JUNK

The young man in the milk-chocolate-brown suit gazed with distaste upon the perp his partner was strong-arming into Cowley’s Rover. The vehicle had a smashed head lamp and a few bruises the chief of CI5 would doubtless be tempted to duplicate upon his own operatives. It was the perp’s fault and Bodie’s gaze was as close to a glare as his hauteur of the moment would allow. However, as his favorite suit, piping and all, was a wreck as well, he had to maintain a little more dignity than usual, so he merely gazed hard. A hard gaze from Bodie could strike deeper terror into guilty hearts than could the glare of many fiercer-seeming fellows, and he knew it.

Doyle, on the other hand, was growling, “in with ya!” His jeans were ripped but then, they had been before he’d been flung in the dirt. (His white sweater-jacket was soiled, and that hurt a bit, but he wasn’t as fastidious as Bodie.)

Odd: he’d chased the spry little man (more than a few paces ahead of Bodie, whom he’d rib later about letting himself get “soft and fat”) into the disused train yard, been met with a feeble punch, and karate-chopped the perp in the chest. Then, somehow, he’d found himself flipped, flying and flat on his back. The perp, having spent his wherewithal on this one heroic feat, had risen shakily, arms out in tae kwon doh defensive position, eyes darting uncertainly from Doyle to the snickering Bodie (he couldn’t help himself) and back to Doyle, already rising and dusting off his butt with a fervor that boded ill for the perp. As the two closed in on him he kicked out, catching Bodie in the chin and knocking him into a train car, where the piping was ripped half-off the notorious suit. The next kick missed Doyle, who grabbed the smaller man’s ankle and brought him down with a thud that Bodie quite frankly enjoyed.

The perp made the trek across the field, back to the injured cars, cuffed and chastened.

“That was one hell of a chase you led us, Kojak,” remarked Bodie, navigating the Rover through ugly London traffic. The ride was relatively quiet. Doyle stewed, Bodie regained his cool by counting recent amorous conquests, and Kojak made not a peep, but sat in the back seat, his arms stretched up to where his cuffs joined the metal ring at the top of the door. His eyes were often closed, but when they were open they moved over the suburbs and city as if he had not just barreled a stolen Jaguar through them (in the opposite direction) and smashed it into a standing train (causing his pursuers to brake just a little late). In answer to Bodie’s comment, he twisted slightly to look at him, opened his mouth and was brought up short by Doyle’s sudden reaction to the movement: the agent swung back to scowl threateningly at his captive, who shut his mouth and did not dare so much as to sigh.

“Stupid junkie,” muttered Doyle, turning back. “We know how to deal with junkies,” his partner reassured him.

The perp opened his mouth again and softly said, “Oh boy.”