Gilded Canary (13 page)

“Over this way, by the shed,” Tommy grunted, and 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.

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.