Spiral

his right elbow under the shirtsleeve, my thumb and middle finger lightly probing on each side of the joint for the right spot. The one the unarmed-defense sergeant showed us in the sawdust pit back in Military Police Officer Basic.
    When Cascadden squeezed harder still on my throat, I pinched my fingers into the flesh.
    His right hand went limp against my collarbone as his eyes bugged and his face drained of color. Then he folded over at the belly, drawing in a ragged breath. When Cascadden let out the breath, he wheezed.
    I said, ”This amount of pressure, you almost can’t think from the pain, right?”
    One abrupt nod.
    ”A little more pressure, and you’d drop to your knees, maybe throw up all over my carpet here. Are we communicating?”
    Another nod, more abrupt.
    ”All right, Cascadden, the difference between us is, I’m doing this to you only because you ran your routine on me first. I didn’t ask for the job I’m doing here, but I’ll do it, and things might be better for both of us if you could see your way clear to cooperate. If you can’t, though, just stay the hell away from me, and save the rousting for the college kids come Spring Break. Okay?”
    An even faster nod than the first two, almost as though his head wanted off his neck.
    I let go of the elbow, and his arm drooped to his side. Still doubled over, Cascadden stumbled backward a few steps, his left hand going up to the right elbow, massaging it tentatively. ”Mother-fucker... Mother- fuck -er.”
    ”Sticks and stones, Cascadden. Now get out of here.”
    He turned and awkwardly used his left hand to open the door, letting the spring carry it shut behind him rather than slamming it as he had on his entrance.
    That was when I caught myself in the mirror over the bureau. Grinning in a way I never thought I would.
    The way that says you enjoyed what you just did.
    * * *

    I recognized him, but I also realized I’d have had a hard time describing him.
    The nervous desk clerk was handing an older woman an envelope across the counter, using his hands to give her some kind of directions. He was about five-nine, with fine features and hair slicked back with some kind of gel. I waited until the woman walked away before going up to him. When he caught my movement, he looked up, smiling professionally.
    But only briefly.
    I said, ”Busy morning for you, huh?”
    ”Uh, yes. Mr.... uh—”
    ”Oh, come on now. You can’t have forgotten already? You had it right ten minutes ago when you spoke with Detective Cascadden.”
    ”I don’t think—”
    ”Unfortunately, though, Cascadden is a little free with his information. He let slip how firm you were about a certain personal... conviction.”
    The clerk flinched.
    I said, ”What’s your name?”
    ”Damon.”
    I leaned into him over the counter. ”Damon, the problem with information about any kind of conviction is, once you share it, things can get out of hand.”
    A nod.
    ”I don’t intend to share this information any further, but I want something in return.”
    ”They don’t pay me enough here to—”
    ”Different coin of the realm, Damon. All I want is advanced notice from you.”
    Hope and confusion both. ”Notice?”
    ”Of any trouble headed my way that you sniff out first.”
    ”Trouble.”
    ”That’s right. Either Detective Cascadden or anybody else. You think you can do that for me?”
    Damon glanced around before nodding. Vigorously.
    ”I’m going out now.”
    ”Uh, have a nice day.”
    ”I’ll try to, Damon. I’ll really try.”

    Mitch Eisen’s office showed an address in what I thought of as the southeast quadrant of Fort Lauderdale. I used the shore route A1A to reach it, partly because I wanted to get the hang of handling the Cavalier but mostly to clear my head of the feelings Kyle Cascadden and Damon had left in me. Watching people jog, race-walk, and roller-blade along the oceanside path helped, especially with the beach, turquoise water, and swaying palm trees as backdrops.
    South of Broward Boulevard, I turned back west until I found a strip mall lying between the right avenues. There was no sign on the three-story building that read like the business name of a rock group’s manager, maybe because the Dunkin’ Donuts and Mail Boxes, Etc., on the ground floor had taken up all the available advertising space. I parked the Cavalier across from the short line buying fresh-brewed coffee and fresh-baked health food.
    Between the two establishments, I found