volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

into Lake Washington. They get shot and tossed into dumpsters.
Babies get born and left in bushes. Fires get started that burn
up sleeping families. Guys with butcher knives attack homeless
children in cardboard boxes. It is not inconceivable that Old
Guy could blow off his face, drag him inside, chop up his body
and—over a period of time—dispose of him bit-by-bit all over
Seattle as little doggie treats.
That’s only speculation, of course. Meanwhile, what Roy
knows for a fact is this—: nobody in this building would lift a
finger to help.
They sure as hell wouldn’t call the cops.
Not that the cops would come if they did; they’re only here for
the Straights.
Roy’s forehead glistens again. He really, really needs to pee.
Really.
He raises his arms in helpless surrender.
“Please, mister, don’t—”
He hears himself begging and hates what he hears, but life is
precious—even his—don’t ask why.
“I dint—I wouldn’t. I won’t. If you’ll. Please, just. Let me
go, I swear—”
“Get inside, an’ shut up,” Old Guy growls. “Keep your hands
where I can see ’em.”
It’s always been like this for Roy—he always does what he’s
told. He doesn’t need a gun in his face to convince him.
Roy steps inside the apartment and stands in the middle of the
room.
Scared as he is—and he is scared—he still manages to notice
how much bigger Old Guy’s place is. He hears the door close.
Off to his right is an archway that opens into an adjoining room.
Old Guy has two rooms! Roy had no idea there were bigger
apartments in the building.
Behind him, Old Guy clicks some of the deadbolts home.
Roy is his prisoner.
Roy vows the next time he takes a shine to somebody’s
tunes—if, indeed, there is a next time—which he doubts—he
promises to keep the news to himself.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 1