"Sure. Should we throw the manager's body in the lake?"
Savage shook his head. "Just leave it where it is." He smiled. "As a warning. It's dangerous to venture out into these streets after dark, you know."
Easton chuckled. He flipped a few coins to the battered toughs, then followed Savage, who was strolling to their carriage. The thugs slipped off into the night to ease the pains of this fight with the whiskey that the blood money would buy.
Silence reigned once more on the waterfront street. Bernie Campbell would never utter another sound again.
Then a huge splash shattered the quiet night, and Quincy O’Sullivan surged out of the water. Grasping the rungs of a ladder that led to the pier and hanging on for dear life, he gasped for breath desperately. He was numb all over, but some spark within him had refused to let him die. He had fought his way to the surface of the water under the pier, lifted his head high enough to drag air into his tortured lungs. The few minutes he had waited in the icy lake until Savage, Easton, and the others were gone had been the longest of his life.
He was thankful for the cold; he knew it had kept him alive. At least two of Easton's bullets had hit him, but the frigid water had kept the wounds from bleeding much. Now, as O’Sullivan clung to the ladder, gathering what little strength he had left, he knew he would have to move quickly. Otherwise the bitter wind that was ravaging his soaked body would strip the very life out of it. With agonizing slowness, he started to pull himself up, rung by rung.
Long moments later he sprawled onto the pier. He drew several deep, ragged breaths, then pushed himself to his feet and lurched over to Bernie's body. When he saw what had been done to his friend and manager, he heaved a great sob. Drawing on all his remaining strength, O’Sullivan bent, scooped Bernie's limp form off the pier, and lifted it.
"I...I'll even the score, Bernie," O’Sullivan rasped in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. "Savage and Easton...they'll pay. I swear they'll pay."
Cradling Bernie's body in his arms, O’Sullivan, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, began to walk aimlessly away from the docks. Surely somewhere there was someone who could help him—
"Here now, what the devil is this?"
O’Sullivan blinked and shook his head, trying to focus on the figure that had loomed out of the darkness. He saw the high peaked hat, the blue uniform with its brass buttons, the nightstick clutched in the man's hand. Finally, O’Sullivan thought bitterly, a policeman.
He opened his mouth to tell the copper that he was too late, but the words never came out. O’Sullivan felt his legs buckle, and he was falling, plunging into a blackness that was darker and colder than the waters of Lake Michigan.
"Well, now, finally going to wake up, are we?" said a faint voice that seemed to be coming from miles away.
Slowly, O’Sullivan turned his head from side to side. His fingers moved a bit, and he was aware of the crisp fabric under them. Suddenly, one of his eyes was pried open, and he recoiled from the burst of bright light.
Blinking rapidly, O’Sullivan jerked his head away and moaned as the slight movement shot pain through his midsection. He managed to force both eyes open, and when they had adjusted to the light, he saw that he was lying in an iron-framed bed in a narrow little room. High on one wall was a single window. O’Sullivan stared at the bars on it.
"He'll be all right," a gruff voice said. "You can't hurt an animal like that, short of killing him."
"Thank you, Doctor. Can I question him now?"
"Certainly. Try not to tire him too much."
O’Sullivan forced his eyes to move from the barred window toward the two men who had been talking. They stood on each side of the bed. The one on his right was a sour-faced, middle-aged man who was holding a black medical bag. That had to be the doctor. The other man was younger, probably in his thirties, with closely cropped dark brown hair that was parted in the middle. On his upper lip was a well-trimmed mustache. His gray eyes peered at O’Sullivan.
"About time you decided you'd gotten enough sleep, Mr. O’Sullivan," the man said as the doctor left the room. "You've been unconscious for more than two days now."
O’Sullivan tried to speak, to voice the questions that were exploding in his brain, but all he could utter was a strangled croak. A stern, gray-haired woman appeared in a crisp nurse's uniform. She held a glass of water and, lifting his shoulders, pressed it to his lips. He choked down several swallows and shook his head as a signal to her to take the glass away. Then O’Sullivan lowered his head to the thin pillow and stammered hoarsely, "Wh-where am I?"
"You're in the prison ward of Mercy Hospital, Mr. O’Sullivan," the man said. He inclined his head toward the door of the room, and O’Sullivan looked and saw a uniformed policeman standing guard. The man next to the bed went on, "I'm Inspector Sam Talmage, and I've been waiting to talk to you for quite a long time."
"T-talk to me...about what?"
"I want to know whether or not I should charge you with murder," Talmage said bluntly.
At the inspector's words O’Sullivan remembered that awful night on the docks. He closed his eyes and groaned. "Bernie," he muttered bleakly.
"Indeed," Talmage said crisply. "Your manager, Mr. Bernie Campbell. I understood that the two of you had a fairly successful business relationship. Did you kill him, Mr. O’Sullivan?"
O’Sullivan opened his eyes and stared in shock at Talmage. Anger quickly replaced the shock, and he struggled to sit up. He discovered then that his midriff and his right shoulder were tightly bandaged and that he was too weak to pull himself to a sitting position. He fell back and gasped, "You can't think that I killed Bernie!"
Talmage shrugged. "What else are we to think? You staggered out of the night carrying the body, and no one else was in the immediate vicinity. We had to account for those bullet wounds of yours, but Campbell could have shot you before he was killed. Until you woke up, we could only assume that you murdered him."
"That's a hell of an assumption," O’Sullivan snapped, feeling some of his strength returning. But abruptly he felt weary and realized that his anger at Talmage's accusation had prompted the surge of energy. As he fought the sudden urge to go back to sleep, he knew his reserves were limited.
He would use his remaining strength to tell this policeman what he had seen two nights earlier. Talmage looked like a competent man; he would have to take care of the real killers. O’Sullivan was in no shape to do it himself.
"If you didn't do it, O’Sullivan, who did?" Talmage asked, his tone cold now.
"Savage," O’Sullivan said simply.
Talmage suddenly leaned forward. "What's that? What did you say, man?"
"It was...Dane Savage. He ordered it. His men killed Bernie. That other fellow..." O’Sullivan cast about in his memory for the name. "Easton, that's it. Easton, he's the one who shot me. But Savage ordered it done. They killed some gambler, too...Randolph, I think."
Talmage's eyes grew wide with excitement. He glanced at the officer at the door and then asked in a low voice, "You saw this happen, O’Sullivan?"
"Of course, I did."
"And you'll testify to it?"
O’Sullivan lifted a trembling hand and gestured at the bandages wrapped around him. "If these don't... don't kill me first."
Talmage shook his head. "They won't kill you. The doctor assured me of that. You lost quite a bit of blood, but the bullets missed all the vital organs. You'll be fine with a bit of rest." The inspector looked at the uniformed policeman and went on, "Step outside for a moment please, Officer Brown. And take the good nurse with you."
"The doctor said I was to stay here," the nurse protested.
"I shouldn't leave you alone with the prisoner, sir," the officer added.
Talmage looked sternly at them. "I'll take the responsibility, both of you. Now please, step outside." His tone, though polite, made it clear he would brook no more argument.
Looking uncomfortable, the officer and the nurse stepped from
the room and closed the door behind them. O’Sullivan stared at Talmage, baffled by the inspector's behavior.
"What was that all about?" O’Sullivan asked.
"I'm fairly certain I can trust Brown," Talmage replied. "But I don't want to take any chances. Savage has informers scattered throughout the police force. We can't afford to let him know that you're alive, not yet anyway."
"I...I don't understand."
Talmage smiled broadly. "Thanks to you and what you've just told me, my friend, Dane Savage is finally going to get what he deserves. The bastard's going to hang for the murders of your friend Campbell and Morgan Randolph."
O’Sullivan took a deep breath, ignoring the pain it caused him. "That's what I wanted to hear you say, Inspector. You believe me when I say I didn't kill Bernie?"
"I believe you, all right. I doubted all along that you would murder your own manager, Mr. O’Sullivan, but we had no other suspects. Now, considering where we found Randolph's body, what you tell me makes sense. He was discovered only a few blocks from where you and Campbell were found."
O’Sullivan nodded. "Savage is responsible for all of it."
"And he'll be brought to justice for it, I assure you.
The honest members of the force have been trying for years to get some specific evidence against him, and now you've given it to us." A worried look suddenly passed over Talmage's ruddy face. "Now all we have to concern ourselves with is whether or not you'll live to testify to his evil in court."
"What do you mean? I thought you said I wasn't in danger from these bullet wounds—"
"You're not." Talmage looked grim as he went on, "But Savage is sure to find out that you're still alive and planning to testify against him. We'll issue warrants for his arrest and for Easton's, but Savage is slippery, O’Sullivan, and his organization is like a many-tentacled monster. He'll try to have you killed. He'll probably send Easton himself after you."
Even though he was weak, O’Sullivan clenched his hands into fists. "Let him," he growled. "I'd like another chance at Easton."
Talmage shook his head. "No, no, we can't have that." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We can keep your presence in this hospital secret for a few more days, until you're well enough to travel. But then we'll have to get you out of Chicago. Do you have any friends living some place far away from here where you might be able to hide out for a while?"
O’Sullivan pondered for a moment, then said, "I've still got some family back in New York."
Once again Talmage shook his head. "No, Savage has too many contacts there. It would be too easy for him to locate you. We need some place more isolated."
The idea of hiding went against everything O’Sullivan believed in, but he knew that Talmage was probably right. He thought for a moment more. "I do have a friend," he finally said, "a boxer I knew in New York. He doesn't live there anymore, gave up the prizefight game and moved away from the city."
Talmage nodded. "That sounds more like it. Who is this fellow, and where is he now?"
"His name is Leslie Garrison," O’Sullivan growled, remembering the last time he had seen the man. "We went twenty hard and painful rounds in Parslow’s Garden one night before he knocked me out. The last I heard he had become a schoolteacher, of all things. Moved to some place in Kansas called Abilene."
2
Autumn was certainly an exciting time of year, Leslie Garrison thought as he walked down Texas Street. School had started again, bringing both old and new students and all the same challenges. To Leslie, nothing was more fulfilling than seeing the light of understanding dawn in a child's eyes. It was definitely a better life than being battered in some smoky hall. He didn’t miss the prizefighting game at all.
The teacher stopped in front of the Northcraft Apothecary and frowned. He wondered why he had thought of his days as a professional slugger. He had put all that behind him months ago when he came to Abilene to begin his new career as a teacher, and everything that had happened to him since his arrival had reaffirmed his decision. He was at peace here, a peace he never would have found in the prize ring.
After school had been dismissed on this crisp autumn afternoon, Leslie decided to stroll down to the business district to pick up a few supplies. He had already stopped at Karatofsky's Great Western Store and was carrying his purchases in a small bundle under his arm. Now he was going to the drugstore to pick up some headache powders.
He would need them eventually, he knew, since he worked for Emery Thornbury, Abilene's thoroughly unpleasant schoolmaster. Thornbury was the only blight on his happy existence in Kansas. There were times, Leslie mused, when a solid right cross to Thornbury's jaw might be more effective than a headache powder.
Suddenly, high-pitched yelling coming from somewhere nearby snapped him out of his reflection. About a block away a small boy darted out from the narrow space between two buildings. The lad cast a frightened glance over his shoulder, lost his balance, and went sprawling in the dusty street.
At least a half-dozen boys, all of them larger, burst from the alley behind the smaller boy. Evidently, they had been chasing him, and now that their quarry lay in the dirt trying frantically to scramble away, they pounced on him.
Leslie watched, his eyes narrowing, as the largest boy in the group grabbed the small lad's shirt and, ripping the garment, hauled him to his feet. Shaking his captive like a rat, the leader of the gang said harshly, "So, you think you can laugh at me, do you, Barlow?"
"H-honest, Ray, I never laughed at you!" the boy replied jerkily. "I never did!"
Leslie recognized the small boy as Oliver Barlow, one of his students. He knew the others, too. The leader was Ray Winters, and he was the worst bully the teacher had ever seen. Leslie wasn’t surprised to see Ray and his toadies take pleasure in torturing someone younger and smaller.
Ray pushed Oliver away. The boy bounced off one of the other members of the group, who also shoved him. For several moments, the gang thrust Oliver back and forth among them before Ray grabbed him again and pulled the lad to him.
"You ain't got nothin' to laugh about, Barlow," Ray snarled, his face only inches from Oliver's. "Your pa's a drunk, and your sister's a whore!"
Oliver's already pale face became even more ashen. "Th-that's not true," he stammered timidly.
"Of course, it is," Ray sneered. "Ever'body in town knows about your old man, and my big brother says your sister goes with anybody who's got a nickel! Now, are you callin' me a liar, Barlow?"
"I...I..." Oliver squirmed in Ray's grip, but his head was bent in defeat.
Ray spat in the boy's face. "You're nothin' but trash, just like the rest of your family. I reckon it's time somebody taught you that good and proper." He cocked his fist and drove it into Oliver's stomach.
"That's enough!"
At the sound of the deep, rumbling voice Ray Winters jerked around. Leslie Garrison stepped off the boardwalk and strode toward the knot of boys. Ray swallowed, then abruptly released Oliver's collar, and the boy slumped into the dirt. The gang scattered, no longer interested in tormenting Oliver, but as he backed away, Ray called out to Oliver, "I'll see you again sometime, Barlow, when you ain't got the teacher to hide behind!"
The youngsters feared Leslie Garrison not only because he was their teacher, but also because he presented an imposing figure in the late afternoon sunlight.
Leslie Garrison stood several inches over six feet tall, and although he was dressed in a sober dark suit, it couldn’t conceal the powerful shoulders, muscular arms, and narrow waist of a fighting man. His thick black hair was lightly touched with gray, and the short beard he wore gave him a grim, fierce look. Only in his blue eyes could the man's gentle nature be seen, and at times, even his gaze could be stormy and dangerous—as it certainly was at this moment.
Leslie had watched Ray and the other boys assaulting Oliver longer than he should have, but he had been hoping the lad would stand up for himself. Leslie knew that fighting seldom solved anything, but it wasn’t right t
o let someone ride roughshod over you, either. Even the insult to Oliver's sister hadn’t provoked much of a reaction from the boy.
Leslie bent, grasped Oliver's arm, and lifted him to his feet. As he brushed the dirt off the lad's ripped shirt, he asked, "Are you all right, son?"
Oliver wiped a shaking hand across his nose. Tears streaked the dust on his pale face. "I...I reckon so," he mumbled. "Thanks, Mr. Garrison. I thought they was going to kill me for sure this time."
"This time?" Leslie echoed, ignoring Oliver's bad grammar. "Have Ray and his friends bothered you before, Oliver?"
"Well...I guess they just like to hoo-raw folks a little. I've had a few run-ins with 'em since school started."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Why haven't you told Mr. Thornbury or me that they were bothering you?"
Oliver frowned at Leslie as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. After a moment, he said, "I don't figure Mr. Thornbury would care much. And if I told on 'em, Ray and the others'd hate me that much more. A feller's supposed to take care of his own fights out here, Mr. Garrison."
Leslie nodded. "So I've heard. But it didn't look like you were doing anything to stop them."
Oliver dropped his head. "I ain't much of a fighter," he said softly.
"You aren't much of a fighter." This time Leslie corrected the boy's grammar.
"Shoot, that's what I just said," the boy muttered. Suddenly, he looked up at Leslie again and went on, "I've heard tell that you used to be one of them prizefighters back East, Mr. Garrison. Is that true?"
Leslie grimaced. He had purposely said very little about prizefighting since coming to Abilene, trying to put that part of his life behind him. But Angus MacQuarrie, the burly Scotsman who owned Angus's Tavern, had seen him fight several years earlier and told quite a few people about Leslie's background. It was inevitable that the students would hear about it.
"It's true," he told Oliver now. "I fought in the prize rings for several years. But I gave all that up once I decided to become a teacher."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 118