THE THOUSAND DOLLAR HUNT
J.T. Brannan
© J.T. Brannan 2015
For Justyna, Jakub and Mia;
and my parents, for their help and support
“There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter”
- Ernest Hemingway
Prologue
The barroom brawl didn’t even happen in a bar.
Instead, it happened in Napoli Coffee, Albuquerque – a chic, upscale little coffee shop in New Mexico’s largest city, famous for its fresh beans and free Wi-Fi.
I suppose I was breaking new ground – the first ever ‘coffee shop brawl’. Maybe it would catch on.
In my defense, the incident was hardly my fault; after a few too many cocktails at Burt’s Tiki Lounge the night before, I found myself inhaling coffee and burritos at Napoli in a desperate attempt to combat a hangover. Not even the smile of the beautiful dark-haired barista who’d served me had been enough to make me feel better.
I wasn’t looking for trouble, in any way, shape or form.
But I guess trouble just had a way of finding me.
My dog Kane – a curious but effective blend of Alsatian and Mastiff, who accompanied me as I wandered the United States – was waiting patiently for me outside. There was no need to tie him up; he was free like me, able to come and go as he wished. I suppose the reason he never left me was because he knew I could provide him with a constant supply of food and water, and dogs are pretty sensible animals at the end of the day.
It was Kane’s low growling that first got my attention and – halfway through my third burrito and fifth Americano of the morning – I sat up to take notice of what was going on outside.
I heard it moments later – voices, loud and aggressive, and then I could see them from my vantage point at the window.
There were six of them, early twenties; large builds that suggested some sort of college sports team. From the way they staggered across the busy road, narrowly avoiding the incoming cars, sometimes slapping their large hands onto the hoods and roofs of slow-moving vehicles, I could see they were still drunk; probably hadn’t stopped drinking from the night before, just partied all the way on until morning.
Horns blared at them, but they just laughed and shouted insults at the drivers and carried on walking; and it didn’t take a genius to see where they were headed.
The front door of Napoli crashed open moments later as the first man entered, his cohort right behind him.
The violence of his entry, the door banging against the wall, caught everyone else in the café off-guard; wrapped up in coffee or conversation, nobody else had seen them coming.
‘Oh, shit,’ I heard the girl who’d served me say to the guy working next to her, and I started to understand that this might not have been an entirely random choice of place for the young men to get their breakfast.
‘Hey, Danielle!’ the first man shouted over the heads of the people lined up in front of the bar. ‘Get your ass over here!’
As the six men pushed their way into the café, already the other patrons were either getting their heads down or making ready to leave; trouble was in the air, and everyone knew it.
I breathed out slowly, then finished off my coffee as I observed what was going on. Nobody was going to ask me, but I knew I might soon be getting involved anyway. My pulse increased a little, but not much.
The beautiful dark-haired barista – Danielle, presumably – pointedly ignored the young man and continued to serve the customers in front of her, and I knew the snub wasn’t going to be taken well.
‘Hey bitch!’ the man shouted again, just as the first couple of customers left the coffee shop, sneaking out with their heads down. ‘I said get your ass over here! Now, bitch!’
‘Look pal,’ the guy next to Danielle said, ‘we don’t need that sort of thing in here. Please leave, okay? Just leave.’
I admired the man’s guts, but it was clear that he had misread the situation; what might have been a group of nice, respectable men on some days, had been entirely transformed by their drinking session. They’d probably been on the drugs too, speed or some derivative to keep them awake, keep them going. Their faculties of reason – and their perceptions of the future consequences of their actions – were shot all to hell.
They weren’t going to leave.
By now, the first college jock was at the bar, customers pushed out of the way, and he reached over the counter and grabbed Danielle’s colleague by the apron-front, jerked him forward and head-butted him square in the face.
His buddies giggled as the barista’s nose exploded, blood flying across the counter, and Danielle screamed in horror at the sight.
That’s when the action really started – hyped up by the first guy’s lead, another jock saw a high school student grab his bag and get up to leave and knocked him straight down with a wrestling-style clothesline that drew gasps from the other customers.
All of a sudden there was chaos – the first man scrambling over the counter to get at the girl while some of the braver customers tried to stop him, at the same time as his drink- and drug-addled buddies began to slap and kick random customers around the room.
I blamed my own hangover for leaving it too late; I should have got involved earlier.
But I’m generally reluctant to get involved when I don’t have to – the police are keen to get ahold of me as it is, and I try and avoid incidents which might bring me to their attention.
On the other hand, however, enough was enough, and it was time to put an end to this.
One of the jocks was right next to me, fist pulled back to hit me where I sat, just because I was there.
He never got the chance though, as my booted foot shot out from next to the table leg and shattered the young man’s kneecap; as he hit the floor screaming, I knew his athletic career was over for the time being.
Maybe forever.
But I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.
I looked over to the counter, saw the leader of the group kicking one customer, punching another as they tried to stop him getting to the girl; while she stood there rooted to the spot, terror in her eyes, and I understood the dilemma that kept her there. Her survival instinct told her to run, while she also knew she should try and help the others. Indecision merely ensured that she did nothing at all.
As I rose from my chair, I glanced outside and saw Kane, eager to enter and help; but I shook my head at him, warning him off. His intentions were good, but I didn’t want to have to explain dog bites to the cops, if it came to that; they might impound him, and these guys just weren’t worth it.
I calculated quickly, guessed that the leader – pumped up on drink, drugs and adrenaline – would have beaten off the customers and be up and over the counter within the next few seconds.
Between him and me were four more of his crew, their attention now drawn away from the other customers by the agonized screams of their friend with the broken leg.
They looked hard at me, and I returned it with a smile.
I had about a second for each one of them, if I was going stop the first man getting to the girl.
It was more than enough.
As the coffee shop clients ran for the exit, I sprinted forward and slammed a front kick into the groin of the first guy, boot sinking satisfyingly deep into the balls. Even as he performed a slow, eyes-raised-to-the-sky, comedy drop to the ground, I was already whipping the edge of my hand onto the bridge of the next jock’s nose; it cracked open and the man dropped from the sho
ck.
The third man moved in quickly with a tackle, trying to take me down so that he and his friend could kick bits off me on the floor; but I saw it coming and dodged out of the way, the big jock collapsing on the ground just beyond me.
Caught by surprise, the fourth man wasn’t ready for the huge overhand right which hit him square on the jaw; not too sophisticated, but brutally effective, and the kid was out of it before he even hit the floor.
Without wasting a moment, combat memory telling me exactly where the guy who’d tried to tackle me had fallen, I picked up a wood and metal chair from next to the nearest table and turned to the point where I knew he’d be; and when my vision picked him up, the chair came crashing down right over his head, just as he’d almost staggered back to his feet.
He wouldn’t be getting up again for quite some time.
My legs were already moving again, propelling me the last few yards across the tiled coffee shop floor to the counter beyond.
The jock was already over it, fully on the other side now as the brave customers who had tried to tackle him moaned, half-conscious, on the floor. He was right up in the petrified young woman’s face, one hand gripping her by the throat as the other drew back to hit her.
I had no idea what his problem was, but I was going to offer him a quick, ready-made solution.
I placed my hands on the glass countertop at a run, used my momentum to carry me over, one leg shooting out toward the man. My heavy boot caught his back at an angle – I hadn’t wanted to kick him straight into the girl – but it was enough to knock him to the side with a loud grunt.
As I landed, I quickly pushed myself into the space that had appeared between him and Danielle, protecting her with my body.
The jock recovered quick and launched himself at me, going low for the tackle. In the small space it was impossible to side-step, and so I sprawled out on top of him, sinking my weight onto his back to bring him to the floor, hammering a knee into the top of his skull as he went.
I felt the guy’s body sag as a result of the blow, but then his hands were reaching out again, grabbing hold of me, his face coming up to glare at me, full of hate and anger.
I saw his right hand reach back toward his pants pocket, knew he was going for a knife; and in that same instant I reacted to the new threat, jabbing my thumb into his eye to distract him; and as he squealed in pain, the knife half-out now and still coming toward me, I reached up to the counter and pulled down on the cash register hard.
The heavy metal register tipped slowly, and the jock turned to look up at the noise just as it toppled down, smashing his upturned head and knocking him unconscious instantly.
I ignored the girl’s screams as I reached forward, pushed the blood-stained register to one side and checked for the young man’s pulse. It was still there, beating hard. He was alive, he’d just have one hell of a headache when he eventually woke up.
I stood, turned and looked at the girl. She was just staring at me, then back at the mess on the floor, then back at me.
‘You okay?’ I asked, aware that I could already hear sirens in the background and that I couldn’t afford to stick around.
‘Yeah,’ she muttered, hand to her head. ‘Uh, yeah, yeah, I’m okay.’ She looked at me and smiled, and I was reminded again by how pretty she was. ‘Thanks to you.’ The smile widened, and I smiled back.
‘No problem,’ I said, noting how close the sirens were now. ‘Glad I could be of help. But I’ve got to go.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said, ‘but . . . I get off work at three. Maybe you could pick me up, and we could think of something?’
My smile widened. ‘I like that plan,’ I said, already moving toward the door as her pretty eyes followed me. ‘See you then.’
And then I was gone; but I would be back at three, as promised.
After all, to the victor go the spoils, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
It turned out that the guy who’d tried to punch poor Danielle’s face in was indeed a jock, a twenty-year-old called Tom Dwyer who played football for the University of New Mexico. He’d spotted Danielle at a bar she’d been working at a couple of weeks ago, and had been on her case ever since; as a college jock, he just couldn’t understand how she could resist his advances. It looked like he’d made inquiries, and finally tracked her down to her day job at Napoli. But he was too young, too immature, and – well, let’s be honest here – just too much of a dick for the dark-haired, twenty-six-year-old beauty.
Apparently I, on the other hand, fitted the bill perfectly, and I was rewarded by a spectacular little afternoon at her apartment, situated just a few blocks away from the coffee house.
She had another shift starting downtown at eight, but I didn’t mind – I’d worked off the adrenaline of the fight in the nicest way possible, and I was planning on heading out of Albuquerque anyway.
We left each other at her apartment door, kissed goodbye, and went our separate ways. She’d asked me if I wanted a lift into town in her little Ford hatchback, but I declined; it would only draw out the farewells longer than I wanted, and besides which, it was a wonderful evening for a walk.
I watched the Ford chug off up the street, and – with Kane once more at my heel – picked up my rucksack and started walking.
Walking was what we did, Kane and I; hundreds of miles, perhaps thousands, wandering from one town to the next. No plan in mind, no final destination.
Just wandering.
Fixing things too, I guess.
Fixing people’s problems.
Because in every city, town or hamlet we ended up in, there’d be someone who needed my help, someone who was willing to pay a thousand dollars for me to solve their problems for them.
More often than not, I learnt of these people through simple, written advertisements posted in garages, diners, grocery stores or bus stations; anywhere that people thought I might eventually pass by. It was a forlorn hope for the most part, of course; after all, what were the chances of me actually stumbling across their cries for help? And yet I was kept in work almost constantly, finding these adverts for my services in every new town I came to. So perhaps it wasn’t such a forlorn hope? But I knew the number of adverts must outweigh the number that I actually saw by a colossal margin, and I often wondered about the people whose prayers went unanswered. Could I have saved somebody’s child in Detroit, when I was chasing missing jewelry in Tallahassee?
But I tried not to dwell upon it. A part of me still believed in fate, both for me and for those that I did – or didn’t – help.
What would be, would be.
Still, I owed it to the people who believed in me to search for their advertisements, and before I left Albuquerque for good, I knew I needed to go and check out the main transport hub for the city, the Alvarado Transportation Center.
It was funny really – I rarely, if ever, used public transport. Most buses and trains wouldn’t let me travel with Kane, and so for long-haul journeys I generally hitchhiked. But for the most part, Kane and I simply walked. For instance, after leaving Albuquerque I would probably head northeast toward Santa Fe, a distance of just over sixty miles. Without stopping, I could make the distance on foot within twenty-four hours, but I’d probably stop off at a couple of small towns and spread it out over three days or more. I wasn’t in any particular hurry.
People who wanted to make contact with the Thousand Dollar Man, however, seemed to think that I got around the country on buses and trains, and therefore often left their posters in transport hubs like the ATC. It made sense, I supposed – most people hated to walk anywhere, and probably just couldn’t comprehend my lifestyle.
The transport center was an hour’s easy stroll from Danielle’s apartment, and I arrived before the sun had started its final descent below the horizon. It was still warm, and the area was a hive of activity, tremendously busy with people who’d finished work and were heading home. I liked to be alone, but sometimes a crowd is helpful
; it makes you less obvious, if people are out there looking for you.
It wasn’t that I was wanted by the New Mexico authorities, per se; it was just that – due to various things I’d been involved with over the years – I was a ‘person of interest’ to law enforcement organizations of all types. A crowd would help me blend in and escape notice.
Kane wouldn’t be allowed on the train or the bus maybe, but he came with me into the depot. There were no rules against that, at least; and if there were, I was happy to ignore them.
The building was only fifteen years old, but copied older styles from the area like the Alvarado Hotel which had once been the last word in luxury before falling on hard times and being knocked down in the seventies. The adobe walls, large plaster surfaces and red clay roof tiles were in the Mission Revival style, itself influenced by Spanish colonial architecture, and it was certainly one of the prettiest transport hubs I’d come across lately; it was even topped off with a clock tower at its northwest corner.
Kane and I entered the madding crowd, pushing into the heaving throngs, citizens of every creed and color desperate to get home after a hard day’s work. People in business suits competed alongside college professors to get their tickets, as dock workers from the Rio Grande and day laborers from the sawmills pushed up next to them even as office secretaries and high school students joined the human zoo. The sweet smells of perfume and cologne mixed with stale sweat and body odor to produce an atmosphere that was thick and unpleasant.
As we walked slowly through the main hall, scanning the walls for noticeboards and posters, I spotted a little coffee shop and wandered over. I was a caffeine junky, and needed my fix.
I waited in line, ordered, then waited again as the matronly old lady behind the counter prepared me a cup of house blend, black and strong. Kane sat patiently next to my leg, watching the other customers with feigned disinterest.
It was only after I’d scanned the customers myself and turned back to accept the steaming cup from the unsmiling old woman, that I noticed it; a green four by two card tacked to a small noticeboard to the left of the counter, all but hidden behind boxes of knives and forks, salt shakers and glass sugar pourers, sauce bottles and napkins.
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR HUNT: Colt Ryder is Back in Action! Page 1
