The blades of the ceiling fan rotated lazily, doing little to lift the heat filling the room. It was small, the room, with only a single light bulb hanging from the chipped ceiling, giving cheap, yellow light to the filing cabinets along the bare walls and to the crowd of men in the center of the room. They had him tied to the chair. Two of the men stood behind the chair, casting their big shadows across him, while three others towered in front. Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth and his left eye had been turned a meaty purple from its previous date with a fist. First one's always the hardest.
"Know I don't know who you are," the boss said, crouching down in front of him, "but you ain't welcome here, stranger, this is our territory. Now, you mind telling me who you are? You keep staying quiet and I'll let Tommy take over, and he's not much of a talker himself."
The boss's face was hidden behind a mask of shadows with only the glowing butt of a cigarette casting the faintest orange light on his mouth. Strands of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, gathering like a wreath around the light. He, the man in the chair, spat blood on the floor.
"I'm a detective, my business is confidential." he spat.
A fist smashed into his jaw.
"I know that, Einstein!" the boss snapped, "And quite a detective you are: a magnifying glass, handgun, and a notebook full of gibberish. Oh yes, and that pocket watch. I suppose at least that will fetch some cash."
"I'm a special detective." the man in the chair said with a chuckle.
Another fist became acquainted with the skeletal structure of his face.
"Quit the garbage Who are you and why ere you snooping though my property? I won't ask again." the boss leaned forward, his voice like a razor in the man's ears.
"Alright, fine." the man in the chair spat out more blood, "They call me the Finder. I'm a detective of a very special caliber; so special in fact, I'm the only one. There's a certain item in your possession that is of interest to me. That satisfy you?"
"The mirror?" the boss growled, "What do you want the mirror for?"
"It once belonged to one Abigail H. White. She was murdered some time ago; the mirror is important in the case. It's police property now, you have to hand it over."
The cigarette glowed orange, smoke streaming past the boss's face as he sat, peering silently at the Finder.
"That's a load of bull, and you know it." the boss spat in the Finder's face, "I told you I wouldn't ask again."
"And I think I've had enough of this." the Finder said with a smirk.
"What?" the boss exclaimed, rising to his feet in surprise.
The Finder shucked off the handcuffs keeping entrapped in the cair like one shakes water off one's hands. He kicked the boss in between the legs and sent him sailing across the room, knocking the two goon behind him to the floor. The Finder picked up the chair, swinging it around his head like a hammer, and smashed it into the two men behind him.
"I picked the cuffs while one of your boys was giving me a makeover. I'll just be taking the mirror know." the Finder said, tossing the cuffs on top of the boss's heaving chest, wiping blood from his cheek with his other hand.
"Who– what are you?" the boss gasped.
"A traveler from another dimension."
The boss's face was made uglier by the expression of confusion.
"What?" he gaped.
The Finder slammed a leg of the chair into the boss's thick skull, knocking consciousness from it. The Finder strode over to the desk, picking up his sparse effects: his coat, hat, magnifying glass, and book. He pulled the coat on, wrapping himself in its worn familiarity; he tucked the book, watch, and magnifying glass away in their particular pockets, then stepped back over to the boss. The mirror was tucked safely inside the boss's coat. The Finder relieved the sleeping man from the possession; the mirror was too effeminante for him anyway. The Funder slipped out of the building into the fog-bound streets; he watched his back carefully as he slid past one building after another, the life on the streets having taught him to keep an eye behind him. The Finder checked his pocket watch, the silver gleaming in the dark fog like a pearl in the ocean, popping open the scratched lid.
It was nearly six o'clock.
The Finder hurried down the street, past the shadowy forms of people, towards the train station like a hulking behemoth in the distance. The Finder stopped at a telephone booth; he stepped inside, checked the fog outside, then rang the special number. The Watcher's voice came crackling into his ear.
"Finder? That you?"
"Yeah, I got the Anomaly. What time was the train?"
"Six fifteen."
"Damn! I'll be late, I–"
A spotlight pierced through the shroud of black fog, landing on the telephone booth. An alarm filled the thick air.
"Gotta go!" the Finder shouted, slamming the phone back home.
He ran from the booth, the spotlight searching for him through the fog all while the alarm filled the drab street suddenly devoid of people. He found the steps leading into the station just as he heard the loud sounds of pursuit coming, rushing, down the street towards him like a river. He flew inside, pushing past crowds of stunned individuals: the train was starting to leave the station. The Finder ran down the platform, his pursuers coming down the stairs to the platform. The Finder grabbed onto the caboose, pulling himself on with a grunt: he was on the train. He slipped inside the caboose as it left the station behind it in the fog, the mirror in his hands.
"That was too close." he said.
"Know I don't know who you are," the boss said, crouching down in front of him, "but you ain't welcome here, stranger, this is our territory. Now, you mind telling me who you are? You keep staying quiet and I'll let Tommy take over, and he's not much of a talker himself."
The boss's face was hidden behind a mask of shadows with only the glowing butt of a cigarette casting the faintest orange light on his mouth. Strands of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, gathering like a wreath around the light. He, the man in the chair, spat blood on the floor.
"I'm a detective, my business is confidential." he spat.
A fist smashed into his jaw.
"I know that, Einstein!" the boss snapped, "And quite a detective you are: a magnifying glass, handgun, and a notebook full of gibberish. Oh yes, and that pocket watch. I suppose at least that will fetch some cash."
"I'm a special detective." the man in the chair said with a chuckle.
Another fist became acquainted with the skeletal structure of his face.
"Quit the garbage Who are you and why ere you snooping though my property? I won't ask again." the boss leaned forward, his voice like a razor in the man's ears.
"Alright, fine." the man in the chair spat out more blood, "They call me the Finder. I'm a detective of a very special caliber; so special in fact, I'm the only one. There's a certain item in your possession that is of interest to me. That satisfy you?"
"The mirror?" the boss growled, "What do you want the mirror for?"
"It once belonged to one Abigail H. White. She was murdered some time ago; the mirror is important in the case. It's police property now, you have to hand it over."
The cigarette glowed orange, smoke streaming past the boss's face as he sat, peering silently at the Finder.
"That's a load of bull, and you know it." the boss spat in the Finder's face, "I told you I wouldn't ask again."
"And I think I've had enough of this." the Finder said with a smirk.
"What?" the boss exclaimed, rising to his feet in surprise.
The Finder shucked off the handcuffs keeping entrapped in the cair like one shakes water off one's hands. He kicked the boss in between the legs and sent him sailing across the room, knocking the two goon behind him to the floor. The Finder picked up the chair, swinging it around his head like a hammer, and smashed it into the two men behind him.
"I picked the cuffs while one of your boys was giving me a makeover. I'll just be taking the mirror know." the Finder said, tossing the cuffs on top of the boss's heaving chest, wiping blood from his cheek with his other hand.
"Who– what are you?" the boss gasped.
"A traveler from another dimension."
The boss's face was made uglier by the expression of confusion.
"What?" he gaped.
The Finder slammed a leg of the chair into the boss's thick skull, knocking consciousness from it. The Finder strode over to the desk, picking up his sparse effects: his coat, hat, magnifying glass, and book. He pulled the coat on, wrapping himself in its worn familiarity; he tucked the book, watch, and magnifying glass away in their particular pockets, then stepped back over to the boss. The mirror was tucked safely inside the boss's coat. The Finder relieved the sleeping man from the possession; the mirror was too effeminante for him anyway. The Funder slipped out of the building into the fog-bound streets; he watched his back carefully as he slid past one building after another, the life on the streets having taught him to keep an eye behind him. The Finder checked his pocket watch, the silver gleaming in the dark fog like a pearl in the ocean, popping open the scratched lid.
It was nearly six o'clock.
The Finder hurried down the street, past the shadowy forms of people, towards the train station like a hulking behemoth in the distance. The Finder stopped at a telephone booth; he stepped inside, checked the fog outside, then rang the special number. The Watcher's voice came crackling into his ear.
"Finder? That you?"
"Yeah, I got the Anomaly. What time was the train?"
"Six fifteen."
"Damn! I'll be late, I–"
A spotlight pierced through the shroud of black fog, landing on the telephone booth. An alarm filled the thick air.
"Gotta go!" the Finder shouted, slamming the phone back home.
He ran from the booth, the spotlight searching for him through the fog all while the alarm filled the drab street suddenly devoid of people. He found the steps leading into the station just as he heard the loud sounds of pursuit coming, rushing, down the street towards him like a river. He flew inside, pushing past crowds of stunned individuals: the train was starting to leave the station. The Finder ran down the platform, his pursuers coming down the stairs to the platform. The Finder grabbed onto the caboose, pulling himself on with a grunt: he was on the train. He slipped inside the caboose as it left the station behind it in the fog, the mirror in his hands.
"That was too close." he said.
