Warning: This work has been rated 18+ for language and violence.
Winslow felt a bit of faintness coming into his head as he processed Reggie’s request, first wondering if the agent had managed to drug him, and then blaming the sickness on a lack of food and an overconsumption of alcohol. He pushed back on the arm offered to him, instead quickly opening the door to grab a breath of air. The detective only consumed a small amount of air before he felt his throat burning and the lack of food was trying to come up. With coughing more and more, Winslow couldn’t breath, leading the ever present Reggie to ask, “Winslow, are you okay?”
The detective choked on his own breath for a few more seconds before spitting into the street and pulling himself back into the car. A concerned glance from Reggie made him feel a bit guilty. Winslow shouldn’t have been so weak to let any sort of fit happen - especially something coming from something far worse that would concern his friend.
“It’s fine, Reggie. I just haven’t had much on my stomach this morning,” Winslow managed to choke out.
“You mean beyond whiskey?” The agent asked with a quick sigh hanging at the back of his throat. The sigh was loud enough for Winslow to clearly hear Reggie’s disappointment and he thought for a second about what kind of failure he must have looked like. Winslow was supposed to be a war hero, but he was just a washed up spy working as a two bit detective.
Even with his head between his knees, Winslow could clearly imagine the green eyes piercing into his back. He slowly straightened up his neck and leaned into the edge of the seat. If the door latch had been less trustworthy, Winslow would have feared tumbling out onto the street, but was too dizzy to compare the pros and cons. Even with this dizziness and fog sitting in his head, there were so many thoughts running through his head. They soon circled back to a single thought and he straightened himself back into a painful position to say, “Reggie, you better not have fucking drugged me, again.”
“Do you think so little of me to think that I would drug you, Mr. Southern Gentleman?”
“I think that’s exactly what you would do, Mr. British Asshole.”
“Then you would be exactly correct my dear friend, but I am only doing this to protect you.”
Winslow mildly felt Reggie’s smooth hands on his arms as the agent was holding him up. He managed to lean against Reggie while the car was rolling into motion. The slight bit of movement made his stomach churn even more than before, with the pain ricocheting across his entire body. Once more, Reggie’s voice rose out of Winslow’s disturbed silence to faintly say, “You just have to trust me, Winslow. You just have to keep yourself calm so you don’t have some sort of fit.”
The arm keeping Winslow in his semi-upright position moved away for a moment, replaced with the obvious pressure of a leather glove on his bare hand. These gloved hands lowered Winslow down onto his side on the car seat as he realized that the car had stopped again. The details were barely with him as Reggie was speaking once more.
“Just keep yourself still for a couple of minutes. I’m going to go take care of some business because I had the feeling that you weren’t going to be willing to compromise the evidence.”
Winslow tried to voice his thoughts but his throat felt dry as he tried to scream, “You son of a bitch.” Even if he couldn’t express the sentiment, it was still running heavy through his head as he wanted to get his hands around the agent’s neck.
While the inside of the car slipped out of focus once more, Winslow could hear Reggie explaining something in the background. There was a fine buzzing in his ears that prevented him from hearing anything more. Among the sounds that were quickly filling the cab, he heard a car door slamming from outside the Plymouth. Looking out the open side door, Reggie was visible, along with a couple of thugs in clean cut suits.
While Winslow could see different stars and shapes that circled around Reggie, he could not clearly make out the scene happening outside of the car. He tried to make his mind refocus by biting his tongue and looking straight into the action. Studying the suited thugs only allowed for Winslow to question the glistening tie pin of the shorter man. That eagle with that red circular halo and green eyes was a clear reminder of the one that often hung over his desk. A particular piece of mens wear often accompanied by a shout about Winslow needing to be a better team player…it had to be Captain Jones.
The thought, son of a fucking bitch, was what ran through the detective’s mind this time.
Winslow tried to lift himself off the bench seat but his arms collapsed into a jiggly mess as he rolled onto the rough carpeting. The smell of cigarette smoke and cologne was sharp in the fabric that the detective found himself planted against. He pushed his hands into the door jamb, slowly finding enough balance to bring himself to his knees. With all of the focus that went into this slow movement, Winslow could barely listen to what was going on in his environment. There were the slight whispers in the background of the outside party moving around, with brief glimpses of, “What are you gonna do with the detective in the car?”
But the said detective still wasn’t focused on what this could possibly mean for him. With this lack of paying attention, Winslow was completely unaware of the gun butt that slammed into his skull. He didn’t feel the pain until the car was back in motion. And in a moment more, Winslow was being thrown out the door of the moving Plymouth De Luxe and into the alleyway.
Winslow slowly felt his hand up the wall and then let it all slip away as the sunlight started to blind his eyes.