The familiar double chime of the subway doors stirs me. My head envelops in a chemical fog, my eyes refuse to focus. I lean in through the blurred surroundings trying to decipher the warbled string of syllables running from the overhead PA.

“Avenue X / McDonald, next stop”

There is a moment, a rustling of old maps deep within my soured brain, and then the adrenaline takes over and the frantic questions flood in. Where the fuck am I? There is an Avenue X stop? On what Dobbs forsaken line? Where does that train line lead to?

The train, dim and empty, comes to a shambling halt. I take a long measured breath, summoning every scrap of strength and clarity I can, and throw myself at the opening doors. As I stand up, I notice a peculiar furry mass curled up in my lap. Unable to split my limited focus, I instinctively scoop whatever it is up and tuck it in to my coat. My dive for the exit proceeds in slow motion. The impatient doors nearly relieve me of my left foot as they close behind me.

I pull away clean and stumble forward. The rush of air from the departing train sends me further off balance and it is all I can do to execute an ungraceful tumble to the ground collapsing with my back on the concrete. Laid out prone, staring up into the black night sky, my muscles shiver and then give way. I can hear the faint rush of traffic far off in the distance. The station is silent. Lights flicker further down the platform but I am bathed in shadows. Did I have to jump out at an elevated, outdoor station? A crisp wind whips up under my overcoat. It nips at my legs even though the night air is thick and stale.

I reach down under the coat. I find that my pockets have been sliced open with razors. My wallet, phone and any other possessions are gone. I have been rolled like a common drunk. Far out in Brooklyn, apparently near the end of the alphabet, with no cash or phone and a head full of unwanted chemicals, getting home is going to be a bitch. I try to assemble some form of plan, but the first steps never materialize. Instead, the adrenaline burns off and I sink back down into the warm muck of unconsciousness.

***

I am stirred again, this time by a feral hiss and a string of mumbled expletives. Opening my eyes, all I see are bared fangs and a narrowed stare that belong to a rather pissed off cat. It is standing on my chest, digging its claws into my flesh. Fortunately, the beast’s anger is not directed at me. I make out the long shadows of someone standing over me. I crane my head back uncomfortably to find two of New York’s finest towering over my disheveled personage. One cop has his hand on his holster. I am not sure if he is afraid of the cat or me, but he is not taking any chances. His partner is cursing and shaking his hand in pain. I am assuming the pain is cat inflicted. The cat for its part is standing its ground with a menacing look and low growl.

“That thing better have all its god damned shots!” Officer CatBait is shouting.

His partner and I make eye contact. I try, from the rather awkward pose, to shoot him a casual shit-eating grin.

“What seems to be the hassle gentlemen? Is this not a reasonable place to get a night’s sleep?

***

The two cops pull both the cat and I up by the scruffs of our necks and drag us downstairs to a waiting squad car. Without money, papers or quick wits I cannot wriggle myself out of the situation. I am hoping a glass of water and a ride home lay at the end of this ordeal. That is more than I had to look forward to napping on the platform.

Once I am tucked into the back of the black and white I try to piece things together. It is clear that I have reached the ugly end of a Benzo blackout. I know this, because I had slipped myself Rohypnol some years ago. It had been a hairy situation. I needed someone to reveal information to me, but I did not want actual knowledge of said info. What was it about? When exactly did it happen? I cannot tell you. The stuff works that well. What I can tell you is that after that little adventure was over, the horrible saline taste in my mouth, the level ten dehydration and shrieking headache, the horrifying lost in the woods existential chill, it all felt exactly as it feels right now.

Could I have dosed myself again? Not likely. Not in the middle of a case and not without a chaperon to keep me out of trouble. I am still paying therapy bills for some poor old bird’s orangutan from the last time. No, someone definitely slipped me a mickey in the old school parlance. But when, who and after that why? Instead of facts and faces that could help me sort things out, all I have is a giant black void looking back at me.

The cops are talking at me, but I decide to play deaf and ignore them. I look over at the cat instead. He is sitting on the seat next to me, up on his front paws with a casual defiance that implies this is not his first time in the back of squad car either. I am certainly beginning to like the little scrapper. However, I have no idea where he came from. If he has been with me a while, he may be the only one with a recollection of the last twelve hours. I stare inquisitively into his large green eyes. I try for a moment to channel Sonya daytime TV’s pet psychic, but the cat is having none of it. He turns away to look out the window, embarrassed for both of us.

The car is stuck in traffic. I overhear the cops in the front seat jawing about a rash of wild dog attacks and a memory starts to glow gently in my hollowed out skull. I sit back and close my eyes trying to map the edges of the black hole where the last evening should be. I begin to pile what memories I still have up on the shore of the abyss. Demon dogs, rich man’s daughter, hipster cult, the visions are grim and their edges are jagged and sharp. Everything points to last night and last night remains an empty void. I shout into the void and do not even get an echo of my own voice for the trouble. Desperate and unable to think clearly, I look down at my hands and realize they are covered in what can only be blood, a lot of it, dried and caked up under my nails. I might be in deeper shit then I first thought.

***

“You’re telling me that you were the victim of a date rape? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting I’m pretty sure you’d go to your knees for a fifth of cheap rye and packet of Ho-Hos”

Lucky me. Officers CatBait and QuickDraw have stayed on to interrogate me. They are running some new offensive cop/bored cop routine on me. I prefer the classic duality of the good/bad version, but I am old fashioned.

“Listen I was slipped a roofy. I’m pretty certain it was not to take advantage of me womanly virtues.”

“Well, where were you when it happened, then?”

“Come on gentlemen, what detail in memory erasing narcotic is not coming across here?”

“Who were you with last night?”

“As I have said repeatedly, the last thing I remember is being in a bar on Grand Street around five o’clock waiting to meet a friend who never showed. I spoke to no one except the bartender, sat alone with my thoughts and few neat whiskeys.”

“Do you often get your drink on before sundown?”

“Only in the spring and summer months. For fuck’s sake I’ve told you I’m licensed P.I. Run my name and you’ll see.”

“But you have no I.D. on you.”

“Well no, I apologize for getting robbed on the train after someone drugged me. My bad! I gave you a list of people who will vouch for me.”

“Sir, what you’ve given us is a list of local bartenders who, little surprise, are not answering their phones at 10 a.m. on Sunday”

I need to clear my head and sort through the disparate fragments of the last few days. My only hope is to sort out the case I have been working on and use it to leverage my way out of here. Instead, I am trading witticisms with fucktards. I consider just going silent and getting my ass hauled back to the drunk tank, but there had been an obese drag queen down there warbling out an endless rendition of Easy Like Sunday Morning. Compared with that, endless inane interrogation looks to be the lesser torture.

Another officer comes in and hands a red folder to CatBait who takes time to read it over and then hands it QuickDraw who cannot even be bothered to open it.

“So, lab says the blood on your hands was not human”

It takes everything in my person to hide my relief.

“It appears to be goat’s blood. Know anything about how goat’s blood got on your person?”

“I’ve no idea; to be honest that is a little unsettling. But since that is cleared up, I guess I will bid you gentlemen good day…”

“Not so fast Swingshift.” QuickDraw, silent until now, suddenly stirs to life. “A prostitute was found ritually murdered in Prospect Park, the other night. I’m not an expert, but goat sacrifice would seem to be part of this voodoo and satanic shit that has been everywhere lately. We know that you have links to these deviant underground cults. We think that you may be tied to our dead hooker.”

“So we are admitting that I am who I say I am now?”

“Tentatively.”

“Well officers, unless your hooker was killed last night and more importantly her daddy was a goat, then I don’t think we really have anything more to discuss.”

There is a long pause. QuickDraw is done talking, but I watch CatBait’s mind grind through half a dozen ways to screw me over.

“Listen Swingshift you know how this works. We may think that you are psychologically unstable and send you for a seventy-two hour evaluation, or we may write up assault by feline charges with possible Rabies exposure and lock you up a while. Whatever we think is best, your rather peculiar reputation and colorful police file will back us up in front of any judge in the boroughs. So you can cooperate or this can get real ugly real fast.”

The realization that officer CatBait’s cliché riddled diatribe bears out a stark reality sends me clutching at my hair. All I need is an hour or so to lay out what I know and retrace my conclusions, but it is clear these two are not going to give it to me. They just want to string me up by a light post to quell the enraged mobs. For fuck sake, the real stark reality is that, at this moment, I would trade absolutely anything for a tall glass of ice water and a dimmer switch for the overhead fluorescents.

“O.K., I want to cooperate, but I’ll want my phone call and some water. Deal?”

***

I puzzle a few minutes at the ancient rotary phone in the hallway. The tall, serious guard escorting me does not look eager to help me. I know the number by heart but the button to dial muscle memory is hard to translate with my skull pounding.

“Rodriguez!” He sounds fresh for this early on a Sunday.

“Detective, it’s Swingshift. I’ve run into a bit of trouble down at the six-oh.”

“I’ve heard”

“Good news travels quick on a Sunday morning then?”

“Swingshift, you remember that whole debacle last fall with the state senators and the virgin sacrifices?”

“The Lalito ring, yeah I remember.”

“Well officer Jennings there…”

“Which one is Jennings the asshole or the daydreamer?”

“Fuck, man… he’s the asshole, and he’s also little Suzy Jennings brother”

I begin banging my head slowly against the ancient phone, both in frustration and to beat out the image of little Suzy’s corpse. There is a hand on my shoulder and I quick straighten up and wave my empty palms at the guard to show that I am all right.

“I’m having a banner string of luck this morning. Anyway you could help a brother out here?”

“I feel for you man, but I’ve got very little pull over there.”

“Well I may be on my knees, but I’m not empty handed here Rodriguez.”

“I’m listening Swingshift.”

“What if I could sort out the MacEndroe missing person, the dog attacks and score you points with occult division all in one turn?”

Rodriguez’s pause is for effect. Since he did not instantly reject it out of hand, he is going to take the bait.

“What do you need from me?”

“I just need you to get over here before they pin some dumb shit on me, take over the interrogation and bring me a massive, terrifyingly cold bottle of water.”

“This had better be fucking good.”

“Oh it’ll be good, trust me.”

I had rolled the dice. Now all I have to do is figure out how the MacEndroe case, the hipster cult and the shadow dog are connected. Then I need to sell it to the heat in a way that does not get me sent to Bellevue or run through the streets as a devil worshiper.

***

Rodriguez is a solid, stand up detective who works out of the 90th Precinct, my home turf. A while back, as the occult panic started to gain momentum, our paths began to cross with increasing frequency. At first, he made me for a hood, and then a geek, but after I threw him a few good leads, he begrudgingly surrendered a little respect. I certainly would not call us partners, but we tend to end up on the same side of a situation and if I absolutely have to deal with the heat, he is the man I turn to. For his part, Rodriguez is slowly warming to the notion that the world is a stranger place than even Catholic school teaches you.

Detective Rodriguez arrives in irrationally short order. From the look on my integrators’ faces, they were not informed of his arrival, but they are instantly aware that they have been beat. He drops a liter of water down in front of me so cold it has ice crystals floating in it. I am compelled to kiss him with full tongue right here. I think better of it and neck half the bottle instead. The near frozen liquid ignites a vicious brain freeze on top of the dull throb of the roofy hangover.

“Goddamit Swingshift, what did I tell you about mixing a bit of rough in with your goat fuckin’? I told you it would lead to trouble, didn’t I?”

Apparently, everyone is scoring points on goat-buggery today.

“I’ve bought you a discreet period of time in which you need to convince me you have answers to a vast number of the NYPD’s problems, possibly including the meaning of life. If I’m not fully blown away in short order, I’m turning you back over to these gentlemen and what I’m certain is a lengthy and growing list of charges that will keep you from fresh air for some time.”

It is both a show for the boys and a clear signal to me that he had laid his sack on the line and got little to play with in return.

“Any chance this could be a private show Detective?”

“No dice, Swingshift you’re going to have to strut for your supper in front of me and these two gentlemen.”

“Alright, but the tale is a hydra and I’m not known for my linear thinking, so I’m going to have to lay it out as it happened. It may take a while.”

“If it ends with the answers we need, I think we can put in the time. You have already made Jennings and Bryant here miss church, so it only seems fair you lay a nice parable on ‘em. Now get to it.”

I take a long cold pull from the water bottle, lean in for proper effect, and start the tale where it began. I only hope that by the end I will be able to deliver the answers I have already promised and keep the wolves at bay.