by a modest kitchen area and an expansive bathroom, before entering a large bedroom. Just looking at it, he could feel his bank account weeping; he was glad that he wasn’t actually paying for it.

Wandering over to the bedroom, Dagwood looked at the time and sighed. It was still much too early for him to go out and get busy again, at just past 11:30 p.m. Lying down, he found sleep predictably hard to come by and ended up just staring at the ceiling as the hours went by.