The Steel Ring

by R. A. Jones

  “Gee,” Aman commented, lolling his head over the back of his seat to stare upside down at the imposing skyscraper as their cab continued to race toward its destination.

  “He must have a great practice.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  The ring was about to come full circle at last.

  Below ground, oblivious to what had just transpired above, Cal Denton was seated at his usual spot in the subway station, strumming his guitar and singing for his supper.

  He had quickly become a fairly popular and easily recognized fixture throughout this part of the subway system. In part this was due to his unusual appearance.

  Growing up on a hard-scrabble farm in west Texas with his pa, his nearest neighbors had been a pair of Kiowa Indian brothers named Lighthorse working equally inhospitable spreads. Their children had been Cal’s only playmates. They especially liked to play “cowboys and Indians” – with Cal invariably being assigned the role of the hapless cowpuncher doomed to “die” at the hands of the noble red men.

  He didn’t mind, especially since more often than not he had been able to best them in contests involving wrestling or running. He also enjoyed learning from them about their Native culture; leastwise, the little bits of it that hadn’t already been drummed out of them by the whites.

  With his dirty blond hair already at a length traditionally favored by the Plains tribes, Cal had decided to further affect a stylized Native look to make himself stand out in a crowd.

  Around his neck he wore an Indian necklace he had once bought for a daughter of one of the Lighthorse brothers; Sally Lighthorse had clearly wished to accept it but had reluctantly given it back to Cal, sure and fearful that her father would not approve of her accepting gifts from a white boy.

  This had been young Cal’s first bittersweet encounter with both the joy and sorrow that love can bring, and he often still wondered what had become of she who had been the object of his doomed affections.

  Cal also wore a skin-tight top cut so as to expose most of his muscular arms, save for his wrists, which were covered by tanned leather gauntlets. A silver concho belt circled his trim waist, and tight pants were tucked into fringed moccasin boots.

  To add an exclamation point to his fashion statement, Cal had taken to applying a broad, black, horizontal stripe of paint across the middle of his face. With his “war paint” on he was sometimes a bit fearful looking for the youngsters, who would often hide behind the legs of their parents – until he introduced them to his companion.

  That companion could usually be seen perched on his shoulder: It was a brown and white ferret he had purchased in a pet shop upon arriving in the city. Allowing children to pet him was all it took to chase away their fears and melt the hearts of both them and their parents.

  None of the thousands of daily commuters could have told you Cal Denton’s name, but most would have known of whom you spoke if you made reference to the “Ferret” or the “blond Indian” who sang for his supper down in the subway.

  Coupled with the fact that he was a passably good musician and sang with earnest conviction, Cal had quickly won over a small but appreciative following.

  In keeping with his faux Indian image, he usually sat cross-legged on the floor in one corner of the loading platform of whatever station he had chosen that day as he plied his trade. On the floor at his feet rested a frayed felt cap, into which the more generous passersby would occasionally toss a coin or two.

  At the moment he was in need of all he could get, having spent most of his ready cash the night before – foolishly, some would say – to attend a big band concert in New Jersey highlighted by Harry James and his Music Makers.

  Cal wasn’t sure if the group’s new lead singer – a skinny, rather homely kid named Sinatra who’d joined them earlier in the year – had what it took to be a star; but the band itself had sure sounded sweet.

  Cal had grown up with a natural inclination toward music, and fondly remembered many nights spent on the front porch picking out a tune while his dad accompanied him on the harmonica.

  Since coming to New York, he’d taken to hanging out in Tin Pan Alley with other musicians whenever possible, picking up musical and performing tips from them, jamming, and sometimes even landing a one-night gig at one of the city’s many clubs.

  He had just finished performing a number for a group of Canadian sailors on leave, delighting them with a racy little tune called “Slue-Foot Sue”; nor were the sailors stingy in showing their gratitude for the entertainment. They had been especially appreciative of the bawdy new lyrics of his own design Denton had inserted into the song.

  Glancing down into his hat, Cal estimated he’d already made enough to pay for that night’s lodging in one of the Bowery flophouses. Next he was hoping for decent supper money, and just maybe enough besides so he could also take in a movie.

  When the Clock’s agents had smuggled Cal out of Iraq, they had also offered to give him sufficient funds on which to live until such time as their leader would call on him again. Pride had compelled Denton to decline the generous offer. The Clock had likened it to an attorney’s retainer, but this hadn’t made any difference to Cal.

  He may not have much jack to show for his own efforts, but he was still glad he hadn’t accepted the money. He had even insisted on working in the hellishly hot engine room of the ship that had carried him on the final leg of his journey to America as a means to offset the price of his passage. He’d paid his own freight since he was a younker, and he saw no reason to do otherwise now.

  Still, being only human, he couldn’t help but wish at times that he had more than the distinctive steel ring on his right hand to show for his encounter with the masked man.

  If he had, he might not have to save money by following a diet that consisted primarily of soup and the occasional “slug burger” – a dish made by adding pieces of day-old bread to hamburger meat to stretch it out and make it go farther.

  But it was the money thus saved that often allowed him the luxury of taking in a night at the movies, and he did love movies. This, too, was a carryover from his childhood. His dad had always loved the “flickers” as he called them, and he and his boy had enjoyed many a Saturday afternoon together watching the exploits of Fairbanks, Navarro, William S. Hart and Tom Mix.

  He’d had good parent, had Cal Denton, and not a day went by that he didn’t give thanks for that fact. But when life’s too hard, death’s too easy. His ma was worn out and gone by the time he was six, and he was but fourteen when the hard and unyielding dirt of Texas swallowed up his pa.

  Cal’s own life since then had been plenty hard as well. But he was bound and determined to show it that he was harder still.

  At the moment, he’d just finished performing a lively rendition of “You Are My Sunshine”, which had earned him a smattering of applause but no coin. Most of the small group who had been listening now began to drift toward the train that was pulling into the station.

  As always, he kept one eye out for subway cops. Mayor LaGuardia thought of performers like Cal as being no better than panhandlers, and had banished them from the streets. Nor were they much less likely to be rousted if they went underground.

  Cal resented being lumped in with shiftless beggars. Jobs and the money that came with them were still in mighty short supply, but Cal never begged for either. He thought playing for your supper to be a time-honored tradition.

  But he didn’t have the police under his control; LaGuardia did.

  Still, even here, the ferreting skills he had developed and perfected in the Middle East came in handy. An honest, hard-working copper took home damned little reward for putting his life on the line, and therefore greatly appreciated those rare pleasures a man like Cal Denton didn’t mind scrounging up for him: a small flask of Irish whiskey, an occasional cigar that normally cost more than a nickel, a bag of candy to take home to the kids and the missus. It helped that he genuinely liked the flatfeet, and they him.

  So it was
that Cal had reached a working arrangement with most of the stalwarts on this beat. But the occasional newcomer, the rookie not yet versed in the ways of the world, could still cause him trouble, so he remained vigilant.

  Two men lingered near him. They were an unsavory looking pair, and Cal barely spared them a second glance until one of them spoke.

  “I don’t think you’d make it very far on Major Bowes Amateur Hour, kid,” he said. The sneer that split his lips revealed brown, rotting stumps instead of teeth, and carried a challenge Cal chose to ignore.

  “You could be right, mister,” he said nonchalantly.

  “I don’t think he could even get on the Major Bowes show,” the second man snorted. He wasn’t as big as his companion, but there was an emptiness in his eyes that indicated he was the more dangerous of the pair.

  “Why don’t you two music critics dry up and beat it?” Cal growled, fighting to keep his growing anger in check.

  “Hey, buddy,” the man with the dead eyes said, ignoring or missing the warning inherent in Cal’s tone of voice. “D’ya know you got a rat sittin’ on yer shoulder?”

  The two ne’er-do-wells giggled like grotesque school girls: Cal didn’t need his enhanced senses to smell the pungent odor of cheap booze that was on their breaths and oozing from their oily pores.

  “Dog here’s not a rat,” he corrected calmly. “He’s a ferret.”

  “A what?”

  “A ferret.”

  “Then how come ya ta call ‘im ‘Dog’?”

  “‘Cause that’s his name.”

  “Sounds pretty stupid to me.”

  “Go chase yerself.” Cal’s eyes narrowed, and this time even a drunkard couldn’t mistake the danger signs coming from him.

  “Say, mister,” said the man with the bad teeth, “we didn’t mean no offense.”

  As if to show his desire to make peace, the man dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a dime, leaning forward in preparation for dropping it into Cal’s hat.

  Instead, he snatched the hat from the floor and took off running with it.

  Nearly as quickly, Cal braced his back against the station wall, brought his legs up under him and bounded to his feet. It was not the fleeing felon upon whom he kept his eyes, however, but rather his dead-eyed partner.

  With good cause, as was quickly proven. The thug’s hand had already flashed into his coat pocket and came out clutching a switchblade knife. As fast as the stiletto blade flipped out, Cal was faster still. He swung his guitar with both hands, smashing it against the thug’s shoulder. The instrument splintered and broke at the neck, slamming the thug against the wall.

  The man maintained his balance, though, and his grip on the knife. For the first time, life and light now flickered in his eyes, sparked by gleeful thoughts of murder. Holding the switchblade underhanded, he lunged toward Cal.

  Cal sidestepped smoothly, grabbing the assassin’s wrist with his left hand. With his right hand, he savagely thrust upward at the point of the thug’s elbow. With a crack nearly as loud as a gunshot, the bone snapped.

  The dead-eyed man shrieked in pain, dropped the knife and fell to his knees, sobbing like a baby.

  Certain he was no longer a threat, the man called Ferret lost all interest in the thug and now turned his attention to finding the knife man’s thieving companion.

  It took but an instant for his animal keen eyesight to home in on the felon, running toward the first car in the subway train that was even now preparing to leave the station.

  Determined to regain his hard-earned money, Ferret flashed across the platform. A subway attendant yelled fruitlessly at him as, hardly breaking stride, he leapfrogged over the nearest turnstile.

  Seeing that the doors of the subway car were beginning to slide closed, he quickened his pace. Gauging the distance, he knew the doors would shut before he could reach them. If he kept running.

  Instead, he left his feet completely, launching himself forward in a headfirst dive. The doors began to close even faster.

  His head and shoulders cleared the portal and he began to tuck into a roll. As he did so, he felt the doors behind him clip the heel of his right foot. He rolled once across the floor of the car, coming up to his feet on the opposite side.

  That door was now closed as well – and through its glass he could see the thug who had robbed him. The man had not stopped inside the car, but had continued on through it and out the other side.

  He stood now on the opposite platform. He was holding Cal’s purloined hat in the crook of his left arm. With his right hand he was waving good-bye to his victim as the train pulled forward from the station, already beginning to pick up steam.

  For a second, Cal thought he saw another familiar figure on the platform, but his attention quickly swung back to the thief. The toothless grin he saw on the felon’s face stung Cal to the core.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed, slamming his open hand against the door in frustration.

  Knowing he now had no chance of catching the thief, he hung his head and turned back toward the interior of the subway car.

  He was not alone. There were six other men in the car. Judging by their faces, they were of various races, but each was dressed identically in long, black coats over equally dark clothing. Each was staring at him. Each was slowly walking toward him.

  Each was pointing a pistol at him.

  “Futz,” Cal muttered, realizing he had been deliberately lured into a trap. “Wotta sap.”

  “You got that right,” one of the assassins snarled, grinning wickedly. “And now you’re a dead man.”

  To the killer’s surprise, Cal also smiled.

  “Everybody dies,” he said.

  And then the Ferret sprang into action, leaping right into the midst of the gunmen. His first target was the one who had spoken to him. He pushed the thug’s gun aside, spun and stepped in close to him, and brought one elbow up into the hood’s chin. Teeth shattered as the man’s head snapped back and slammed against the wall of the car.

  Bullets began to fly wildly now, uncaring as to their target. Ferret grabbed a wrist, then spun around. The gun went off, hitting a fellow assassin. Ferret spun again, still holding the gun-toter’s wrist. He was now behind the man, just as yet another gunman fired. The bullet penetrated the chest of the thug Ferret was using as a shield.

  As life fled from his body, the thug’s finger tightened several times on the trigger as he spasmed toward death. The shots he fired roared wildly through the car.

  By sheer happenstance, one of those bullets tore through the front glass of the car and into the driver’s compartment ahead. The deadly slug hit the subway driver between the shoulder blades. The innocent victim convulsed and pitched forward, never knowing what had hit him.

  As he did, he fell against the throttle switch, opening it fully. Gradually at first, then more rapidly, the train surged forward at its maximum rate of speed.

  Ferret could feel the train as it lurched forward and picked up speed, but he couldn’t afford to pay it more than passing notice.

  Before the bullet-riddled thug in his grasp could collapse to the floor, Ferret shoved him into two of his co-conspirators, sending them staggering back.

  Acting on pure instinct, Ferret dropped to one knee. As he did, a gun blazed to his left, sending a bullet cutting through the wild tangle of the street musician’s hair.

  Pivoting, Ferret shot an arm straight out. His fist connected with the groin of the shooter, doubling him over in pain. As he bent, Ferret grabbed the collar of his coat and yanked down hard. The gunman’s head banged against the floor and bounced back up. Unconscious, he flipped and fell senseless to one side.

  Half the shooters were now accounted for, but Ferret dared not relax for an instant: A single bullet would be all it took to kill him.

  His life was saved by the runaway train when it took a curve at too great a speed. The subway cars tipped slightly, throwing off the aim of yet another killer and causing his shot to go wide of its int
ended target.

  Ferret leaped across the car before the killer could trigger another round. Ferret’s hand came up under the thug’s chin, cupping it and pushing his head back so fiercely that it crashed through the window of the subway car. His head remained lolling outside the window as inside his body fell limp.

  Looking through the shattered glass, Ferret could see how fast the train was moving by the speed at which the tunnel’s wall support beams appeared to be flashing past. He didn’t know why the train was moving so fast, but he did know something was terribly wrong.

  Two killers yet remained: the two into whom he had thrown the body of one of their compatriots. They had regained their footing and both now got off a shot at him.

  Ferret spun sideways. He could hear one of the bullets, creating its own tiny sonic boom as it rippled through the air in front of him. The second shot he felt, as it gouged a shallow but stinging furrow in his back. He couldn’t allow either assailant to get off a third shot.

  He crouched and spun his leg: as it hit the ankle of the thug on his left, the gunman’s legs flew out from under him. He landed hard on his shoulder, causing his finger to contract on the trigger of his pistol.

  The shot roared up and to the side, and the slug passed clear through the skull of his fellow gunman. Blood and brain matter sprayed and the slain killer flopped heavily to one side.

  Horrified by what he had accidentally done, the prostrate gunman was momentarily frozen. A moment was more than enough for Ferret to pounce on him, grab him by the hair and slam the back of his head against the floor of the car repeatedly.

  Remaining crouched, Ferret’s eyes darted back and forth, seeking out any further danger. There appeared to be none immediate: Of the occupants of the car, only he remained moving.

  But he heard screams from elsewhere.

  The train was beginning to shake and rattle as it roared down the track at uncontrolled speed. The screams were coming from passengers in the cars behind him as they were being jostled and tossed about by the train’s erratic passage. The vibrations he felt through his feet and legs told him the train was in danger of jumping entirely off the track.