stung by the city

The door rolled up, filling the back of the cube van with a gray light that stung the Detective's eyes despite its typical Vancouver haze. Two large men climbed in and mercifully blocked out the gray again as they got closer. They took the Detective by his arms and dragged him out onto gravel. He didn't have the strength to lift his head high enough to look around. His feet couldn't keep up so they dragged behind.
A door opened and gravel turned to worn industrial grade carpet. Jagged gray to fuzzy gray.
"Hislop?"
Fingers grabbed his hair from behind and pulled his head up until he saw a small man with a mean face in a gray sweatshirt under a leather vest. He recognized the smooth wood of a small fishing club in the man's hand a moment before it came up to crack him across the face.
"Who do you think you are, Hislop?"
Another crack from the club.
"I'm not--"
Another crack.
"What were you thinking?"
Crack.
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. Please don't hit me anymore."
Though his eyes were still bleary from the gray daylight and teary from the beating, the Detective felt sure he saw the meanness in the small man's face drain away. Blank eyes stared back at him. Then the mean came back. Then the club came back. Then darkness again.