Slow Burn – A Leo Watterman Mystery by G. M. Ford

I never meant to break his thumb. All I wanted was a ride in the elevator . The burnished brass doors were no more than ten feet away when I was gently nudged toward the right.
“Pardon me…” I began.
He was a big beefy kid with a flattop, smelling of scented soap and Aramis. He kept pushing, his blue blazer now locked on my elbow, his big chest bending my path steadily toward the right, toward the stairs, away from the elevators.
I planted my right foot and swung back, only to find myself nose to nose with another one. African-American, this time; otherwise, same blazer, same size, same grimace.
“What’s the problem, fellas?”
“No problem,” said Flattop. “You just come along with us.”
I stood my ground. “What for?” I said with a smile.
He reached out and locked a big hand onto my upper arm , squeezing like a vise, sending a dull ache all the way to my fingertips. His hard little eyes searched my face for pain. “Listen , Mr. Private Dick…” he sneered. “You just…”
I took a slide step to the right, putting Flattop between me and his partner , jerked my arm free, grabbed his thumb with one hand, his wrist with the other, and commenced introductions. Something snapped like a Popsicle stick. His mouth formed a silent circle. When I let go, he reeled backward, stumbling hard into his buddy as he danced in circles, gasping for air and staring at his hand.
“Whoa, whoa,” his partner chanted.
“You want some too?”
He reached for the inside pocket of his blazer. I froze. He flipped open a black leather case. His picture over the name Lincoln Aimes.
“Hotel security,” he said quickly.
Flattop was still turning in small circles, eyes screwed shut, cradling his damaged hand, whistling “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” through his nose.
I shrugged. “All you had to do was say so, fellas.”
He rolled his eyes in the direction of his partner. “Lance wanted to,” he said with a sigh. “You know, he—”
His explanation was interrupted by a familiar voice rising from behind me.
“And what’s this?”
Marty Conlan had put in his twenty-five years with SPD and then gotten himself a steady job. He’d been the security chief for the Olympic Star Hotel for the better part of ten years now. Other than having an ass that was cinched up tighter than a frog’s, he wasn’t a half-bad guy. “These belong to you, Marty?”
He ignored me, glowering instead at the twirling Lance.
“Did he attack you?”
I don’t think Lance heard the question . He was otherwise occupied, making noises like a suckling pig and hopping about like a weevil.
Conlan turned his attention to Lincoln Aimes. “Well? Did he?”
Aimes thought it over. “Not exactly ,” he said.
“Did you identify yourselves?” “Not exactly,” Aimes repeated. “I thought I told you two—” This time, Aimes interrupted. “Lance wanted to…”he began.
Conlan waved him off, checking the lobby, whispering now. “Jesus Christ. Take him down to the staff room. Call him a doctor. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
We stood in silence as the pair made their way around us, heading down the hall in the opposite direction from which they’d been trying to move me . “All they had to do was identify themselves,” I said.
“Yeah, Leo. I know . You’re famous for being the kind of guy who comes along quietly.” He heaved a sigh. “Come on up to the office for a few minutes, will ya? We need to talk.”