by Brad Latham
The Hook raised his glass in acknowledgment. “Greetings, Widwer,” he said.
The three of them stepped closer, till they were standing over him and Raff. “Why are you here?” One-Eye asked.
“Looking for you,” Lockwood replied, his hand ready to go for the .38 if necessary..
“I think maybe you better come with us.”
“I like it here,” Lockwood insisted. He glanced over at Raff. Raff smiled.
“I’m ready for anything,” he told Lockwood.
“We can talk better out in the back,” One-Eye urged.
“No thanks,” Hook demurred, and then he felt the cold steel against the small of his neck. Another waiter, probably. You really got service in this joint.
“Come on,” One-Eye told them. Lockwood and Raff rose and followed.
They walked toward the bar, then through the door Cracks had entered. It brought them into a dingy hallway floored with old wooden boards, the passage at its end opening into a large, sparsely furnished room. Cracks was seated there at a table, looking nervous.
Once inside, One-Eye spoke. “Cracks tells me you were asking about the Dearborn jewels. I thought I already told you to forget about them.”
The Hook regarded him coldly. “What’s your involvement, Levinskey?”
One-Eye flushed. “Shut up, you!” he snarled. “Search them,” he told the two men with him. The other waiter had evidently returned to his station, where, presumably, the tips would be better.
They got Lockwood’s .38 and the .32 he’d handed to Raff before they entered the club. One-Eye stood and considered them.
“I got no beef with you,” he told Raff. “But your boyfriend, that’s a different story.”
“We go together,” Raff told him. “Whatever happens to him, happens to me. We’re like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Or,” he added cheerfully, “like a right eye and a left eye.”
Levinskey ignored him. “You keep these two here for a while,” he said to the waiter, indicating Cracks and Raff. “Dave and Tommy and Charlie got a little business with this one. Okay,” he motioned to Lockwood, “let’s go.”
The Hook hesitated, then saw the three men in the hallway. One of them was pointing a shotgun in his direction. He nodded a brief goodbye to Raff and walked toward the three. “Dave and Tommy and Charlie, I presume,” he said as he neared them.
One of them grunted and waved him to another door, which was open to the outside. He stepped through, and they followed him. “Into the car,” said another, and held the back door open for him. It was a big Cadillac, shiny under the light of the lamp that jutted out over the club’s back door. He got in and two of them joined him, he in the middle of the back seat, the other two on each side of him. The third man moved into the driver’s seat, and in a moment they pulled away, the gravel of the drive crackling as the wheels spit it out.
The two in the back began speaking, apparently resuming a conversation that had been interrupted earlier. “Louis is a dumb nigger,” one of them said. “He got lucky against Schmeling.”
“Lucky? The way he tore Schmeling up like that? Schmeling’s the lucky one, being alive today.”
It was the driver’s turn. “Dave’s right. Look what he did to Harry Thomas and Nathan Mann, for God’s sake.”
“Bums. They were bums,” the first man sneered. “I coulda taken them in half the time it took Louis. Less. They wouldn’t a gone past the first round with a good white man.”
“You’re a fighter?” Lockwood asked.
“Shut up. Stay out of this,” the first man said. “Louis has no guts. All dinges are yellow.”
Dave flung his head upward in exasperation. “Yellow? He gets the piss beat out of him by Schmeling, and then comes back and wipes the floor with him in one round! That’s yellow?”
“Luck,” growled the first man, burrowing a little into himself. “Could be it was a fix, too.”
“I tell ya what,” Dave said. “Let’s put on the gloves, and I’ll be Louis, and you show me just how terrible he is, what you’d do to him.”
“If I was in your weight class, you can bet your ass I would,” the first man shouted, and for the first time Lockwood saw the scar tissue above his brows.
“So you’re both boxers,” he said.
“I told you, shut up,” the first man ordered. “You’re dead.”
“You can’t give the dead orders,” The Hook shrugged. “I’m a boxer too, you know.”
“Stow it, I tell ya.”
“I’m also half Negro.”
The first man stared at him in astonishment, then dismissed him. “Ah, g’wan!”
“I’m dead serious. My mother was white, my father colored.” That combination might get him.
“Hey,” the first man snickered to Dave. “He says his mother fucked for niggers.”
“That’s right,” Hook said equably. “And it made me a better man than you.”
“You gonna take that, Charlie?” Dave grinned.
“It’s true.” The Hook’s eyes were like a cobra’s as he spoke to Charlie.
Charlie stirred uneasily. “Bullshit.”
“Come on, Charlie. I can take you. You’ve got twenty pounds on me, easy, but I can take you. Because I’m half black.”
“Shut up.”
Dave chuckled in the dark. “See? I’m right about Louis.”
Charlie swung wildly, his fist rocketing into Lock-wood’s chest. “Shut up your mouth!”
The Hook wheeled toward Charlie, but Dave held him back. “You’re yellow,” Lockwood taunted, eyes blazing at Charlie.
Tommy, the driver, turned toward them. “Prove he’s wrong, Charlie. We’re gonna decompose him one way or another. Why not start with our fists? Or is this guy right about you?”
“He’s lying. He’s no nigger.”
“So what? He’s acting uppity, like one.”
“Okay! Okay!” Charlie exploded. He grabbed Lockwood by the jacket, pulling him close, the rage flooding his face with color. “I’m gonna teach you somethin’ you’re never gonna forget, Nigger.”
“You’re on,” Lockwood responded, coldly. “And after I’m done with him,” he told the other two, “I’ll take on the rest of you, one at a time.”
Tommy jerked his head around, his lips a sneer. Dave stirred a bit next to him. Hard to tell, Lockwood decided, whether it was uneasiness, or anticipation.
Another few miles and they pulled up at a small dock. Off in the distance, Lockwood could hear the roar of the ocean and catch an occasional glimmer of light as a wave crested, then fell. They must be at an inlet of some sort, he concluded.
“Okay, out!” Charlie snarled, holding the door open.
Lockwood stepped out and ducked, as Charlie sent a blow thundering at him.
He danced back a few steps. “Wait a minute, Charlie. You’re saying Louis can’t fight. I say he can. And we can do it fighting fair. Let’s work it just like a boxing match. Tommy or Dave here can keep track of the rounds.”
“Up yours.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you fight like a white man?” Hook egged him on, hoping this last would do it.
“I can outfight you any way you want, nigger-lover,” Charlie shouted. “I don’t think you’re a nigger, but I know you’re a nigger-lover.”
“You’ve got a watch, Tommy,” Lockwood said, “You can be time-keeper. And remember, Charlie, half of me is just like Louis. The better half.”
“Move on down to the dock,” Dave suggested. “It’ll be kind of like a ring.”
“Idiot!” Charlie snapped. “One jump and he’s in the water, and we’ve lost him.”
Lockwood sighed. The idea had occurred to him, too. What he really wanted now was a bed with clean, crisp sheets. Preferably with Stephanie alongside him, her warm, nude body close against his, gentling him. Come to think of it, possibly thinking about murdering him. Maybe I’m better off, Lockwood concluded, drily.
“Over this way, by the shed,” Tommy grunted, an
d they followed him.
“Remember, same rules Louis fights under. Clean punches, nothing below the belt, no kidney punches, no kicking, no gouging, no biting… no scratching,” Lockwood told Charlie, hoping to get under his skin a bit.
“What’ya think I am, some kinda pansy?” Charlie spat. “I knock your teeth down your throat with one punch.”
“Better make it the first one, Charlie,” Hook suggested. “You may not get a chance for another.”
Charlie growled, and shrugged it off, but Lockwood thought he saw a trace of uneasiness creep into his expression. Using the right psychology could be half the battle. The two of them removed their jackets and shirts.
“Okay, when I say go,” Tommy told them, and then counted off the seconds. “One… two… three… go!”
Lockwood expected Charlie to charge in, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved cautiously around his opponent, pawing at him. A tentative left or right would come in, and The Hook would brush it aside with ease. The Hook saw that Charlie, though outweighing him by twenty pounds or more, was maybe four inches shorter, and his arms didn’t have nearly the reach that Lockwood’s had. He spun out a left jab, and caught Charlie on the cheek.
“Ha! Got you, Charlie,” cried one of his pals.
Charlie said nothing, continuing to circle. He was apparently studying Lockwood, looking for openings, little defects in his defense. In all likelihood, Charlie was no amateur. The Hook shot another jab, but this time Charlie had his guard up before the punch landed.
“Now I know how you work,” Charlie breathed, eyes ugly. “Now I start to make mince pie out of you.”
Charlie began moving in closer, and Lockwood let him for a moment, then threw out another jab, which Charlie again brushed aside, but without the same results because a left to his midsection followed immediately. He doubled up, then fell into a clinch with The Hook. He ground a foot onto one of The Hook’s, and worked his head under The Hook’s chin, preparing to slam up against it, but Lockwood wrestled free, and moved back a few steps. “We need a referee,” he told Dave, but Dave just looked on impassively, working a toothpick in his mouth.
Charlie was in at him again. He was built a little like Galento, and fought like him, but with more finesse. Lockwood reached him with two quick jabs, Charlie reacting with more surprise than pain.
“Okay, that’s it for you,” Charlie murmured, and bore in. He threw a right hand that had his whole shoulder behind it, and it caught Lockwood on the arm, momentarily paralyzing it. No question, Charlie could hit.
The Hook danced off to the side, getting out a straight right that Charlie took on the side of the face. A globule of blood appeared almost immediately on his cheekbone. Poor Charlie. Looks as if he’s a bleeder, Lockwood decided, when “Time” came from Tommy, and the round was over.
The Hook sank back against the wall of the shed, and Charlie rested himself on the running board of the Cadillac.
“He gets the round, Charlie,” Dave said.
“Are you nuts?” Charlie screamed, using up precious breath. “I was all over him!”
“One… two… three… go!” Tommy called, a few seconds later, and Charlie was up and rushing. The Hook worked his body like a fullback, and Charlie shot past him, then was caught flush in the nose with a right as he spun around. He staggered back against the wall, shook his head, then came back in.
Lockwood held him off for a few moments, studying his craggy face. Lots of scar tissue above the eyes, it looked like. He picked at it with a quick right, then moved back. Charlie showed no reaction, just continued to close in. He threw a bolo punch, catching Lockwood under the ribs, but his right cross missed. The Hook straightened up, feinted a left, then a right, then a left, then barreled in two quick jabs at the ridge above Charlie’s eyes. A little trickle of blood began to form.
A crashing right caught Lockwood in the middle and he went down, stumbling over a rock as he lurched backward. Charlie sprang after him, but he scrambled out of the way, ducking punches, finally regaining his feet. Charlie thought he scented victory now and became careless, coming straight in. One, two, three, four jabs got him about the brows, and The Hook danced back, and surveyed his handiwork. Crimson was beginning to flow in a steady stream now, and Charlie was brushing awkwardly at his eyes.
“Time!”
Lockwood sank down where he stood, while Charlie stumbled back to the car and grabbed his shirt, trying to stanch the gush of blood.
“He gets that one, too, Charlie,” Dave told him.
“I’ll take care of you later,” Charlie growled, his breath coming fast and loud.
“One… two… three… go!”
Again Charlie came straight at him, trying to get it over with. He hurled a right that Lockwood could only partially deflect, and it caught him in the side, the pain immediate. In fury, he sent out an uppercut, and it caught Charlie on the bottom of the nose, rising up and splaying it, the blood spurting out.
“You better give it up, Charlie,” Dave shouted, as he saw the torrent, but Charlie came back in, full of blind rage now. The ridges over his eyes were starting to flow freely again.
The Hook danced away, circling to the right, Charlie shuffling after him, trying to get in the one big punch that would finish it all. Again Lockwood let loose with a series of jabs, and now Charlie’s face was awash in blood.
“That’s it, Charlie,” Tommy called.
“Shut up! He’s nothing! I can finish him!” Charlie yelled, one hand trying to clear away the blood, the other pawing the air.
Finally, one eye was clear, and he aimed a haymaker at The Hook, the sheer force of it breaking through the taller man’s defenses, hurtling into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
Lockwood stood gasping, and Charlie swung out again, but this time his vision was obscured by the unimpeded bleeding, and he merely grazed his opponent, fist brushing right shoulder.
He’d left himself wide open, and The Hook had his breath back now. A right went into Charlie’s breadbasket, then a left, then a right uppercut to his chin, then a left hook, and Charlie went down like a sack of potatoes, limp and lumpy, hitting the ground cold, and then lying there flat out, not even twitching.
Lockwood sighed and sank to the ground. “Your turn, Dave,” he said.
Dave stared at him, and then moved toward Charlie. “He’s breathing, but that’s about it,” he told Tommy, who was hanging back, looking uneasy.
“Charlie could fight,” Lockwood said, the sweat pouring off him. “You I can beat easy.”
Dave just stared again.
“Come on. You yellow, too?”
“You’re crazy,” Dave told him.
“Maybe. But I’ve got guts. Have you?” It was a desperate ploy, but it was the only way out that Lockwood could see. Unsettle them, question their masculinity, take them on, and then maybe… maybe fight his way out of this.
“He’s crazy,” Dave told Tommy.
“Sure. But what the hell, why not take him up on it? You’ve been saying you could use a little workout.”
Dave looked doubtfully back at Lockwood. “You’re gonna die anyway. Wouldn’t you like to go out a little more comfortable-like?”
“You are yellow,” The Hook sneered at him. “You’re bigger than I am, heavier than I am, but you’re afraid of me.”
Dave studied him briefly, then slowly began removing his upper garments.
He dropped them into the car, and walked back. Charlie was still out. “I’ll hold the gun for a minute,” he told Tommy. “You move Charlie out of the way.”
Tommy shrugged, and handed the shotgun to Dave, then bent down and grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. He heaved, and slowly the inert Charlie moved over the terrain, his head bumping against a couple of rocks as he was dragged for ten feet or so.
“Okay, gimme the rifle,” Tommy told Dave. He cradled the weapon in his arm and began calling off the seconds.
“One… two… three… go!”
The Hook looked
at Dave and decided the thug was probably right. He must be crazy. Dave was all muscle, and big. Like Charlie, he had all the moves of a pro, Lockwood could see that. The Hook glanced longingly at the dock, and the water beyond. If only he could run those few yards, plunge into the bay. He was a strong swimmer; not likely they’d find him. His gaze moved back to Tommy and the shotgun he was holding so casually. No way he could beat that. Probably he was crazy, doing what he was doing, but if he tried anything else, the likelihood was that he’d be dead.
Dave danced in, then back, and The Hook noticed he was just a bit awkward in his movements. It takes more than muscle, Dave, he said to himself. You’ve got to be able to move.
Lockwood sent out a left jab to the head, then a right, and Dave slipped them both. In return he uncorked a roundhouse right that sent up a breeze as it whizzed past Lockwood.
The Hook stung in a quick right while Dave tried to regain his balance, catching him on the side of the jaw and rocking him. He slammed a left into Dave’s exposed bicep, feinted with a right, then threw a left hook that ripped into the bigger man’s gut. A right, then a left and another right were picked off, as Dave got his guard up.
The Hook danced back, surveying his man. Damned if he didn’t look fully recovered.
Dave came at him, both hands up, protecting his face. Lockwood aimed for the stomach, but a left lashed out at him, catching him on the forehead, rocking him back.
“Nice shot!” Tommy called out.
Dave tried it again, hands high, and this time The Hook feinted to the stomach, then drove a punch straight through Dave’s defense, but doing no damage, as it landed on his upper chest. Another one like that, a little higher, Lockwood thought.
“Time.”
Lockwood slumped to the ground as before, right where he’d been standing, but Dave jogged back to the car and then perched himself, apparently unconcerned, against the fender. He seems to be in terrific condition, Lockwood thought sadly. No way I can wear this one down.
A noise was heard, and they all looked in the same direction. It was Charlie, finally beginning to stir.
“One… two… three… go!”
Dave danced eagerly in, muscles rippling in the moonlight.
