Man Who Fought Alone

1 For two weeks Ginny concentrated on taking care of me. Ordinarily she didn't have much tolerance for inactivity, but she stood it with as much grace as she could muster. She force-fed me pills, changed my bandages, stocked the pantry and fridge, picked up tapes and books to keep me from driving her crazy, and generally made herself responsible for my recuperation. A week or so after being shot, I could walk upright most of the time, and her regimen of vitamins and antibiotics had just about knocked out the infection. But I still couldn't move fast, or think very quickly, or tie my shoes without groaning. She even kept the apartment clean, which was usually my job, since even her best friends never accused her of being tidy. Compensation, I think. If you've got a mind like a ledger, you surround yourself with the most ungodly mess. But if your head could stand in for a witches' cauldron, you're inclined to clean everything in sight. Whenever she mopped or dusted, I had to bite my tongue so that I wouldn't nag her about missing the corners. I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want to punish her for taking care of me. It wasn't her fault I had a hole in my stomach. We were private investigatorsby which I mean, she was. Ginny Fistoulari, owner and sole proprietor of Fistoulari Investigations. Tall and good-looking. So good-looking, in fact, that you would've considered her beautiful if you liked broken noses. Mid-thirties. Lean and poised, ready for anything. And keen as a hatchet. Or she used to be, until she lost her left hand during the case that first got me in trouble with el Senor, Puerta del Sol's only real crime lord. For a while afterward, she felt so I maimed and maybe unlovedor unworthythat she could hardly figure out how to go on living. But now, after a period of what you might call disarray, she'd started to regain her edge. She wore a stainless steel prosthesisher "claw"with two hooks that worked like pincers off the muscles of her forearm. She could pick up all kinds of things with it. Also punch holes in double-glazed windows. And because the edges of the hooks down near the base were sharp, she could cut things with ittape, string, cloth, even rope if it wasn't too thick. Years ago I was her partner, but I'd lost my license. Negligent manslaughter, the commission called it. I'd killed a man whose only crime was being nearby while I was drunk. Other than that, he was just a cop trying to chase down a purse snatcher. Unfortunately he also happened to be my younger brother. Since the purse snatcher had a gun, I wasn't indicted. In one sense or another, I'd tried to stop him with "necessary force." But Puerta del Sol's licensing commission would never re-certify me, so now I was just the hired help at Fistoulari Investigations. I wanted to be Ginny's partner again. I wanted to earn it. But I wasn't there yet. I'm Mick Axbrewder. I always liked to say that no one calls me Mick, but the truth was that people by the busload did it practically all the time. Everyone who elicited even a smidgen of restraint from me did it with impunity. I probably hadn't actively punched out someone who used my first name since my last binge. I was what you might politely call a recovering alcoholic. Back in my drinking days, I had "the courage of my convictions," if nothing else. Put your hand on me, and I broke it. Call me Mick, and I rearranged your face. But now?Something had replaced that kind of courage, but I wasn't exactly sure what it was. That's probably all anyone actually needs to knDonaldson, Stephen R. is the author of 'Man Who Fought Alone' with ISBN 9780765341242 and ISBN 0765341247.