by Brad Latham
The Hook jigged forward, then back, then circled to his right, Dave echoing his steps, now keeping a little more distance between the two of them. He’d finally realized he had the reach over Lockwood and was using it to his advantage. He threw a few jabs, making little contact, but setting up his rhythm.
He feinted with a left, then a right, then crashed out a straight right. The Hook ducked, moved inside, and rammed a left to the belly. It was a rough punch, but Dave took it well, skipping back a few steps, hands going, while he regained his breath.
Lockwood was tempted to goad him, to say something to get him going, maybe throw him off, but he realized it would be foolhardy. At this point he had to save his wind.
For a moment, his knees sagged, and he felt bone-weary.
He shook himself, trying to fight off the feeling. Can’t give in. Not now. He plowed toward Dave, then stopped abruptly, his movement disconcerting his foe and causing a right to whistle by harmlessly. Again he aimed for the throat, and again he missed it by just a bit, his knuckles now sore as once again they’d hit clavicle. He moved back a few steps and then edged to the right.
The Hook never saw the punch. He’d blinked for a moment, the weariness hitting him again, and in that instant the fist exploded in, flush on the jaw. He hung there for an instant, then toppled.
“Three.”
“Four.”
Lockwood wondered where he was, his hands tentatively searching out the ground.
“Five.”
His eyes began to clear, and he saw two feet pointed toward him, a yard apart, planted firmly on the sand.
“Six.”
Dave. Now he remembered. He was fighting Dave.
“Seven.”
He had to get up. He couldn’t remember why, but he had to get up.
“Eight.”
He was on one knee, cobwebs still clouding his brain. Up. All the way. He had to get up all the way.
“Nine.”
He was up, wobbling unsteadily. Dave was coming at him, right fist cocked.
“Time.”
Dave dropped his hands, glared at Tommy and then The Hook, then swung around and sauntered nonchalantly back to the car. “I’ll get him next round,” he told Tommy.
“You won both of ’em so far,” Tommy told him.
Something to drink. Lockwood’s mouth felt like the Sahara, although his body was awash in his own fluids. “How about some water?” he gasped to Tommy.
Tommy just chuckled. “Why waste it on you?” he asked. He looked down at his watch. “Almost time now. One… two… three. Go!”
Lockwood was on his feet, desperately summoning up… not just strength but alertness. He had to be at his best to have any chance at all and that meant mind as well as body. He opened his eyes wide, trying to expel the weariness. Again Dave had his hands up high, advancing steadily on him.
The Hook breathed deep, once, twice. He feinted with a left, then a right, then two lefts in a row. Dave just kept on coming.
He did a little dance, then stopped, his legs not responding the way they should. Again he feinted, once, twice, his feet planted firmly against the ground. Dave smiled, and threw a few exploratory punches, one of them barely missing Lockwood’s forehead.
One last try. The Hook aimed two in a row to the top of Dave’s head, hoping to throw in a third to the Adam’s apple when the guard moved up just a bit.
But it didn’t work. His timing was off now, and Dave merely backed off from the punches, then advanced on him all over again. A few feet away he heard the sound of vomiting. Must be Charlie.
Dave tore off one punch, then two, aiming for the head, but Lockwood was able to slip them, and in return got in a solid smash to Dave’s solar plexus.
Dave, looking more than a little pained, backed off, and Lockwood, encouraged, bore in on him. He reached him with a right to the ribs, and now Dave began to break into a sweat as he struggled to regain the momentum of the fight.
“You cocky bastard! I’ve had enough of you,” he shouted, and rushed.
It was his undoing. This time his hands were up just a little too high, and The Hook skipped the feints, jolting a left straight into his opponent’s throat, stopping him dead.
Dave’s eyes bulged as he fought for breath, and Lockwood ripped one, then two, into the mark, further paralyzing his breathing apparatus. Dave’s legs began to turn to rubber, and The Hook belted a left flush onto his nose, Dave dropping his hands in shock.
Lockwood took careful aim. An uppercut sailed out, all of his weight behind it, its target Dave’s invitingly large chin.
The blow made a three-point landing, hitting exactly where it should, and Dave straightened up, then dropped, like a giant redwood felled by a timberman’s axe.
Tears of weariness welled up in Lockwood’s eyes, and, rocking with exhaustion, he turned toward Tommy. Tommy had the shotgun trained on him.
“What’s wrong? Afraid you can’t take me either?” Lockwood whispered, too gone to give it full voice.
Charlie stirred. “Kill ‘im! Kill the bastard!”
Tommy aimed the shotgun.
“Not the gun, stupid! Beat the crap out of ‘im! Look at him! He’s half-dead now! Gowan! Gimme the rifle and kill ‘im!”
Tommy considered a moment, looking at the drooping Hook, whose face was haggard in the false dawn, perspiration coating him, trousers ragged and stained. “All right,” he said, and stripped down to his pants and shoes.
“Here’s the watch,” he told Charlie.
“Forget the watch! Just nail him!”
Tommy wasn’t quite the opponent the other two were. He was big, but Lockwood could see he was an amateur. Nonetheless, at this point, he was probably more than enough for Lockwood to handle. Again, The Hook thought longingly about the comfort of the bed in his hotel room. Just to lie down, even for a second or two….
“Get your hands up, buddy,” Tommy said, and Lockwood realized he’d just been standing there, wide open. He stumbled back a few steps, getting his hands up in some semblance of defense. It was all he could do to hold them up there, both of them drained by fatigue and the blows they’d received.
Tommy tapped out a few punches, all of them falling far short of the target. He really had no technique. Lockwood tried to make quick work of it, forcing his body to respond while it could. He feinted once, then hit toward the midsection, but the blow landed without force.
“This sucker can’t hit,” Tommy laughed, emboldened. He moved in a little closer, and his next two punches were not quite as far off the mark.
The Hook shuffled to the right, then back to the left, searching out his enemy. Tommy was wide open in both directions. The problem was, how to take advantage of it, with two arms that felt like lead weights.
“Get ’im! Get ’im!” Charlie urged again. Dave was sitting near Charlie now, hand carefully stroking his windpipe.
Tommy swung out, and this time he accomplished what he’d set out to do, reaching The Hook and tumbling him backward. He backed off and let Lockwood get up.
“Wha’d joo do that for? Kill ‘im!” Charlie screamed. “Kill ‘im or I’ll blast the both of yez!”
“Stow it, Charlie,” Tommy snapped. “One more word from you, and I’ll—” he turned back toward Lockwood. “Okay, pallie, I’ve stalled around enough.”
The Hook again realized he was just standing there, swaying, arms down. His heart was pounding, his eyes half closed no matter how he fought to keep them open. Tommy was coming at him, and there was only one thing left to do.
He put it all into one punch, driving straight in, and it took the younger man off guard, his eyes astonished as he saw the fist coming at him, too stunned to do anything, just watching, watching as it closed in, all in a split second.
Tommy went back, back, back, legs moving automatically, then failing him as he struck heels against a log, and fell, unconscious, on the sand near the dock.
The Hook found the shed, and leaned against it, too tired to th
ink of what to do next.
“Stupid son of a bitch, Tommy.” It was Charlie. “A schoolboy could’ve took him!” The sun was coming up now, and Lockwood could see the fresh clots of blood covering much of Charlie’s face. Bleeder indeed.
The shotgun swung in The Hook’s direction. “Mister, I don’t know who the hell you are, but I don’t know anyone who ever deserved to die more.”
Time for instinctive self-preservation to come into play, Lockwood told himself with grim amusement, knowing his exhaustion had long passed that point. Instead, he just stood there and waited, watching the muzzle of the shotgun.
“You don’t get no last words, nothin’. I’m taking you out right here.”
“Charlie, you can’t do it like that… the cops… ,” Dave said in a strangled voice.
“Shaddup. I wanna watch him die. I wanna see the blood pour outta all the holes I’m gonna make in him. I wanna show him he can bleed, too!” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and took aim.
Lockwood heard the blast and stood there, waiting for it to be over. Instead, he saw Charlie’s eyes widen, and his body push forward, one step, two steps, then start to sag, astonishment written all over the face as blood began to flow out of the part of his chest that was no longer solid, but instead a dark, gaping hole.
The rest of them, Lockwood, Dave, and Tommy, were looking back beyond Charlie now, ignoring him as he crumpled to the ground. They watched, immobile, as a dark form moved toward them, into the light.
It was Raff. Nonchalant as ever, a rifle held lightly in one hand as he ambled forward.
Dave went for the gun at his waist, but stopped halfway there. The rifle was already in position, aimed dead at him.
“H’lo, Hook,” Raff smiled, as if he were there for a game of croquet. Lockwood just looked back at him gratefully, and slowly, his back against the shed, sagged to the ground.
“You all right?” Raff called, Tommy and Dave still between him and Lockwood.
The Hook nodded almost imperceptibly, even that motion nearly too much for him.
Raff nodded in return and then directed his attention to the remaining two gunmen. “Stand up,” he told them, “and face away from me.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, they obeyed.
Raff searched them, removed two pistols and a knife, then backed toward Lockwood, keeping his eyes on the two.
“Can you keep this trained on the gentleman at the right?” he asked him, offering one of the automatics, his eyes never leaving Tommy and Dave.
“Yes.” The Hook raised his knees, then perched the gun there to steady it, both hands holding the weapon.
“Okay.” Raff straightened up, grabbed some rope that was hanging from the shed, then led Tommy away to a tree where he trussed him up, quickly and efficiently. Satisfied Tommy was secure, he did the same to Dave. With not much interest, he walked over to where Charlie had fallen, nudged him a bit with his foot, and said to Lockwood, “This one seems okay the way he is.”
The Hook nodded and rose. “Let’s go,” he said. Sitting for those few minutes had done him good, and already his body was beginning to recover. “How did you get here?” he asked.
Raff led him to the Cord. “It took a bit of persuasion, but luckily the fellow they’d left guarding me was easily persuaded. First, I persuaded him with my knee, then with a handy two-by-four. Then, after he decided it was time to wake up, I persuaded him by holding a Colt to his throat, on the theory it might help manipulate his vocal chords. Happily, my theory was correct, and he told me where I might find you.” He looked at Lockwood and smiled. “Those were three lovely fights.”
“What?”
“Those were three lovely fights.”
“You saw them? My fights?”
“Well, most of them. Missed a bit of the first. All that traffic on the way here, you know.”
“You son of a bitch. All that time, you were there! And you just sat there and watched!”
Raff laughed. “I’m mad for sports. Especially boxing.”
Lockwood just stared at him, and then laughed himself. Raff put an arm around him, and they strode to the car, laughing together, hard, then harder, then helplessly. “Goddamn,” Lockwood finally said. “You’re a good man, Raff. Nuts, and despite it all, still a suspect, but a good man.”
Raff drove them back to the city. Stephanie was waiting in Lockwood’s apartment at the hotel and was full of concern and questions. But Lockwood said little, letting her bathe him and stroke him, reveling, finally, in the softness of the bed, Stephanie next to him, clucking over him. His bruised hands began to work at her clothes, clumsily, finally getting them off so that he could press her body against his. It soothed him for a while, and then he felt other stirrings, and they made love, slowly and quietly, grinding together until finally she, and then he, exploded. A few seconds later, he was asleep.
It was three in the afternoon when he awakened. The phone had rung, but when he answered, the line clicked off. “I’m going to see Muffy,” he told Stephanie, “and I’m seeing her alone.”
He showered, then dressed, then called Muffy. “I’m coming over,” he told her, and she offered no resistance. Stephanie, too, was compliant, sitting in an easy chair by the door, kissing his hand silently as he left.
CHAPTER
6
Muffy met him at the door, and she was looking good, very good. She was all in white, white shoes, white open-necked dress, her garb complemented by her shining blond hair and the deep tan of her face and body. “Hello, Mr. Hook,” she said, and her smile invited. “Come in.”
“How’s the engagement going?” he asked, not really caring.
“Fine. Jabber-Jabber was right. The crowds are coming. And they love me!” Her eyes were alight as she preened in a manner that Lockwood angrily realized he found attractive.
“I’ve got a few questions.”
“I bet you’ve got a few answers, too,” she replied, mischievously.
There was some fruit on the table by the couch. Lockwood picked up an apple. “Mind?”
“Eat anything you like,” she told him, archly, and sat at the opposite end of the couch, dropping her shoes and drawing her legs up, the flesh and the silk that covered them glistening in the light. Her legs were very long and very attractive.
Lockwood took a bite of the apple, the fresh juices of it springing into his mouth, his eye lazily roving over all of Muffy. “Jock Bunche. I know he’s got something to do with the robbery.”
Muffy went ashen. “Jock?”
“Right.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I do.”
She shook her head, and her eyes were all business now, sharp and clear and cold. “That doesn’t make any sense. Jock is a wealthy man. Why would he do that?”
“How do you know he’s wealthy?”
“Why—the way he lives!”
“How does he make his money?”
“Why, he—I don’t know—some kind of business—maybe imports—I don’t know,” she finished lamely.
“Jock has a reputation as a bad boy.”
“Oh, he has an eye for the ladies.”
“For the Mob, too.”
“Jock? Oh well, he might have some friends—but gangsters are fun. Lots of my crowd are friendly with gangsters!”
She really was beautiful. All-American rich girl beautiful, Lockwood decided. She’s a bitch, no doubt of that, but it’s a tough thing to remember while looking at her. “There’s no point in our arguing this. Jock is rumored to have his fingers in a few pies. Gambling, probably rum-running back in the old days, maybe a few other things.”
“Mr. Hook, you said you had a few questions. About all I’ve heard out of you so far is declarative sentences. When do the questions begin?”
“All right.” He took another bite out of the apple. Luscious. The apple and Muffy. “What chance did Jock have to steal your jewels?”
Muffy looked exasperated. “I don’t know. And besides, I�
��m sure he didn’t. So there.”
The Hook tried a new tack. “Does Jock know Two-Scar Toomey?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never saw the two of them together? He never talked about Two-Scar?”
“Absolutely not.”
She rearranged her legs, and Lockwood temporarily forgot the next question. There was a hint of a smile on her face.
“Jock has a friend—an associate—a fellow with one eye,” he began.
“Oh. Johnny Apples,” she interrupted.
“You know him?”
“I’ve seen him around Jock’s club. He sort of manages it for him. But of course I haven’t been there in a while—since Jock and I broke up.”
“Why did you break up?”
“The usual reasons. I dropped him, of course,” she said with some satisfaction.
“What do you know about Johnny Apples?”
“Just that.”
“Nothing more?”
“Mr. Hook,” Muffy said in exasperation, “you’re really becoming quite tedious. Isn’t there something else we could talk about?” Again, there was a hint of mischief in her eye as she said this last.
“All right. Stephanie.”
“Stephanie? What about her?” Muffy asked, incredulous. Imagine, she seemed to be saying, asking about a maid.
“She seems to be involved in some way.”
“Mr. Hook, the more you talk, the more people seem to have been mixed up in my robbery. I don’t see how they could have got the jewels out of here, what with the crush at the door!”
He laughed. “Touché. All right, let me begin again. Stephanie has been acting rather oddly through all of this.”
“Oddly? How?”
“For one thing, she’s sort of attached herself to me.”
Muffy’s eyelashes fluttered. “Why, Mr. Hook, that doesn’t sound as if she’s acting at all,” she said, giving it a little exaggeration of coquettishness.
“She’s talked about a boy she knew—a lover, I guess—back in France. A very tragic story.”
“News to me.”
“According to her, the last man in her life.”
“According to me, not exactly so. I have great reason to believe that up until recently, she’d been quite generous with my chauffeur and butler. Exceedingly so.”
