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 6: The Picture in the Wallet

His head was buzzing. Pete knew it shouldn't feel as bad as it did just from the knocking around he'd received over the past several days. He should be feeling punch-drunk, sure. He'd been there before, too many times to count really, but this was something else entirely. The light continued to do things to him, bringing on bouts of nausea and blinding headaches and dry heaves. He kept his face turned away from the window whenever possible to avoid the glare of watered down sunshine or milky street lights. But there wasn't much he could do on the occasions his new-found friends decided to pay him a visit. The light from that single dirty bulb above caused him almost more pain than their kicks and punches. And he was thirsty. So very thirsty. The drip, drip, drip of water somewhere nearby remained to taunt him. Even if he could figure out where it was, though, odds were he wouldn't be able to get to it. His hands remained cuffed behind him, his shoulders and arms numb from the strain. Even if the cuffs were to come off he didn't think his body could force itself to move. He recalled reading an article once that talked about the length of time a man could survive without water. Three or four days? Maybe longer if the conditions were right. He guessed it depended on the man.

As though called to action by his thoughts, the door at the top of the stairs opened. They didn't even bother to keep it locked anymore. Pete tried to make himself relax as he wondered what was coming this time. Instead he just tensed up further. It had been a while since they'd bothered with him. Hours? Half a day? A day? He couldn't keep track of real time. But the last time they had visited he'd been left with his bottom lip split open, he could still taste the blood, and he just knew a couple of ribs that had merely been bruised previously were now cracked or worse. He listened to the footsteps on the stairs. Only one of them this time. He felt rather than saw a shape looming over him then it was gone. The light on the ceiling came on, his eyes reflexively closing to shut out the brightness, and a scraping sound followed. His eyes cracked open a slit and the lower portions of four chair legs appeared in his line of sight as did a man's ankles and shoes. The Florsheims. Pauly Denner had come calling. Pete idly wondered where his two friends were. Probably upstairs having a good meal, with a nice wet bottle of beer and lots and lots of nice wet water. Denner sat down on the chair and one shoe disappeared from Pete's view as he casually crossed an ankle over one knee. Denner said nothing and Pete certainly didn't feel like initiating a conversation. The silence stretched into minutes. That was fine with Pete. There was something to be said for silence. Then came some shuffling sounds. Something landed on the floor a few feet away from Pete's face. His groggy gaze finally honed in on the object and it began to take shape and he recognized it for what it was. His wallet. He heard the chair squeak as the other man leaned back, then the flick of a lighter as he lit a cigarette.

"Funny thing about men, huh Gunn?" Denner mused. "How we carry our whole lives around with us wrapped up in a little piece of leather stuck in our back pockets? Now women are a different story. They carry everything under the sun in those big bags they tote around. Men? We only carry what's important." He shuffled through some items. "I have here in my hand just a few scraps of paper and plastic, but they tell me every important detail I need to know about Peter Gunn."

Out of Pete's line of vision Denner held up an item.

"Take your driver's license for instance." He began reading off information. "Peter James Gunn. 129 Miller Court Road, Apartment B. Six two, one ninety-five, eyes blue, hair black. Expires in two months. Guess you won't need to worry about that, huh Gunn?" He laughed and blew smoke into the air before tossing the small piece of paper and watching it flutter to a landing a few inches from the wallet. He picked another item. "Private investigator license... issued by the Superintendent of State Police, Private Detective Unit, regulating authority for the private security industry in this state. Seems they're not very particular when it comes to handing these things out." It landed almost on top of the wallet. "American Express credit card, expires April 30, 1961." He flipped the card over to look at the backside. "Fancy. Real fancy." It joined the growing pile near the wallet.

Pete closed his eyes against not only the light but against the sound of Denner's voice, which seemed to echo around him in the enclosed area, pounding inside his head. As the man continued talking his words seemed to come from farther and farther away yet they remained stridently loud. Pete tried to concentrate but was finding it difficult to do so. He wished Denner would just shut up. But he didn't. He went through the same routine with Pete's insurance card, his Downtown Athletic Club membership card and some receipts from the last case he'd worked on. And he thanked him for the cash the wallet had contained. That six hundred dollars would go a long way. Pete wondered what the point of all this was but he was too tired to ask. He suddenly just wanted to sleep. And if Denner would just shut up and go away maybe he could do just that. He found himself drifting.

"So tell me something, Gunn..." Denner dropped the butt of his second cigarette to the floor, ground it out with the heel of his shoe and went through the motions of lighting another. He stared at the last remaining item from Pete's wallet, tapping the edge of it with one restless finger, his eyes thoughtful as he absentmindedly blew smoke rings that lifted to hover above his head before dissipating. His voice was almost gentle when he eventually continued. "You got a girl?"

Lieutenant Jacoby was still at Peter Gunn's place long after he finished his discussion with Edie Hart. He told her to go to bed and get some sleep and after watching her go upstairs had called his wife to let her know he'd be even later getting home than he had originally thought. Janet Jacoby commiserated with her husband and asked after Edie and was brought up to date on how the case was going. Then she told her husband she'd expect him when she saw him and ended the call. Since then Jacoby had been sitting at the kitchen table reading the morning paper which he hadn't had time to look at earlier. Just as he expected there was a large write-up on the murders of the two men found floating in the river. The newspaper had been folded over to that story when he found it tucked between the cushions of the couch. With a deep sigh he pushed the newspaper away and just sat there at the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands. He glanced at the clock on the counter. It was past midnight. Pete had now been missing for over forty-eight hours.

Jacoby heard a sound from upstairs, not for the first time since he sent Edie up there to supposedly sleep. Which was something he wanted to get a few hours of himself before heading back to the station. With a tired groan he pulled himself to his feet, out of the kitchen and to the base of the stairs just inside the front door of the apartment. He stood for a moment and listened and heard it again. He shook his head wearily and trudged up the stairs. He'd been in this part of Pete's apartment three times, once when he'd stopped by just after Pete moved into his new place and his friend had shown him around, and twice just a couple days ago following his disappearance. So he knew there was a bedroom and a bathroom along a short hallway with some extra closet space at the end. The bedroom door was ajar so he tapped lightly and cautiously entered. He found Edie sorting and folding laundry, piles of socks and shorts and undershirts and handkerchiefs scattered across the bed. She was wearing pajamas and a robe but had obviously not gone to bed.

"It's after midnight."

"I know." She glanced a him as she picked up a pile of socks and deposited them in a bureau drawer. "I couldn't sleep. I work nights, remember?"

"Sure," Jacoby nodded. "Since you're still up I think I'll head home. That way you can put the chain on the door after I leave." Trudging back downstairs he pulled his coat on and set his hat on his head, nodded goodnight and waited outside the door to hear the locks slide into place. And he went home and slept for the first time in twenty-four hours.

Edie eventually crawled beneath the covers a few hours later, the aroma of everything that was Pete clinging to his pillow as she hugged it to herself and sleep finally claimed her.

"You got a girl?"

Pete opened his eyes and felt his stomach clench. Denner's question rang in his ears. Why would he ask that, why was it even important? Then his eyes flickered to his wallet and the paper scraps surrounding it. License, credit card, receipts...he tried to concentrate, he tried to recall what the other items were that Denner had tossed to the ground. License, credit card, receipts. License, credit card, receipts, insurance card, investigator's license, club card... Oh God.

Pete didn't answer the question but Denner could see his jaw clench as realization hit him. He flicked his cigarette away and moved to squat next to Pete. He placed the photograph he held in his hand against the wallet lying a few feet away, tilting it a bit so the other man could see it clearly.

"She's very pretty." Denner smiled ingratiatingly and tapped the photo almost lovingly with his index finger. "You carry her picture around in your wallet so she must be your girl." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Is she your girl?"

"No." Pete got the word out between clenched teeth. And at that moment he was glad he wasn't lying. No, she wasn't his girl. Not right now. Not this minute. Technically. And if that would keep her out of this mess then he was glad she wasn't and that he could truthfully say she wasn't. Even if she was.

"Oh come on, Gunn, sure she is. You don't have to lie to me. I saw her, you know. Going into your apartment building with that cop Jacoby." He smiled again as he saw Pete's eyes flicker over the photograph. "I sure did. Real pretty, like I said. I bet she'd be a real nice girl to have. And blonde. Just like that other girl. You remember that other girl, Gunn? The one that ended up dead over across the tracks?"

Pete pulled his eyes away from the photo and glared up at Denner.

"She was...we're not together anymore...not for a while."

"But you still carry her picture so you must still love her."

"No."

"I told you not to lie to me. No man keeps a picture of a woman he doesn't love in his wallet. Especially if she dumped him." Denner smirked. "I bet she dumped you, huh Gunn?"

Pete didn't answer.

"Well since she's not your girl anymore..." Denner stood up, looked down at Pete and winked, "...I guess you won't mind if I give her a call. Or maybe pay her a visit to offer my condolences," he mocked.

"Leave her alone...she doesn't have anything to do with this." Pete could hear his own voice crack and felt a fire of pain rush through his chest as he struggled ineffectively against his handcuffs and against his physical and mental exhaustion. "Do whatever you want to me...just leave her alone."

Denner laughed, acutely aware of Peter Gunn's Achilles heel. After all, his boys had done their homework on the man. And now that homework was paying dividends. The thought that something might happen to his girlfriend was more painful to Gunn than any type of physical abuse might be. Denner squatted back down and picked up the photograph, looked at it for a moment before turning his face to Pete.

"That's a strange reaction since you say you don't love her anymore."

Pete lifted his head and spit at Denner, a mix of watery blood striking his face and dripping onto the picture in his hand. Denner lifted his arm and wiped away the blood with his shirt sleeve then with a quick laugh got to his feet and snapped the light off.

"Sweet dreams, Mr. Gunn."