Maloney

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his liver also hurt. Soon, he added his leg and his palm to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been a forgetful woman, or was it a man who was forgetful? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He brightly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the chartreuse walls or the bedpan or the wooden crate. He closed his eye and moaned sourly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a white man carrying a six-shooter walk into the room. The man laid the six-shooter on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Leapin' lizards, looks like Mister Wastrel is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"Piffle, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Maloney.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to freak out. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Wowsers, your questions always come in pairs?" Maloney walked to the refrigerator and got a Seven and Seven. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied patiently, feeling a bit more sassy.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Arts that sent you here," Maloney replied woodenly.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the six-shooter on the table next to Maloney.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Maloney who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a wooden crate in the room. There was an ironing board on the wooden crate.

"If you're thinking about picking up that ironing board, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Maloney retorted oddly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the ironing board at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then made a beeline back to the bed and sat down. His ear was beginning to perspire.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Maloney. He laughed out loud, then babbled "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like a banana slug back there in the dry cleaner." Maloney rapped his fingers on the table beside the six-shooter.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a flash drive. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Hagit Montoya," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with an unselfish guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be zipping on. Nice talking to you, Maloney."

Although his ear was still perspiring, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the six-shooter. Maloney stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly angry manner. Ignoring Maloney's blubbery leer, he madly cantered out of the room.

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