The Man With The Iron Fists

by Steve Lee

  "And there's a letter for you."

  Sloane looked up, surprised.

  "Here…"

  She handed him an envelope. He ripped it open and pulled out the letter. The message was brief. It read:

  Let's talk. This morning at the old Johnson corral.

  There was no signature, just a clumsy sketch of a clown's face.

  Sloane crumpled the letter in his fist. Forgetting breakfast, he threw off the blankets and dragged himself from the bed. In two eye-blinks Kathie's surprise became spirited anger.

  "You get back in there this instant," she ordered.

  "No," said Sloane.

  He pulled his clothes from a chair, fingering the bullet hole in the back of his jacket. There wasn't much white left in his white suit.

  Exasperated, Kathie watched him dress.

  "And just where do you think you're going in your condition?"

  "Out," he said, pulling on his hat. "For some strenuous exercise."

  * * *

  The moment Sloane appeared in the doorway of the theater, the lookout turned and ran, dodging sidewalk loungers as he raced down the street. Turning off, he hurried down a narrow alley, passing under the gaze of two Chinese on the roof above.

  At the end of the alley, by the disused corral, Fang and his men were waiting. Fang gripped a double-headed hatchet. Others carried long-bladed knives.

  "He comes!" the lookout breathlessly warned.

  Fang gestured with his hatchet.

  "Get ready!" he barked.

  The Chinese scattered toward their hiding places. The lookout ran for the cover of a doorway. He cried out in sudden alarm as someone dropped from the roof directly in his path. The cry stopped the running men in their tracks.

  Folding his arms, Ching Lei stared confident defiance at them. Fang stepped toward the intruder, brandishing his hatchet.

  "What do you want here?" he snarled.

  "He belongs to me," Ching Lei coolly announced.

  "We can share the money," said Fang. "There will be plenty for all."

  Ching Lei shook his head. "I don't want the money. I want Sloane."

  Fang evaluated the situation and made a hasty judgment. "You are not a reasonable man," he said and waved his men toward the young Chinaman. "Kill him!"

  The Chinese closed in from all sides, hesitating when Ching Lei snapped into a fighting stance.

  He wheeled to the left as Fang raced screaming toward him, hatchet raised. Ching Lei threw himself to the ground and rolled, whipping Fang's legs from under him. Fang yelped, crashing into the dust, his hatchet flying from his hand.

  Ching Lei rolled onto one knee, saw a foot hurtling for his face. One-handed, he turned aside the blow, his other hand shooting out to grasp the man's ankle. Hauling him off-balance, he tossed the attacker to the ground.

  A foot smashed into Ching Lei's back as he rose, sent him staggering into a flurry of punches from another of the Chinese. He danced out of range, returning as quickly with a low sidekick. His victim fell to the ground clutching a shattered kneecap.

  Ching Lei turned, reacting to a cry from behind. But he had no time to avert the flying kick that smashed into him. Another jolt to his ribs as he fell against the corral railings. Clutching the top railing for support, he swung round to face his attackers.

  Fang was bearing down on him, face twisted with rage, apelike arms raised to chop at his neck. The hands clubbed down with bone-shattering force.

  To Fang's surprise, it was not Ching Lei's neck that snapped but the top rail of the corral fence. Ching Lei bobbed up beside him, chopping at the back of Fang's neck. Fang, pole-axed, was unconscious before he hit the ground, rails snapping beneath him.

  Like a trapped tiger, Ching Lei faced the rest of his attackers. A knife sliced toward his throat… Ching Lei sidestepped, grabbed his assailant's wrist and, twisting, brought the man's knife slashing across his own stomach. Hugging his guts, the knifeman crumpled, the sand reddening beneath him.

  From all sides, the others bore down on Ching Lei…

  * * *

  Sloane hurried down the narrow alley, his pace quickened by the fighting sounds from up ahead. Even as he caught sight of the corral with its scramble of twisting and lunging men, someone dropped from the roof, landing close by on his right. He stepped back fast — almost colliding with the man dropping on his left. Both men raised hatchets toward him.

  Sloane threw himself into the space between the two Chinese, twisting his body. The scissors-kick thrust a foot into each man's face. The man with the ruined eye uttered a chilling scream.

  More Chinese rushed at him. Cat-fast, Sloane moved among them, wheeling and parrying, choosing victims and striking. To him his attackers were no longer individuals but obstacles in his path to be speedily disposed of.

  A fist streaked toward him. His hand chopped down. There was a crack of breaking bone, a scream. The toe of his boot hacked into a soft groin. A sweeping kick slammed a pair of legs off the ground.

  Sloane recognized the hard pressed young Chinaman at the center of a storm of feet and fists. His fist lashed out, he butted a Chinese stomach and then he was through them, breaking into a run when he saw a knife curving above Ching Lei's head…

  The knife spun from a pain-flexed hand as Sloane's snapkick crunched into the owner. Ching Lei whirled round, looked into the face of the man who'd just saved his life.

  "This is a helluva long way to come for my dirty laundry!" said Sloane.

  Then there was no more time for words, only fighting as back to back they faced the tightening circle of attackers.

  Sloane had no way of knowing how many punches and kicks he landed against yellow bodies, how many bones he had broken or faces he had uglied. He was a machine that hacked and thrust, maimed and killed.

  When there was nothing left to hit, no further flesh and bone targets to destroy, he switched off the machine and once more became a man. He watched the surviving Chinese race away up the alley.

  "Look at them go! Reckon they found a chink in their armor."

  Smiling, he turned to his partner in combat, ready to shake hands. And was rewarded for his pains by a fist in the face.

  He staggered back, more surprised than hurt. Ching Lei moved after him, swinging a roundhouse kick. Sloane stepped inside it, battered the ungrateful Chinaman's solar plexus with three fast punches before the kick got anywhere near landing. Ching Lei found himself falling.

  He rolled to the shattered corral fence. When he sprang to his feet, he was clutching a length of broken rail. With a despairing shake of his head, Sloane watched him rush forward, swinging the rail.

  Fingers tensed iron hard, Sloane's hand shot out to meet the swing.

  Ching Lei stared in amazement at the rail in his hand, suddenly shorter by a foot. He saw Sloane standing motionless, waiting for his next move with that insufferable calm that made his blood boil.

  He moved again, thrusting the jagged end of the rail toward Sloane's face. Sloane swayed back out of range, then his hand flashed out and Ching Lei found himself holding two small useless sticks.

  Sloane ducked the splintered railing, dodged a high kick. He moved in, fists windmilling. Ching Lei didn't see the punches but he sure felt them. They pounded his face and body like bullets from a gatling gun and very soon he couldn't feel anything at all.

  Sloane caught the Chinaman when he slumped against him and lifted the dead weight onto his shoulder. He carried him over to a water trough, full of slimy water, green and stagnant. Sloane heaved him in, jumping back out of reach of the exploding water. Ching Lei fitted into the trough like a man in a coffin.

  With a sense of satisfaction, Sloane headed back for the Alhambra.

  Ching Lei flopped over the side of the trough, spewing out a mouthful of the foul smelling water.

  * * *

  The clown pulled a bright colored egg from out of Sebastian's ear. Pepe and his little sister Conchita shrieked with delight. The clown smiled. Life was good when childr
en laughed.

  Fang had nothing to smile about. Head bowed by failure, he watched the clown amusing the ragged, copper colored children. Behind Fang, on either side of him, stood Kurt and the big Mongolian. Uncomfortably, Fang wondered if they were guards.

  "This Sloane is not human," Fang explained miserably. "He fights like… like ten dragons!"

  "Dragons, eh," commented the clown without giving the Chinaman a look. The laughing children held his attention.

  "There ain't no such things as dragons," he said distantly. "You know why?"

  He did not wait for Fang's answer.

  "These kids know… they'll tell you. It's because people are smarter than dragons. They found ways of killin' off all them nasty dragons."

  He paused to pluck an egg from Pepe's nose. The children collapsed into helpless giggles.

  Carmello stood balancing the egg on his palm.

  "And that's what we're gonna do with the troublesome Mr. Sloane," he promised. "We're gonna be smarter than him. First, we'll get him out here, in the open, where he's just a man."

  "What are you planning to do?" Kurt asked. "Invite him to dinner?"

  The smile that accompanied the acrobat's challenge withered under Carmello's cold gaze.

  "He'll come," said the clown assuredly. "When we got somethin' he wants, somethin' he wants real bad…"

  "And then?" Khan asked. That was the part he was looking forward to, when they'd got Sloane, preferably alive.

  Carmello looked at the egg on his hand. His fingers closed round it, tightened… a yellow mess oozed from his fist, dripped onto the ground. "Then," smiled the clown, "we'll crush the dragon."

  * * *

  Jenny waited anxiously for Kathie to pass judgment on her new costume designs for the chorus girls. Kathie looked the designs over in silence, then handed them back.

  "They're beautiful," she said. "Just what we need."

  Jenny smiled her relief. "I'll get to work on them as soon as I can buy the material."

  "Come down to the office," Kathie suggested, "and I'll give you the money right now."

  "Fine."

  Jenny followed her out of the wardrobe room and together they walked along the corridor to Lemuel Prescott's office.

  Kathie was in a thoughtful mood, the Chinese girl realized.

  "Jenny, can I ask you something serious?"

  "Maybe," said Jenny softly.

  "Have you ever been in love?"

  Kathie felt foolish asking and quickly added, "I mean, really in love…"

  Jenny's expression deepened. "I thought so once," she said. "But now I know it wasn't love at all." She turned to Kathie. "How about you?"

  Kathie paused uncertainly by the office door. "I'm not sure," she said, opening the door.

  As she stepped inside, a hand smothered her mouth and she was seized in a powerful grip.

  Before Jenny could scream, she too was silenced and roughly overpowered.

  The shades of the windows had been pulled down and the office was in semidarkness.

  Twirling an ornate black cane, Carmello emerged from the shadows to examine the two girls held by Fang and the brutish Mongolian.

  "Good afternoon, ladies," he welcomed.

  * * *

  Sloane dropped some coins on the bar top and strolled out of Black Jack's saloon. He crossed the street and, entering the Alhambra, headed backstage.

  * * *

  Carmello wound a gag round Kathie's mouth, knotting it tight. He moved past her toward Jenny to give her the same treatment.

  Fang's eyes were drawn to the pretty Chinese girl struggling in Khan's arms. She looked familiar and he wondered where he'd seen her before. Then he remembered.

  "That's Ching Lei's woman!" he blurted.

  Carmello turned to him.

  "Who is Ching Lei?" he asked.

  "Him who helps Sloane…"

  Khan looked anxiously to the clown for his instructions. Carmello moved nearer to the girl. He touched her chin with the tip of his cane, raising her face to his. He studied her, smiling in a way so she could see the teeth in the back of his head.

  Jenny shivered.

  * * *

  A soft footstep behind Sloane alerted him he was no longer alone as he crossed the silent theater. He wheeled round.

  Ching Lei was crouched, ready to attack.

  Sloane shook his head wearily. "You know, you're beginning to get on my nerves," he said.

  Screaming defiance, Ching Lei charged.

  * * *

  The violent sounds in the theater brought Lemuel Prescott hurrying down the stairs to investigate. He moved briskly along the passage toward the auditorium. As he passed his office, he heard a noise from inside, a noise like someone stumbling and falling. He paused, listening.

  "Kathie?"

  No answer.

  He walked over to the door and opened it.

  Khan yanked him inside, slammed him against the wall.

  "Shut your mouth!" Khan warned before he could open it.

  In the murky light Prescott saw Jenny lying on the floor, head crazily tilted, blood rushing from her nose, eyes blank. He saw his. daughter, gagged, weeping. His florid face grew redder still.

  "You murderin' swine!"

  He rushed at Khan, punched the big man in the stomach, throwing all his weight into the blow.

  Khan laughed, amused by the smaller man's weak efforts. Then, like a man swatting aside a fly, he slapped Prescott across the room. Prescott collapsed against a wall. The impact winded him. Breathing hard, he struggled to his feet and launched himself once more at the Mongolian, arms outstretched.

  As he passed, Carmello wrapped an arm round his neck, shoving his swordstick deep into the fleshy part of the Irishman's back. Blood bubbled up Prescott's throat and overflowed onto his shirt.

  Kathie watched her father die. The gag muffled her screams.

  Sloane managed to turn Ching Lei's flying kick aside, taking the impact on his shoulder rather than his chest. But the impact was sufficient to knock him off balance, making him easy prey to the flashing roundhouse kick that followed. He hurtled into one of the theater seats, collapsed it.

  The hot-headed Chinaman was learning fast, he thought. Now he was going to show him this senseless fighting was the hard way to learn, hard as Sloane's own knuckles.

  Sloane rolled out from under the stomp Ching Lei tried to grind into his face. Ching Lei pushed his foot through the wooden seat of the chair. By the time he had shaken his foot free of the shattered framework, Sloane was on his feet and waiting.

  Ching Lei rushed at him, found his kick blocked by Sloane's leg before it could gather strength. His follow-up punch was flicked aside with a bon-sau. Sloane's return punch dented his ribs; a second punch brought him to his knees; a snapkick laid him flat.

  Hand clamped to bruised jaw, Ching Lei rose undeterred. Hooking his fingers into claws, he took up a tiger stance.

  Watching him advance, Sloane expected him to switch suddenly to a kick as he had done before. Instead, the Chinaman tiger-slashed for his eyes. He blocked the raking claws, found his own counterblow clawed aside in turn. A heel-of-the-hand blow caught him under the jaw. He gave ground, retreating before a flurry of punches.

  Against his back, Sloane felt the stage blocking further retreat. Gripping the stage, he jackknifed his body upwards, twisting both feet into Ching Lei's stomach.

  The Chinaman hurtled back, barreling through chairs. One hand closed on a broken chair leg. He hurled it at Sloane as he advanced again toward the stage.

  Sloane effortlessly avoided the chair leg and the entire chair that followed it. Next to arrive on the stage was Ching Lei himself.

  The two men silently faced each other, boards creaking beneath their feet as they shifted from stance to stance.

  Throwing himself suddenly forward, the young Chinaman cartwheeled, snapping first one foot, then another into Sloane's face.

  Sloane reeled, hurtling toward the painted backdrop behind. Canvas ri
pped and wood splintered as he crashed through and landed backstage.

  On his back, he saw the Chinaman hack through the backdrop, tearing it aside in his eagerness to follow up his advantage. He stood over Sloane, his expression one of triumph… triumph that turned to shock when both Sloane's feet thudded into his belly. He careened back into a wall, bursting through the door of Lemuel Prescott's office.

  Ching Lei sprawled on the floor of the darkened office. Sloane sprang in after him, fists ready to knock him down again.

  A curious expression on his face, Ching Lei scrambled up. Suddenly he seemed less interested in Sloane than in his own hands.

  They were slippery with blood.

  He looked down, uttering a wail of despair when he discovered the Chinese girl's broken body.

  "Jenny!"

  He fell to her side, repeating her name over and over. He shook her when she didn't answer. Her head swiveled on a broken neck. He crushed her to him in his arms and wept.

  Sloane was kneeling beside Prescott. Despite heavy loss of blood, the Irishman still struggled for life. Sloane raised his head, loosened his collar. With difficulty, the dying man spoke:

  "The clown… took Kathie…" A bitter smile tortured his face. "Funny… he used to… make me laugh… very funny…"

  He choked on a hollow laugh. His head fell back against Sloane, death veiling his eyes. Sloane closed the dead eyes with his fingertips, gently lowered the body to the floor. He stood, his face hard as metal.

  Ching Lei felt numb with grief and anger. Cradling Jenny's corpse, he looked questioningly up at Sloane. He wanted an easy explanation, Sloane realized, something that would make sense out of a young girl's death. Sloane had no such explanation to give him.

  Sloane took a bottle from the desk and poured two glasses of whiskey. One he pushed across to Ching Lei. The Chinaman rose to his feet, one hand gripping the desk. The two men looked into each other's face. They had hardly ever spoken, yet at that moment they knew each other better than most men can ever hope to know a friend.