Hawk and Wolfe: A Life Interrupted

by Edward Kendrick

  Hawk and Wolfe: A Life Interrupted

  By Edward Kendrick

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 Edward Kendrick

  ISBN 9781646562855

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Hawk and Wolfe: A Life Interrupted

  By Edward Kendrick

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 1

  Mick felt someone shaking him. Then the smell of bad breath and an unwashed body assailed his nostrils as a man said, “What’d you do? Tie one on and pass out here? Not so smart, dude.”

  He opened his eyes, trying to figure out where he was. All he could see in the dim light were brick walls, dirty pavement, and what might have been the wheels of a Dumpster. He struggled to sit up, then a wave of nausea hit him and he vomited, spewing nothing but bile. He inched away, tried again to sit up and succeeded, leaning back against the wall behind him. Pain flared at the side of his head. Carefully touching it, he felt dampness and wondered if it was puke or blood.

  “Looks like you got hit with something,” the same person said. “Punks attack you?”

  Carefully turning, Mick saw an older man dressed in a tattered jacket looking at him with something close to compassion. “No clue,” Mick muttered, touching his head again.

  “You got blood there, and all over your clothes,” the man pointed out, taking a rag from his back pocket. He sat back on his heels, studying Mick while trying to wipe the blood away. “Got a name? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I’m Shorty, ‘cause I ain’t so tall.”

  “Umm, Mick?”

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “Yeah, Mick.” He knew that much, but ‘Mick who?’ was the question. He felt the pockets of the jeans he was wearing, hoping to find a wallet. There was nothing.

  “Looking for this?” Shorty asked, handing him a very creased driver’s license. “You had it clutched in your hand when I found you. I figured it might be yours and you probably didn’t want to lose it, so I took it.”

  The name on it didn’t register. Neither did the other information or the photo. I guess it could be me, but it sure doesn’t feel right. “You tell me, is this me?” he asked, handing back the license.

  Shorty studied it, and then Mick, before shaking his head. “Possible, if your hair was blond and your nose was broke sometime. Look at the light.”

  It took Mick a second to get that he meant the light coming from a fixture over a doorway across the alley. He did as Shorty asked and the man peered at him. “The license says brown eyes. Yours are blue.” He handed the license back to Mick.

  Before Mick could reply, Shorty said, “Keep the rag over the damage ‘til you stop bleeding,” and stood, holding out a hand. “Let’s get somewhere a little less public and then we’ll talk. That’s if you trust me.” He shrugged.

  “Don’t have much choice, do I?” Mick replied wryly as he let Shorty help him to his feet. For a moment he felt dizzy and nauseous again. He pressed one hand to the wall to steady himself while still holding the rag against the wound.

  “Where’s the rest of your stuff?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your jacket, ‘cause I bet you had one, from what you’re wearing, and maybe what the ritzy guys call a messenger bag,” Shorty said.

  Now that he was upright, Mick took a look at his clothes—a blue shirt and decent jeans, both blood-stained, and a new-looking pair of sneakers. “If I had them, they’re gone.”

  “The punks stole them when they jumped you?”

  Mick shook his head, grimacing. Not a good idea. He removed the rag and touched the wound. It felt as if the bleeding had stopped, which was a good thing as far as he was concerned. “Could be,” he replied. “I don’t remember.”

  “Being jumped?” Shorty asked as he picked up his large, battered backpack with a rolled-up blanket strapped to the top, slinging it over his shoulder.

  Mick frowned. “Anything. I don’t even know what day it is.”

  “Not good. It’s Wednesday, okay Thursday since it’s around three in the morning, give or take. Come on.” Shorty started down the alley.

  Mick stuck the license in his pocket and followed, wondering where they were going. He found out moments later when the man stopped by loading dock. To the side of it there was a fire escape, the bottom steps several feet above the ground. Shorty hopped onto the dock, looking down at Mick. “Think you can get up here?” Shorty offered his hand, again.

  “Yeah.” Mick grabbed his hand and managed to clamber up, fighting off another wave of dizziness when he made it to the top of the dock.

  Shorty jumped to grab the bottom step of the fire escape and scrambled up. “You coming?”

  Mick caught hold of the step, although with more ease than Shorty had. At that point Mick realized he was at least half a foot taller than Shorty.

  When they were on the roof of the building, which was close to the end of the alley, Mick was somewhat surprised to note it was easier to see up there than down below. Probably, he figured, because of the lights from nearby buildings.

  “Grab a seat,” Shorty said, walking to the parapet separating the roof from the lower one next to it. “But don’t lean back.” He laughed.

  Mick decided it would be safer to use the parapet to rest against, and did, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

  “My home away from home, sometimes,” Shorty said when they were settled. “Not that I got a real home anymore. Lost it and…Hell, you don’t need to hear my sob story. How about you?”

  “If I had one…have one, I don’t remember it,” Mick replied. “Honest truth, like I said, I don’t remember anything other than my name. At least I think it’s my name.”

  “Whether it is or not, it’s what I’m calling you. You think the hit to your head rattled your brain?”

  “That would be my guess. The problem is, who hit me and why do I have someone else’s ID?” Mick looked up at him in question.

  Shorty shrugged. “Maybe it was in your pocket and you took it out for…whatever? Though…” He frowned. “The guy the license belongs to could be a relative, maybe. Like I said, wrong hair, wrong eyes, wrong nose, but the rest of it? Could be.”

  “Since I can’t see myself, I couldn’t say.”


  Shorty dug through his pack, coming up with a small, cracked mirror. “Here, take a look.”

  Mick did. His hair was brown, his nose was straight, and his eyebrows were very different from the man’s in the photo. Still, he could see a vague resemblance to the man in the shape of his mouth and the jaw line. According to the license, the man’s name was Andrew Loman, with an address, or a partial one, that Mick hoped was in the city—whatever city this was. The license had been bent and creased enough that most of the address was illegible. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Denver, as in Colorado,” Shorty told him.

  “It says he’s…” Mick calculated from the birth date. “Thirty-two. So maybe my big brother?”

  “Could be, ‘cause you’re not that old from the look of you. I’d guess maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, at best.”

  Mick agreed, from what he could see in the mirror before he gave it back. “If I knew who hit me…”

  “Probably punks planning on robbing you, unless there’s someone out there who doesn’t like you and thought they’d get rid of you.” Shorty chuckled. “Didn’t work if that’s it ‘cause you’re still alive.” He paused, shooting Mick a questioning look. “You want to report you were mugged to the cops, in case it wasn’t a mugging?”

  “Maybe I should, but would they believe me? I mean, why would someone want me dead? Okay, stupid question, since you don’t know and for sure I don’t, either.”

  “They might be able to figure out who you are, if nothing else,” Shorty pointed out. “‘Specially if they talk to the guy on the license.”

  “Who might be the person who attacked me. If he was trying to make it look like I was mugged, and thinks I’m dead…”

  “And you aren’t, yeah, he could try again if that’s what went down. Not a nice idea. Okay, how much of the address can you read on the license?” Shorty asked.

  “House number.” Mick frowned. “Okay, probably a house because it doesn’t look like there’s an apartment number. There should be, I think. And the first two letters of the street name—S C, or maybe S G. Hard to tell.” He showed Shorty.

  “They’re both capitalized so my bet is the S means South.”

  “So no damned help at all.” Mick sighed.

  “Not unless you want to do a lot of walking. I got the feeling, with all the blood on your clothes, that wouldn’t be such a great idea in nice neighborhoods. By the way, if you were jumped you didn’t fight back.”

  Mick got what he was saying when he looked at his hands. They were dirty, but there weren’t any cuts or bruises on his knuckles. Maybe he’s right and I was attacked by someone who wanted me dead? But how did I end up in the alley, and where did the license come from, because he’s got a point, the man…Andrew…could be a relative. That makes no sense at all. One thing occurred to him and he voiced it. “Maybe I didn’t fight back because I was drugged?”

  “Possible, I suppose.” Shorty nodded then shrugged. “Let’s worry about it in the morning. We need to get some sleep while we can. Be glad it’s a warm night since I don’t have an extra bedroll. I think I got a sweatshirt in here, if you want to use it.”

  Eyeing him, Mick replied, “If it fits you it’ll be too small.”

  Shorty laughed. “I go for bigger so I can layer up when it gets cold.” He dug through his pack and came up with a stained, gray sweatshirt which he handed to Mick.

  “It works,” Mick said after putting it on. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Shorty got down from the parapet, laying out his blanket. “Tomorrow we hit up one of the shelters that have a supply of used clothes for homeless guys. Get you outfitted and wash the blood off your head.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Mick asked as he lay down next to the parapet.

  “Why not? You don’t seem all that scary so I think you’re safe enough to hang with for now. We gotta help each other when we can, right? For sure no one else will.”

  “Right,” Mick replied, because he had the feeling that was how it was on the streets. Something I may have known already, but can’t remember? No, not the way I’m dressed, I don’t think.

  Using his arm as a pillow, Mick stared up at the few stars dotting the dark sky. For some reason I remember my first name, if it’s really Mick. Why can’t I remember anything else? Because of the blow to my head, or if I was drugged, or is there another reason? Is there something I don’t want to remember? Something I did, or that was done to me? How the hell will I find out either way? With those final thoughts, he fell asleep.

  * * * *

  The rising sun woke Mick Thursday morning. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, and then it came flooding back when Shorty said, “Let’s get moving and find something to eat.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Mick replied as he sat up, wiping sleep from his eyes. He was stiff from lying on the hard roof, and chilled. He rubbed his arms to get his blood circulating.

  “That makes two of us,” Shorty told him as he rolled up his blanket and strapped it to the top of his pack. “So we get to check out what the Dumpsters have to offer.”

  Mick grimaced, then thought of something Shorty had said last night. “Don’t they feed people at the shelters?”

  “Some do, but they’re halfway cross town and it’s only for guys who slept there.”

  “Why don’t you?” Mick asked as he followed Shorty to the fire escape. “Never mind, I shouldn’t be prying.”

  Shorty shrugged but didn’t debate his comment, or answer his question.

  When they were in the alley, Shorty led the way to the street, stopping when they got there to say, “First things first and thank whoever for stupid employees who don’t lock the restrooms.”

  Mick figured he meant at the gas station he saw a block away, and was correct. He let Shorty use it first, leaning against the wall outside until he’d finished. Then he went in. It wasn’t exactly clean and it smelled, but it served its purpose. He pissed, washed his hands, and looked in the dirty mirror, assessing the damage to his head. He wet a paper towel, using it to wash off the blood. The wound didn’t look as bad as he’d expected—a gash that was now scabbed over. He suspected if he shaved the hair surrounding it, he’d see a deep bruise. As it was, when he ran his fingers through his hair, he was able to cover the damage so no one would know it was there.

  “Now what?” Mick asked when he rejoined Shorty.

  “We see what we can find in the Dumpsters behind some of the restaurants. Then, we go to the shelter I know that has a clothing room and showers that we can use. After that? I know a couple of good spots to panhandle.”

  It turned out Shorty’s instincts for which ones had edible food were good. Not that Mick was terribly surprised. He had the feeling the older man had lived on the streets for a long time. They ended up with the remnants of breakfast burritos and sandwiches, as well as a half-empty bottle of water that they shared as they began walking to the shelter.

  It was apparent that Shorty knew one of the people working the check-in counter at the shelter from the man’s “Picking up strays, again?”

  Shorty laughed, admitting he was, and the man let them pass.

  “Clothes, first,” Shorty said, taking Mick to a room with tables piled with what he figured were donations. “You might as well get a couple of sets. No telling when you’ll remember where you live, so you might be keeping me company for a while.”

  They weren’t the only men there, so Mick waited his turn before going through what was available, holding the clothes up against his body to determine what might fit. He ended up with two pair of jeans that were in halfway decent shape, a couple of T-shirts and a sweatshirt, and at Shorty’s suggestion, a jacket. There was a pile of backpacks in one corner of the room, with blankets and sleeping bags next to them. Mick grabbed a blanket, putting it and the clothes into a large, if very battered backpack. The driver’s license for Andrew Loman went into one of the pack’s outside pockets.

  “Do they have s
oap and towels?” Mick asked Shorty, thinking he’d need them when he showered.

  “Yeah. In the shower room; and the towels are clean.”

  They were, if on the small side and well-used. While Shorty watched his things, Mick went into a stall, stripped, setting his clothes on the floor outside the stall, and washed up. The water was tepid but he didn’t care. At least he was clean and dry by the time he stepped out, holding the towel in front of him.

  While Shorty was showering, Mick took a pair of jeans and one of the T-shirts from his pack, dressing quickly. The shirt and jeans he’d been wearing were too blood-stained to keep, so he tossed them in the trash just as Shorty reappeared. He smelled a good deal better now that he was cleaned up, much to Mick’s relief. He’d refrained from saying so, but Shorty had had a definite aroma of unwashed body. There was still a trace of it, as his clothes needed laundering, but compared to before, he was almost aromatic in a good way.

  “You know someone’s going to ‘rescue’ that stuff, bloody or not,” Shorty said as he got dressed, putting the sweatshirt he’d loaned Mick into his pack when Mick handed it to him.

  “I suppose, if they’re desperate.”

  “Mick, there’s not a guy here who isn’t. You know that.”

  Mick nodded. “I’m beginning to. But…I don’t think I was homeless.”

  “Me neither, from the way you were dressed…” Shorty grinned. “Maybe you were an undercover cop on a stakeout.”

  Mick considered that idea for all of two seconds. “It doesn’t feel right,” he replied. “Not that anything does. Why the hell don’t I remember?”

  “We’ve been over that,” Shorty reminded him. “More than once.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  Shorty patted his arm. “No problemo. Next step, money, if we get lucky.”

  That involved going to one of the spots where Shorty said he generally panhandled. They did get lucky, more or less, ending up with almost twenty dollars between them. As Shorty put it, “It must be help-a-homeless person day.”

  “I guess?” Mick said, pocketing his share. “I was thinking.”