older man shut the cell door and locked it. Poole was cuffed while the other two men watched with nightsticks at the ready in case Poole made a false move. Poole was slightly bigger than the officers and guessed that he could take any one of them in a fair fight. But not all of them and not now.
They left him to wait in an interrogation room. He sat in a steel chair that was bolted to the floor at a steel table that was also bolted. A single, naked lightbulb burned behind a mesh cage. The floors were gray concrete and the walls painted industrial white. Poole thought he could make out faint stains on the walls and had visions of janitors, on their knees, scrubbing off spattered blood with cleaning solution.
Head pounding, he leaned forward and rested it awkwardly on the tabletop. It was not comfortable, but he nevertheless managed to fall asleep—or was it lose consciousness?—in this position. He knew this because he awoke to someone pulling his head up a couple of inches by the hair and then, without too much force, pushing his face down onto the steel table. His eyes watered and his nose went numb. A hand jerked his head back and then planted itself in his chest to keep him upright. Poole felt warm liquid flowing across his mouth and down his chin. He tasted blood.
“Mr. Poole,” said a man who now came into focus, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the table. Tall and thin, he had the smooth face of a matinee idol and short blond hair. Poole couldn’t figure why he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He had a charcoal suit with dark blue pinstripes. His hat sat on a chair by the door. He held a cigarette carelessly between his ring and middle fingers.
The man sighed, then repeated, “Mr. Poole,” as if to make sure that he was, indeed, talking to the right man. Poole started to nod, felt a wave of pain, winced, then grunted something affirmative.
“Mr. Poole, you are getting yourself into a world of shit. You sent two officers of the law to the hospital. Do you follow?”
Poole looked at the man without expression, trying to keep his eyes focused. How could they have found out about Bernal so quickly? Had Bernal really been able to identify him through the stocking? He felt a dull yet excruciating pain in his side as the man behind him jabbed his baton just below Poole’s ribs. He coughed meekly, then nodded.
“Two in the hospital,” the man repeated slowly as if only now realizing the significance of this fact. “That is a world of shit to be in, Mr. Poole. Usually, police don’t treat ginks who have assaulted police—put them in the hospital—with the delicate care that you have received. You with me?”
Poole choked out a “Yes” to avoid another shot from the nightstick.
The man smiled. “I’m sure you are. Yes, you’re probably aware of that.” If the man gave a signal, Poole didn’t see it. The nightstick was not jabbed this time, but swung so that it hit the third vertebra down from his skull. He felt consciousness slip away and then, to his intense frustration, return.
“But, you see, this thing with assaulting the police, that’s not even remotely the beginning of the shit you are in. Do you understand what the problem is, Mr. Poole?”
Poole stayed silent and braced himself for another blow.
The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, held it for a beat, then exhaled through his nose, sending twin jets of smoke past his mouth. “Why are you looking for Casper Prosnicki?”
Poole just stared at him, stunned. Was that what this was about? How could this man know? Only one possibility came to him, and he wondered if he was thinking clearly through the pain.
“Can you hear me?” the man asked, stepping away from the wall and squatting down to look at Poole from across the table. “Why are you looking for Casper Prosnicki?”
“Someone asked me to. They hired me.” His lips felt swollen and clumsy as he talked.
“Who hired you?”
“A twist. Didn’t give a name.”
The man straightened up and walked around the table behind Poole. Poole tried to crane his neck around to see what the man was doing, but the man with the nightstick held his head firmly in place. Poole felt his sleeve being pulled up and then a searing pain on the inside of his biceps as