Not my characters, just my story. I only wish I owned Pete. The story is best read if you've seen the series and know the characters. If you haven't seen it lately, watch, enjoy.
A Lifetime in Eight Days
Chapter 4: The Past Comes Knocking
Peter Gunn groaned and attempted to roll over. Something was keeping him from doing so, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. He coughed, partly because of the dirt he was inhaling, partly because he couldn't seem to draw a deep enough breath to fill his lungs. His chest and ribs ached every time he inhaled and his head hurt worse than it had that time when he was ten years old and he'd taken a headfirst flyer over the handlebars of his bike and buried his face in the pavement. He coughed again, a deeper cough this time, and a razor-sharp pain shot through his skull, bringing with it a feeling of intense nausea. When the pain eventually subsided he tried again to roll over onto his back, finally realizing he couldn't because his hands were cuffed behind him.
"Oh great." The words came out on another groan and Pete tasted the unmistakable coppery bitterness of blood in his mouth. Carefully opening his eyes a crack, and cautiously lifting his head, he tried to figure out where he was. There was nothing but darkness save for a dull glow creeping through a slit of a window high up on a wall. That bare trace of light, filtering through several dirty panes of glass, was still more than his eyes could handle before the nausea took over again. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back to the ground, feeling small bits of sharp gravel dig into his cheek and chin. A warehouse maybe, but a small one, nothing like those along the waterfront district where he'd met up with Jacoby's stoolies. Or maybe a basement or cellar. The floor was unfinished, which could mean anything or nothing. There was a cold dampness clinging to the air and he could hear a drip, drip, drip somewhere nearby.
He tried to think. He had no idea how he'd ended up here. He remembered walking to his car, digging in his pants pocket for his keys, picking out the one he needed with the aid of the streetlight. The echo of footsteps as he inserted the key in the lock. Being grabbed from behind on both sides as he pulled the car door open. A punch in the gut before he could react, a flurry of punches as he tried to fight back. A low blow that sent him to his knees. A savage hit to the face that had his head connecting solidly with the curb. Then nothing. He wondered how long he'd been out. It was daylight outside so what, seven, eight hours? If he knew Jacoby, by now every cop in the city would be looking for him.
Shivering a little, Pete realized he was no longer wearing his suit jacket. Wiggling around a bit he determined he was also missing his shoes. He thought his wristwatch might also be gone. No doubt his pockets had been emptied. He listened to his stomach growl, the sound of his hunger strangely loud but somehow comforting. He'd picked up a chicken sandwich and a quarter of a blueberry pie at the diner up the street from his apartment the previous evening, taking the food home with him for a solitary early supper. His insides really shouldn't be rumbling that much. Maybe it was later in the day than he thought.
Pete grimaced and fidgeted, then stilled. A chuffing sound of footfalls from somewhere overhead broke the silence. He tried to concentrate through the pounding in his head. Two people, three? There'd been three last night, so maybe they'd come back. There was the click of a spring lock being released followed by the thud of a door opening, a glare of artificial light streaming through the oblong opening behind a trio of men as they navigated down a short flight of wooden steps. Pete closed his eyes and willed himself to relax as he waited to find out what they had in mind. A sharp kick in the region of his right kidney quickly gave him an idea of the purpose behind their visit. He couldn't help but flinch and draw a hissing breath as the pain radiated through his lower back and abdomen.
"Well as I live and breathe, if it isn't the late great Peter Gunn himself."
The sardonic voice from above drew his attention away from his pain and he opened his eyes to three pairs of shoes on a level with his face, all black and newly shined. Two pairs of wing-tip Oxfords and one pair of Florsheims. Not the usual fare for muggers. Pete tried to peer upward to get a look at their faces but couldn't manage the odd angle.
"Look, fellas," his voice was gritty even to his own ears and it took some real concentration on his part just to get the words out, "you obviously got what you wanted so why don't you play nice and drop me off somewhere, preferably alive and in one piece, and we'll just call it a day."
"Not even close, lover boy."
The speaker of the group motioned with his head to his two companions, one of whom pulled on a string hanging from a dirty, bare bulb attached to the ceiling directly above, flooding the room with stale yellow light. The other pushed his foot into Pete's shoulder to turn him halfway onto his side, bringing forth a grunt of pain but allowing him to see the face of the man speaking to him.
"You probably never expected to see me again." The man sent a gloating smile down upon him. Pete squinted upward against the light and tried to make sense of the double image looking back at him. As the two images coalesced into one shape he saw a man of about his own age and size, with a broad, almost kindly-looking face topped by a bushy cap of dark brown hair. A jagged scar had all but replaced his left eyebrow. Even in the unlikely event he didn't recognize the face, Pete would always remember that scar.
"You're supposed to be in prison," he managed.
"Yeah, well I was. But I got sprung a couple weeks ago. Real legal-like. Guess you didn't get the word, huh Gunn? Early release for good behavior." The man laughed sharply and loudly as though at an especially good joke. "Can you believe that? Good behavior!" His jocularity evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared. He squatted down on his haunches directly in front of Pete, his voice harsh as he continued to speak. "It's a miracle I even got out of that hellhole alive. And everything that happened to me in that place? It was all because of you, because you sent me there." He reached out with his right hand and gave Pete's cheek an almost brotherly pat, in direct contrast to the animosity of his words. "You owe me big time and I plan to make sure you pay up. For every beating I took, for every minute I spent in solitary, for every day of freedom that was taken away from me."
"I didn't send you to prison. A jury put you there."
"You put me there. Because you couldn't keep your stupid PI nose out of my business!" the man hissed. "And now we're gonna make things even." He reached behind him, beneath his suit jacket, and pulled out a short, dark snub-nosed revolver. He pushed the barrel of the gun against Pete's jaw none too gently. "You're gonna feel my hurt. And after that I'm gonna put this gun in your ear and blow your brains out."
Pete could feel the perspiration gathering on his upper lip and felt his pulse quicken sharply at the man's words. He'd found himself in a lot of predicaments over the years from which he'd somehow managed to extricate himself, either through subtlety or just plain brute force, but he had a stomach-turning feeling he just might not be able to get himself out of this one.
"By now the word's on the street and every cop in town will be on your tail. Kill me and you won't have to worry about your freedom. They'll send you straight to the electric chair."
"It's been over thirty-six hours and nobody's come knocking at the door yet but the Avon lady," the man returned sarcastically, then correctly interpreted the confusion in Pete's eyes. "Yeah, you can thank Charlie here for that," he gestured with his gun toward the big man who still had his foot pressed against Pete's shoulder. "He got a little carried away and bent your head against the cement. He's been real worried you were never gonna wake up. I told him if he took all my fun away from me, he'd be the one looking down the wrong end of the barrel." Pulling himself back to a standing position, he nodded at Charlie, who gave Pete's shoulder a swift dig with the heel of his shoe before removing his foot. Pete ended up back on his stomach with his face buried in the dirt.
"Why the hell weren't we informed about Denner's release?" Jacoby barked into the phone. "You people have a duty to let us know when these things happen! I have a good mind to contact the Governor's office directly and file a complaint against the state prison system."
Jacoby spoke in stronger language than he was normally known for and his calm demeanor had been replaced by irritation and anger and something else less easily defined. Fear. Genuine fear. For the first time since his friend had gone missing a feeling of true helplessness had taken him over. While before the enemy had remained unknown and disguised, his true identity had now been brought to light. And it wasn't a good feeling to learn who that enemy was. He continued to listen to the nervous voice at the other end of the line. A nervous prison warden was not a good thing by any stretch of the imagination.
"I don't want to hear about lost paperwork or not enough staff or who you do or do not report to! Every single individual involved with that case should have been informed before the soles of that man's shoes ever hit the pavement. I want every piece of information about his release, the names of everyone he has to report to, the address he was returning to-"
Jacoby rolled his eyes as he was interrupted yet again. He listened to some more long-winded explanations then jumped up from his chair in aggravation.
"What do you mean unconditional? You mean to tell me this man was given an unconditional release from prison four years early-" He cocked his head to one side and rubbed his hand over his forehead as the words continued to pour into his ear. "On who's authority?...Oh really, the Parole Board and who else?" His voice had taken on a sarcastic overtone. "I want that information on my desk yesterday! You do what you have to do to make it happen."
Jacoby slammed the phone down then just stood there and took a minute to try and clear his head. How could things get any worse? There was no way they could. Absolutely no way. He took a deep breath and released it slowly before making his way into the squad room. Every detective he had was on duty and it seemed every street cop and patrol cop in the precinct had come in on short notice. Maybe not all for the same reason, but those diverse reasons merged to form the glue that held every good police department together. Some of them were there because they'd been around during the Pauly Denner case and they knew first hand what it had really been all about. Others had only heard about it in the back rooms and basements of the 13th Precinct or other precincts where they'd worked. They were there because they understood the price that had been paid by a lot of good people to put Denner behind bars, even if he hadn't been made to pay for the worst crime he'd committed. Then there were those who were there because of Pete. Probably more than Jacoby realized or would ever know. His group of cops liked Peter Gunn. The man could be a pest sometimes and he always managed to take some liberties that weren't entirely within his venue, but he was well-liked by the men and women under Jacoby's command.
He stood in the doorway for a few moments watching the bustle going on around him, then stepped toward the center of the squad room to get everyone's attention. He explained in a few short words the urgency of locating one Paul 'Pauly' Edward Denner, age 34, six feet one inch tall, two hundred pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, one visible distinguishing mark a scar above the left eye. Copies of a mugshot were handed around. The Lieutenant allowed his serious gaze to touch on each person in the room.
"Each of you knows your assignment. Do it to the very best of your ability without doing anything that might exacerbate the situation. You've all been made aware of how the dissemination of information will be working in this case. Everything will be coming through this office, whether the information comes from somewhere within this precinct or from one of the surrounding precincts. And above all..." he held up one hand to make sure he still had everyone's full attention,"...don't any one of you try to be a hero and go after this guy if you get a lead on him. You hear anything, you see anything, anybody comes forward with information, you report it directly to me and then continue to go about your business. Denner lying dead on a street corner because one of you gets trigger happy doesn't bring us any closer to finding Pete."