Gilded Canary (14 page)

“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 think 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.

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.”