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"Doc Valentine and His Pal Bogus"
May. 11th, 2022 07:11 pm"Doc Valentine and His Pal Bogus"
4/6/2003
I.
Eleven o'clock on an early spring evening, and Jeremy Bane walked quickly up 11th Avenue near 109th Street. It wasn't the best neighborhood. Two punks in a doorway fingered the knives in their coat pockets and wondered if this stranger had enough money on him to make it worth the effort. But something about him made them draw back. They could not find an exact reason. The way he moved, the confidence, the alertness in those grey eyes were all signals he would not be an easy victim. As he drew near, they actually shrank back a little. Bane was not huge nor muscular, just six feet tall and maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. He was not covered with tattoos that meant he had killed people, and he did not have visible scars. He did not need any of these to be intimidating.
The Dire Wolf turned left and went another block over. This was the last address he had for Doc Valentine. It was a weathered white stone building only four stories high, with two front doors and a sign ROOMS AVAILABLE. Between the two doors was a ledge bearing a row of pathetically dry and dying plants. One door was ajar and Bane pushed it inward to look at the row of pushbuttons with names. Nothing seemed likely. He tried the other door and found it was locked. Breaking and entry number nine hundred, he thought sadly. Without seeming to use much effort, he drew back his elbow and slammed the heel of his hand just above the doorknob. Metal snapped and the door swung inward. He checked the row of names and spotted "Obadiah Q. Sneed" on the third floor.
That had to be Doc Valentine, he thought sourly, him and his ridiculous aliases. You'd think a con man would use more plausible names. Bane trotted easily up the stairs and rapped sharply on the designated door. A nasal voice called out, "He's not here."
The Dire Wolf rarely evidenced a sense of humor. "I've got the money I owe you," he called.
At once, the door was flung inward and a round, blotched face thrust out. The bulbous nose had broken blood vessels and the blonde hair was thin. "You restore my faith in-- Great Caesar's Ghost!" Valentine tried to jump back and slam the door but Bane was already pushing him backwards.
"We need to talk." Bane closed the door behind him. The rented rooms were threadbare and dismal, with cracked plaster on the walls and dubious stains on the ancient couch. On a low coffee table was a nearly empty bottle of gin, a tumbler and five shot glasses.
He had to ask. "Why do you need all those shot glasses?"
"In case of guests," came the drawling answer. "Jeremy, you are like a son to me."
"No, I'm not. Anyone else here?"
"You are the first human being to step through that door in ages." Doc Valentine plopped unceremoniously down and finished off the gin as if he were afraid Bane was going to ask for some, then daintly wiped his lips with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He was wearing an old-fashioned single-breasted suit with a carnation in the label. "Where's that money you owed me?"
"I don't owe you money. I just said that so you'd let me in. Listen, Doc. I just came from the police station on 20th Street."
"So glad they released you, my boy."
"I wasn't a suspect!" Bane snapped. He hated dealing with this old degenerate. "Lt Montez asked me to watch some video of a robbery. A man walks into a liquor store near Times Square. Short, dumpy guy with hairy arms and a gold watch on the right wrist. Looks Italian, in his forties. He snatches up a quart of gin in each hand, turns and walks right out the door. The owner of the liquor store squawks and goes after him. Here's where things get weird. The security camera shows the robber step out through the door and turn right. That man is not seen again. Through the front window of the store we see a tall thin man with with a beard walking to the right and he is holding both bottles of gin. The store owner has reached the door and he naturally turns right. No robber in sight. Standing on the sidewalk is a man who answers your description."
"Untenable blathering," said Doc Valentine. "I am certain there are many who resemble me in our fair city."
"Wearing a straw hat? With a sixty-inch waist and a walking stick? And that nose?"
"You hurt me, Jeremy. My nose was injured in the war."
"Montez is stuck for an explanation and I can't figure it out either. But then, he doesn't know you. You've pulled some cute swindles in your day, Doc. What's the story this time?"
"Ah, Jeremy. My conscience is as white as the snow on Christmas Eve. I am sure I have the receipt for that bottle of the life-giving liquid on the table, if that is what you are driving at. My doctor recommends it for palpitations."
To himself, Jeremy Bane began to count down from a hundred. Every time he crossed paths with Doc Valentine was a severe trial. Letting out a deep breath, he said, "What did you see in front of the liquor store?"
"Deny everything, don't leave tips if you're never going back there and always sit by the door, those are words I live by. I say, my boy, have you eaten? I could coddle an egg and make some pumpernickel toast if you like."
As Bane prayed for strength, he felt something funny about the chair he was sitting in. It seemed warm to the touch and a bit yielding for a plain straightback chair with no mat. He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder just as a living eye opened in the back of the chair.
It was the first time he had ever screamed in alarm that he could remember. The Dire wolf was up and on his feet in a tiny fraction of a second, spinning around with one of the silver-bladed daggers appearing in his hand from its forearm sheath. As he watched in horror, a second eye opened and the first slid over to make room. The chair stared at him for a second, then the eyes closed and left no trace behind.
Bane bent closer and peered suspiciouly. "Doc, what WAS that?"
"Did a flea bite you? Bought that chair at a flea market."
The chair seemed ordinary enough, even mundane with its varnish chipped away and a cigarette burn on the seat. "I know I'm not going to get any cooperation from you."
"Did I ever tell you about the curious customs of the Poodalompa people of Paraguay? They used to tie their unruly children to a chair much like that one and then soak them in tepid water-"
Valentine's unlikely reminiscences were cut short as Bane poked the chair with the dagger he still had, hard enough to try to chip off a splinter. In an instant, the object swelled up, expanded, became a manlike shape that shot out a hard square block on an extension like a thick tentacle. It caught Bane in the face with brutal force, snapping his head around and throwing him back off his feet.
"Time to vacate the premises," he heard Doc Valentine mutter. "Ah, the rent was due anyway."
( the rest of the story )
4/6/2003
I.
Eleven o'clock on an early spring evening, and Jeremy Bane walked quickly up 11th Avenue near 109th Street. It wasn't the best neighborhood. Two punks in a doorway fingered the knives in their coat pockets and wondered if this stranger had enough money on him to make it worth the effort. But something about him made them draw back. They could not find an exact reason. The way he moved, the confidence, the alertness in those grey eyes were all signals he would not be an easy victim. As he drew near, they actually shrank back a little. Bane was not huge nor muscular, just six feet tall and maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. He was not covered with tattoos that meant he had killed people, and he did not have visible scars. He did not need any of these to be intimidating.
The Dire Wolf turned left and went another block over. This was the last address he had for Doc Valentine. It was a weathered white stone building only four stories high, with two front doors and a sign ROOMS AVAILABLE. Between the two doors was a ledge bearing a row of pathetically dry and dying plants. One door was ajar and Bane pushed it inward to look at the row of pushbuttons with names. Nothing seemed likely. He tried the other door and found it was locked. Breaking and entry number nine hundred, he thought sadly. Without seeming to use much effort, he drew back his elbow and slammed the heel of his hand just above the doorknob. Metal snapped and the door swung inward. He checked the row of names and spotted "Obadiah Q. Sneed" on the third floor.
That had to be Doc Valentine, he thought sourly, him and his ridiculous aliases. You'd think a con man would use more plausible names. Bane trotted easily up the stairs and rapped sharply on the designated door. A nasal voice called out, "He's not here."
The Dire Wolf rarely evidenced a sense of humor. "I've got the money I owe you," he called.
At once, the door was flung inward and a round, blotched face thrust out. The bulbous nose had broken blood vessels and the blonde hair was thin. "You restore my faith in-- Great Caesar's Ghost!" Valentine tried to jump back and slam the door but Bane was already pushing him backwards.
"We need to talk." Bane closed the door behind him. The rented rooms were threadbare and dismal, with cracked plaster on the walls and dubious stains on the ancient couch. On a low coffee table was a nearly empty bottle of gin, a tumbler and five shot glasses.
He had to ask. "Why do you need all those shot glasses?"
"In case of guests," came the drawling answer. "Jeremy, you are like a son to me."
"No, I'm not. Anyone else here?"
"You are the first human being to step through that door in ages." Doc Valentine plopped unceremoniously down and finished off the gin as if he were afraid Bane was going to ask for some, then daintly wiped his lips with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He was wearing an old-fashioned single-breasted suit with a carnation in the label. "Where's that money you owed me?"
"I don't owe you money. I just said that so you'd let me in. Listen, Doc. I just came from the police station on 20th Street."
"So glad they released you, my boy."
"I wasn't a suspect!" Bane snapped. He hated dealing with this old degenerate. "Lt Montez asked me to watch some video of a robbery. A man walks into a liquor store near Times Square. Short, dumpy guy with hairy arms and a gold watch on the right wrist. Looks Italian, in his forties. He snatches up a quart of gin in each hand, turns and walks right out the door. The owner of the liquor store squawks and goes after him. Here's where things get weird. The security camera shows the robber step out through the door and turn right. That man is not seen again. Through the front window of the store we see a tall thin man with with a beard walking to the right and he is holding both bottles of gin. The store owner has reached the door and he naturally turns right. No robber in sight. Standing on the sidewalk is a man who answers your description."
"Untenable blathering," said Doc Valentine. "I am certain there are many who resemble me in our fair city."
"Wearing a straw hat? With a sixty-inch waist and a walking stick? And that nose?"
"You hurt me, Jeremy. My nose was injured in the war."
"Montez is stuck for an explanation and I can't figure it out either. But then, he doesn't know you. You've pulled some cute swindles in your day, Doc. What's the story this time?"
"Ah, Jeremy. My conscience is as white as the snow on Christmas Eve. I am sure I have the receipt for that bottle of the life-giving liquid on the table, if that is what you are driving at. My doctor recommends it for palpitations."
To himself, Jeremy Bane began to count down from a hundred. Every time he crossed paths with Doc Valentine was a severe trial. Letting out a deep breath, he said, "What did you see in front of the liquor store?"
"Deny everything, don't leave tips if you're never going back there and always sit by the door, those are words I live by. I say, my boy, have you eaten? I could coddle an egg and make some pumpernickel toast if you like."
As Bane prayed for strength, he felt something funny about the chair he was sitting in. It seemed warm to the touch and a bit yielding for a plain straightback chair with no mat. He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder just as a living eye opened in the back of the chair.
It was the first time he had ever screamed in alarm that he could remember. The Dire wolf was up and on his feet in a tiny fraction of a second, spinning around with one of the silver-bladed daggers appearing in his hand from its forearm sheath. As he watched in horror, a second eye opened and the first slid over to make room. The chair stared at him for a second, then the eyes closed and left no trace behind.
Bane bent closer and peered suspiciouly. "Doc, what WAS that?"
"Did a flea bite you? Bought that chair at a flea market."
The chair seemed ordinary enough, even mundane with its varnish chipped away and a cigarette burn on the seat. "I know I'm not going to get any cooperation from you."
"Did I ever tell you about the curious customs of the Poodalompa people of Paraguay? They used to tie their unruly children to a chair much like that one and then soak them in tepid water-"
Valentine's unlikely reminiscences were cut short as Bane poked the chair with the dagger he still had, hard enough to try to chip off a splinter. In an instant, the object swelled up, expanded, became a manlike shape that shot out a hard square block on an extension like a thick tentacle. It caught Bane in the face with brutal force, snapping his head around and throwing him back off his feet.
"Time to vacate the premises," he heard Doc Valentine mutter. "Ah, the rent was due anyway."
( the rest of the story )
