He Won't Need It Now Page 5

  The little guy shifted uncomfortably. “Aw, I didn’t mean anything,” he said. “We ain’t supposed to pop this guy, so I couldn’t let you do it, could I?”

  Clive took his hands away and said with a snivel, “But look how you spoke to me.”

  “Sure, sure, I know,” the little guy smiled with his tight mouth. “I’m sorry. There, I can’t say more, can I? I’ve said I’m sorry, that’s pretty generous.”

  Clive looked at the little guy earnestly. “It wasn’t what you said that upset me,” he said, “it was how you said it.”

  “I know, it was the way I said it, wasn’t it?”

  Clive began to cry again. He didn’t cover his face this time, but screwed up his eyes, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he said, “it was the way you said it.”

  “Quite a big shot, ain’t he?” Duffy said, leaning against the wall, watching with extraordinary interest.

  “You leave him alone,” the little guy said. “He’s all right, but he upsets himself.”

  Clive stopped crying and shot Duffy a look of hate. The other two followed his glance, as if just remembering Duffy.

  The little guy said to Clive, “You all right now?”

  Clive said he was fine.

  “Come on,” the little guy said to Duffy, “we’re wasting time.”

  Duffy said, “I’m disappointed. I thought we were all going to let down our hair and have a good cry.”

  The little guy giggled, then stopped and looked annoyed. “Let’s have the camera, we got to blow soon.”

  Duffy lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “I ain’t got it,” he said.

  The three stayed very still.

  “Listen,” the little guy said patiently, “we’ve come for the camera, and we’re going to have it, see?”

  Duffy shrugged. “I can’t help that,” he said shortly, “I ain’t got it.”

  The little guy said, “You ain’t got this right. I said we want that camera and we are going to have it.”

  “Sure, I heard you the first time. I tell you I ain’t got it.”

  The little guy looked at the other two and said, “He ain’t got it.”

  The youth drew his top lip off his teeth. “I told you you weren’t getting anywhere with this bastard.”

  Duffy pushed himself away from the wall. He began to wander slowly round the room. He didn’t take his eyes off the three, watching him.

  “You be careful,” he said to Clive, “you’ll be getting some false teeth mighty soon.”

  Clive looked at the little guy. “Turn Joe on him,” he said excitedly. “Go on, beat the sonofabitch to hell.”

  Duffy was quite close to him now. He seemed to be carelessly looking for something. “Don’t call me that,” he said viciously, and his right fist came up from his waist slap in Clive’s mouth. Duffy was nervous of the big bird. He thought with the other two out of the way, he might stand a chance with him, but he wasn’t sure.

  Clive went over, taking the chair with him. He lay on his side, hissing through his hand, that he had clapped to his mouth.

  The other two were too startled to move. Duffy hit the little guy on the bridge of his nose. It was an awkward punch because the little guy was sitting, but it had plenty of steam behind it. The little guy tossed back in his chair and went over with a crash. He lay there completely stunned.

  Duffy stood, his hands a little advanced, his elbows pressed into his waist.

  The big bird looked at Clive and then he looked at the little guy. Then he grinned, showing very white even little teeth. “Jeeze!” he said hoarsely, “you’re going to get it now.”

  He came in, weaving and bobbing. Duffy saw at once that he was right out of this fellow’s class. He jumped away, and retreated until his heel thudded against the Wall. The big bird came flat-footed but sure. His head was down, with his chin well tucked into his shoulder. Duffy let one go. It was a good one, coming up with a whistling sound. The big bird shifted a little, not much, but just a little, and Duffy’s fist hit the air. Then the big bird hit Duffy under the heart. It sounded like a cleaver going into a side of beef. Duffy thought the house had fallen on him. He felt his knees sag and the big bird let him come into a clinch. Duffy wound his arms round him, holding him so he couldn’t hit him.

  The big bird let him recover. He said, “That was a good smack, huh?”

  Duffy broke from the clinch, stepped back quickly, collided with a small table and went over backwards. He scrambled to his feet, hurriedly. The big bird gave him plenty of time, then he came in with that flat-footed shuffle, slipped Duffy’s punch and banged Duffy in the ribs again. That punch hurt like hell. Again Duffy sagged at the knees; this time the big bird swung one to the side of his head and Duffy went over on his side and lay there. He landed quite close to the little guy, who was just sitting up. The little guy took a gun from inside his coat, holding it by the barrel, he lent forward and hit Duffy in the groin, hitting very hard.

  Duffy curled into a ball, but he didn’t yell. He bit his lip right through, but he didn’t yell. Then he felt his inside coming up into his throat and he vomited.

  The little guy shifted hastily. “Look,” he said, “the bastard nearly had me.” He got quite excited about it.

  Clive said with approval, “Now you’re doing something.”

  They stood round Duffy, watching him. The little guy pressing the bridge of his nose tenderly with his fingers, his eyes watering. Clive knelt on the floor with his lips swelling. He could feel that his front teeth moved a little when he touched them with his tongue. Joe stood with his hands hanging loose, like a dog deprived of its bone.

  Duffy raised his head slowly. His face glistened with sweat. The shaded light from the ceiling lit his greenish skin. He was feeling awfully bad, but he held on to himself low down and rode with the pain. The blood ran down his chin from his lip. He could feel the salty taste in his mouth.

  The little guy said, “Give.”

  Duffy didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust his voice. He lay there, his eyes on the little guy, hating him.

  The little guy said, “Ain’t you had enough?”

  Duffy still said nothing.

  The little guy raised his hand. “Soften him a little,” he said to Joe.

  Joe smiled. He really took a pleasure in being tough. He put out an arm and his hand closed on Duffy’s shirt front, then he heaved a little. Duffy came up, like a cork out of a bottle. He gave a little grunt of anguish. His open hand smacked Joe across the eyes. Joe blinked. “Did you see what he did to me?” he said.

  The little guy said, “Full of fight, ain’t he?”

  Duffy swung at Joe feebly, his punch wouldn’t have knocked down a child. Joe grinned. “Get wise to yourself, bright boy,” he said. “You ain’t hurting no one.”

  The little guy said, “Just pat him around a bit, will you, Joe? We ain’t got much time.”

  Joe said, “Sure.” He held Duffy at arm’s length and hit him between the eyes. His fist traveled at a tremendous speed. Duffy could see it coming, but he couldn’t avoid it. Something exploded in his brain, and a bright flash of brightness blinded him. He wanted to lie down, but something was holding on to him.

  The little guy said, “Now don’t hit him too hard, just pat him around.” His voice sounded a long way away to Duffy.

  “I know just what you want,” the big bird said, and he started to slap Duffy’s face with heavy resounding blows with his open hand.

  The little guy said to Clive, “If this makes you feel bad, you can turn your head.”

  Clive said, “I’m feeling fine. I wish I was as big as Joe.”

  The little guy patted his arm. “I don’t,” he said.

  When Joe got tired, he said, “Shall we try him now?”

  The little guy said, “I think so.”

  Joe let go of Duffy, who fell in a heap on the floor. His face was a sight. The little guy knelt down. “Where’s the camera, bright boy?” />
  Duffy mumbled something, but his mouth was so swollen that the little guy couldn’t hear what he said.

  “Lay him up on the couch, Joe, we’ll have to get him into shape.”

  Joe pulled Duffy across the floor by his arm and dumped him on to the over-stuffed couch.

  “Get some water, Clive, and a towel,” the little guy said.

  Clive went out of the room into the bathroom. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

  Joe went over to the wagon and poured himself out a drink. He took it neat, then punched himself on the chest with his fist.

  Clive came back with a wet towel. The little guy held out his hand, but Clive walked over to Duffy. “Let me do it.”

  “Well, well, did you hear, Joe?” the little guy was surprised. “Clive wants to do it.”

  Clive went on one knee beside Duffy and mopped his swollen bruised face with the towel. Duffy looked at him through a puffy eye. Then Clive put his hand on the side of Duffy’s head, made his fingers into claws and dragged his nails down Duffy’s face.

  The little guy ran across the room and pulled Clive away. Clive had flecks of foam at the sides of his mouth. “That’ll teach him,” he said shrilly. “He won’t hit me again in a hurry.”

  “You might have broken your nice nails,” the little guy said sharply. “That ain’t the way to go on.”

  Duffy pushed himself up on the couch and lowered his legs to the floor. Joe watched him, a big grin on his face. “Ain’t he a pip?” he said, admiringly.

  The other two turned and watched him too. Duffy was sitting up now, his head sunk on his chest. He remained like that for several minutes, then he put both hands on the couch and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mask of blood. Swaying, he made a little tottering run at Clive, who hastily got behind the little guy.

  Joe stepped in front of Duffy. He said, “Still looking for trouble?”

  Duffy swung a leaden arm, but Joe hit him in the ribs again, stepping in close and driving at Duffy a jarring jolt. Duffy opened his mouth and said “O!”, then he fell on his knees.

  Just then the telephone bell rang. The three started and looked at the telephone. It continued to ring.

  “That’s bad,” the little guy said, looking worried.

  They waited, all concentrated on the sound of the bell. It rang for several seconds, then it stopped.

  Joe dragged Duffy on to the couch again. He heaved him up and looked at the little guy.

  “Bring him round,” the little guy said.

  Joe pulled Duffy’s ears. He took them in each hand and tugged as if he were milking a cow. Duffy groaned and tried to get his head away.

  “He’s here now,” Joe said.

  The little guy stood quite close to Duffy. “Come on,” he said loudly, “spill it. Where’s that goddam camera?”

  “Somebody stole it,” Duffy mumbled only half conscious.

  The little guy stood back. “Christ!” he said. “Did you hear that? He said someone stole it. This bird must be nuts to hang on so long.”

  The telephone bell began to ring again. Clive said suddenly, “Perhaps it’s Mr. Morgan.”

  The little guy said, “Quiet,” and looked at Duffy. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, but he had heard all right. His brain wouldn’t think, but he remembered all right. The little guy hesitated, then went over to the ’phone. He unhooked the receiver from its prong.

  “Hello?” he said in his tight voice.

  He stood listening. Then he said, “You got a wrong number, buddy,” and hung up. He shook his head. “Some guy wanting this bird,” he jerked his thumb at Duffy. “Suppose you try him again, Joe?”

  Clive took a step forward. “Why don’t you burn him a little?” he demanded. “This is wasting time.”

  The little guy looked at Joe. “Do you think you can shake him loose?” he said.

  Joe grinned. “Yeah,” he said; “give me a little time. This pip thinks I am playing with him, don’t you, bright boy.”

  Duffy was getting light-headed, but he felt a little strength stealing into his legs. “Wait a minute,” he said with difficulty.

  “Can’t you believe what I tell you? Some bird stole the camera before I left the dame’s house. I’ve just come back. I ain’t got it on me, have I?”

  The little guy put his hand on Joe’s arm.

  “Maybe he’s telling it straight,” he said.

  Joe shook his head. “That guy couldn’t tell it straight to a priest,” he said.

  The little guy looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Look at the time,” he said.

  Clive said, “It’s all talk… talk… talk… talk!”

  The little guy patted him on his arm. “If he ain’t got the camera, what can I do?”

  Duffy sat up slowly and passed a hand over his face gently. Near by, on the arm of the couch, was an ashtray. One of those affairs with a leather spring that gripped the arm. It was quite a heavy thing. Duffy put his hand on it, then with one movement, he picked it off the arm of the couch and tossed it through the window. The glass shattered, making a high tinkling sound. Some of the glass fell in the street below.

  The little guy said, “Clever, ain’t he?”

  Clive ran to the door. “Let’s skip before the cops come up,” he said.

  The little guy said, “Sure we’ll go.” Then he looked at Puffy. “We’ll be back, bright boy.”

  He followed Clive out of the room.

  Joe clouted Duffy on the side of the head. The blow knocked him off the couch on to the floor. “We’ll get together by’n by,” he said, and went to the door hurriedly, then he paused, looking at Duffy lying there. He came back and kicked Duffy very hard in the ribs.

  The little guy put his head round the door.

  “Come on, Joe,” he said, “we gotta get out of this.”

  Joe followed him from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Duffy lay on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin. After they had been gone some time, he began to sob a little.

  CHAPTER V

  A VOICE SAID, “What a guy!”

  Duffy forced one swollen eyelid back and tried to see who it was. A blurred figure was standing over him. He thought it might be Joe again, so he shut his eye and lay still.

  “Bill!”

  That wasn’t Joe, he thought; it sounded like McGuire. Duffy raised his head painfully. “I think you’ve come a little late,” he said with a faint groan.

  McGuire said, “My Gawd!” and meant it. “What the hell have you been doing with yourself?”

  Duffy turned a little to the wall.. He wasn’t quite ready for any bright talk. “Gimme a break,” he said faintly.

  McGuire was so upset and astonished, he just stood gaping at Duffy. Then he looked round the room, seeing the overturned furniture, the mess of the blood, and the blood-smears on the wall. “What’s been going on round here? Jeeze! This looks as if a massacre came off not so long ago.”

  Duffy said through his clenched teeth, “ME, I’m it.”

  McGuire took another look at him, then hurried into the bathroom. He found a small bowl and a towel. He filled the bowl with tepid water, and came back to Duffy again.

  “Come on, soldier,” he said. “Let’s make you look a bit shipshape.”

  “Suppose you go take a pill,” Duffy said with difficulty.

  “Now come on.” McGuire put the bowl on the floor and dropped the towel into the water. He squeezed the towel and began wiping Duffy’s face with awkward care. He was as tender as a woman to Duffy.

  Duffy said suddenly, “Hi, you rat, be careful of my nose.”

  McGuire said, “You don’t call that a nose any more, do you?”

  When he cleared the dried blood away, he took the bowl into the bathroom and changed the water. Deep down, a burning anger smouldered against those who had done this to Duffy. McGuire was one of those guys who made few friends, but when he had picked one, he stuck. He was, on the surface, c
asual and a great kidder, but he’d stick like a burr and fight once he had found a friend. Duffy and he had knocked along together on the Tribune for some little while. They had quarrelled, kidded and doubled-crossed each other, but let anyone else start anything then they’d side up together and beat hell out of the intruder.

  He filled the bowl with water again and walked back to Duffy.

  “For God’s sake, you must be losing your grip or something,” Duffy mumbled from the couch.

  “What now?”

  “Listen, dimwit, instead of pulling this Flo Nightingale act, what the hell’s wrong in giving me a drink?”

  McGuire put the bowl down on the table. “You’re right,” he said. “This business startled me.” He went over to the wagon and poured out two stiff Scotches. He was going to hold the glass to Duffy’s mouth, but Duffy took the glass from him roughly. “For the love of Mike,” Duffy said, “don’t you think I can help myself to Scotch?”

  They both felt better after the drink. McGuire said, “Was that some woman you brought home who set about you like that?”

  Duffy put his glass on the floor and sat up very slowly. He put his hands over his groin and his mouth twisted. McGuire watched him uneasily. “You all right?”

  “Sure, I’m all right,” Duffy said. “I’m fine.”

  “All right, tough guy, but you can take it easy for a moment. Here, lie back, will you?”

  Duffy swung his feet over the side of the couch, then he stood up. As soon as his legs had to take his weight, he bent in half. He would have fallen forward if McGuire hadn’t taken his arm.

  “I’m getting soft, I guess,” Duffy said, sweat starting out on his face.

  McGuire led him back to the couch and sat him down.

  “Quit this stuff,” he said impatiently. “Lie down, or I’ll smack your ears for you.”

  Duffy sank back on the couch. He was glad to.

  McGuire poured him out another Scotch, and after that he felt his strength coming back.

  “Suppose you tell me what happened?”

  “Sure. I ran into three toughs who pushed me around.”

  McGuire shook his head.

  “Do you want me to call in the cops?”

  “This ain’t for the cops.”