Something didn't feel right.
Dickson looked at the note - 108. He squinted at the sign above him - 108. He turned to witness the empty cobblestone street around him. This was the place alright.
Why did it feel like he wasn't supposed to be here?
Dickson knocked on the door of 108 with the transcribed rhythm: knock, knock; knock, knock, knock. The store appeared to be your standard off-brand, second-hand clothing store. Looked unassuming enough from the outside, but the detective followed his evidence, and it pointed to something sinister.
He waited a while, patient. It was Sunday after all and by law, no store should be open on Sundays. The while passed, and the door opened.
A haggard old lady, her hair whispy and her body skeletal, poked out with her bony head. "You a cop?" She squinted.
The frankness of it made Dickson chuckle. "I'm a friend of Harry's," That was the last clue the note gave for the clothing store on 108 and Park. Dickson hoped it would be enough.
For now, it seemed it was. The skeletal lady closed the door, then ushered the detective in with hurried motions. Once inside Dickson was amazed by how well-kept the place was. If this was a front, it was a believable one.
"You come for the dope?" The woman asked, wringing her hands.
Dickson was in no man's land now. He needed to tread lightly. "Yes." The detective remembered another drug bust where he was undercover. "But, I was told not to accept the first package."
The old lady wheezed out a chuckle. "This is your first time here, eh?" She looked at him with the measuring look of a seamstress, which she very well might be. "Alright." She said, waving for him to follow.
They went behind the counter, where the lady poked around the top drawer., then behind a curtain, then through a rusty old door. In the small room, there were bags; lots and lots of bags. The smell of weed overwhelmed him. Weed? Dickson wasn't here for weed.
The woman opened a bag and held it up for Dickson's inspection. "Take a whiff of this, dearie."
Dickson couldn't say no, he would have to elaborate and poke around later. When in these situations, one must act unassuming. The smell of the bag, however, was strong. Too strong. It made Dickson take a couple of steps back. He could feel his legs wobbling.
The next thing he felt was a sharp pain in the back of his skull.
And darkness.
When he came to he was confused and bound. A sharp light swung above him and an old desk before him. The bond was made of rope, tightly woven. His vision was clearing up slowly and his head hurt like hell. He soon saw he was the only one in the small room, bags of flour stacked on the walls around him.
What happened?
He wouldn't have to wait long to find out. The door soon opened, and two men in suits entered. One sat opposite Dickson, the other stood to the side. The one opposite him opened a folder and started to take out pieces of paper with Dickson's personal information all over them. What the -
"This is you?" He pointed to an image. Not just any image. An image of Dickson undercover, taken during Dickson's last drug bust.
His heart stopped.
"W-what..."
"This is you." It wasn't a question this time. "Nicolas Dickson. Born March 1st, 1981 at St. Cyril's Children's Hospital. Your mother was a nurse, your father was a service worker turned drunk. You joined the force when you failed to join the college football team because of a torn meniscus." Dickson said nothing. "And not you are here, attempting to close down my operation."
"How do you -"
"Let me tell you how this will go Mr. Dickson." The man crossed his arms. "You will soon be administered a shot that will knock you out. A bag will be placed over your head and you will wake up in the clothing store. You will tell Mrs. Grenchen a hearty sorry. And you will leave. Then, you will tell your pals on the force that you found nothing and that you're lead was off."
"Like hell, I'll -"
"Oh, and you will tell us who gave you that note. That too."
Dickson frowned, stubborn. "Or what?"
Another folder opened, Johny's and Sindy's smiling faces looking up at him. "Or you and your little ones will disappear." The man said in the most nonchalant way possible.
"You will never get away with that... You don't think they'll follow up on this case if you do that?"
"They will." The man shrugged. "They'll find nothing. It will be a hassle to reallocate. I grant you that. But nothing to lose sleep over. What I suggest is cleaner, less bloody." He shrugged again. "Better for both sides I wager?"
Dickson could hear himself gulping. "If I say yes -"
A sharp pain in his neck and darkness engulfed him again.
...
"Wake up, dearie." The old lady stood above him, her face concerned. "Did my boys hurt you?"
Dickson got up from the floor, he was in the clothing store. He looked at the clock on the wall, it was nearly dawn. He had been captured for the entire night.
He knew he shouldn't have come here... he felt it...
You should always listen to your gut.
Thinking of what he had to do twisted it even more. "I'm..." The detective nearly choked on his words. "I'm sorry for the commotion."
"Of course you are." She patted his hand. "Be on your way now. I will have to open soon."
Dickson found himself on the street outside 108 and Park. Bewildered. Confused. And for the first time in his life, out of his element.
Damn this place.
This was A Picture is worth a Thousand Words contest entry. The contest image:
Obligatory shout-out to the 🍕PIZZA🍕 gang, 🤙 gang. 🤙
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Cover image source.
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