Reese pushed himself up on one elbow, groaned, and fell back to the floor. He needed to get his bearings but couldn’t think past the heavy pounding in his head.

It seemed like only moments ago he’d been chatting up the witness…what was her name? Sally? Susan? Sabrina? No. It was… Sarah. Yeah, he’d been hired to keep Sarah safe and under surveillance until she delivered her testimony. How he ended up alone and face down on the floor was anybody’s guess. When the boss found out he’d screwed up an assignment as simple as babysitting a female witness, his reputation would be circling the drain along with his career.

He tried to stand, but vertical was not an option. What do you do when you can’t walk? You crawl – in a manly way of course.

On hands and knees he scuttled between dark tables and empty chairs, barely avoiding the unidentifiable globs decorating the floor. Damn, the carpet reeked. The stench of old fish, feet and beer made his stomach roil.

“Hey! You down dare. You trolling for change?” Two scrawny legs wrapped in black opaque stockings and sensible shoes blocked his path. He lifted his aching head, rubbed his eyes and studied the diminutive woman in front of him.

“Ms. Nakamura?” His voice was a cross between a lawn mower and a growling tiger. “Man, am I glad to see you.” Using his stellar powers of observation, he deduced he was scouring the floor of Ginger Origami, a Japanese restaurant he frequented around the corner from his house. “Did you see where my date went?”

Hands on hips, Ms. Nakamura leaned forward frowning. “Get off floor, Reese. Customers see you laying like dead man, bad for business.”

Reese felt his stomach do another cartwheel and ignored her request. “My date. Where is she?”

“You mean dat sweet gurl was sitting next to you before you slide down under table?”

“Yeah, that’d be the one. Where’d she go?”

“She left with man who pay for expensive Ginjo Saki. Good tipper, too.” Ms. Nakamura pushed her coke bottle glasses further up her short nose. “Don’t you remember?”

“I drank Saki?” Reese winced as his brain lurched into gear, the throb between his eyes sharpening. He had no recollection of sipping Saki with a stranger and he’d bet his last pay check the guy slipped a little sleepy-time powder in his drink before it was delivered to their table. Had he drugged Sarah too?

“You know, Confucius say man who can’t hold water shouldn’t drink from well.” She crossed her arms over her flat chest and pinched her narrow lips together in disapproval.

Reese’s mouth flew open, ready to defend, but after a second’s deliberation he decided to keep it shut. His head hurt too badly to argue his innocence and the longer he wasted time imitating a throw rug, the longer the distance grew between him and Sara’s captor. At the moment, finding Sarah was the only thing that mattered.

Rolling to his knees, he used a nearby table to help him to his feet. When the world tilted, Ms. Nakamura’s reedy arms flew out steadying him on his Doc Marten’s. “You gonna be okay, big guy?” Her voice grew heavy with concern. “Somebody I call come get you?”

“I’m fine. Just need a minute.” He picked up a glass of water deserted by the table’s former customer and gulped it down. Clearing his throat he asked, “The guy that walked away with Sarah, what’d he look like?”

“Ahhh, hard to say.” She hunched her shoulders. “Deez glasses don’t work too good all da time.”

That was the understatement of the year. Ms. Nakamura’s farsightedness was legendary. Day or night, she could hardly see her own hand in front of her face.

“Can you give me any details? It’s important.”

She sucked her bottom lip between her front teeth. “He short. Well, shorter dan you.”

Reese rolled his eyes. At six foot, four inches, most everyone was shorter than him. “Black, white, Latino…?”

“Hard to know. His head wrapped up and he wear hat for playing baseball.

“Wrapped up? In bandages?”

“No, silly. Black scarf. Skin weren’t white neither… He Akarui chairo.”

“What?”

“Akarui Chairo.” Ms. Nakamura’s gaze roamed until it fell on a butler’s tray in the corner. ‘Chairo. Dis color.” She pointed to a small cardboard box balancing on the tray’s straps.

“You mean tan?”

“Yeah, yeah. He colored tan.”

“Anything else stand out about him? Earrings? Tattoos? Missing teeth?”

Ms. Nakamura’s painted-on brows, like bird wings, fluttered to the center of her forehead. “Hmmm. His voice very, very high like woman’s and…”

“And what?”

“He smell funny. Like car gas.”

Bingo. There was only one thug-for-hire in their burg that fit that description. Pablo ‘Squeaky’ Morales. He boosted high-end cars when he wasn’t thugging and anyone who mistook his helium-laced voice as an open invitation to make fun of him, didn’t live long enough to tease him a second time.

Reese pulled Ms. Nakamura into a bone-crushing hug, lifting her off her feet. “Thanks, doll. You might have just saved a life and a career.”

“Put me down. You crushin’ me.” She smacked at his shoulders, the curling corners of her mouth betraying her fondness for him.

Reese released his hold and she slid down his big body until her tiny black shoes found purchase on the carpet. Wanting to compliment her, he bent to her ear and whispered, “Anata wa, furui mono to minikui, Fujin Nakamura.”

Ms. Nakamura’s head snapped up and her razor-sharp glare nearly sliced him in half. “What? Who teach you Japanese? You just call me old and ugly!”

Ooops! “So, sorry,” he muttered, bowing piously while picturing his hands around the throat of his practical joke-loving neighbor and teacher, Taro Fugiomi. Ducking his head, he staggered to the front door, swung it open and let his Doc’s beat the pavement.