by Jack Tunney
Loud sirens and red revolving lights filled the street above the harbor yard.
Ben ran into the stacks of pallets and quickly found himself in a cul-de-sac. The older ox, huffing and wheezing, appeared brandishing the blade, cutting off his only escape.
“Just like a dumb pug. Run right into a corner.” The old guy sneered and charged.
His gloves clutched to his bleeding gut, Ben dropped to his side and tripped the oncoming ox, who fell face-first into a stack of wooden pallets. Ben heard something, wood or bone, snap and the guy didn’t get up. Ben stood and trudged for the docks.
He caught up with Joe and George at the end of a dock slip. Ben skidded to a halt on the narrow wooden walkway, black water to both sides, sirens and shouting behind him. Joe was on one knee, struggling to untie one of the moorings of a big fishing boat with one hand while he held George to his hip with the other.
George saw Ben first. “It’s the monster!” He grabbed at Joe’s clothes.
Joe wheeled to face Ben. He let the boy slide down his leg to the dock, then pulled a small automatic pistol from somewhere and put the barrel to George’s head, his other hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. He shook his head. “You’re not getting this kid, Harman. Now back off and let me get out of here.”
Ben shook his head, gloves cradling his cut abs, breath ragged in his chest. “You give me the boy and I don’t care where you go.”
“I’m scared, Joe.” George’s lip quivered. “I want mommy.”
“Shut up.” Joe pressed the gun to the boy’s head. “Just shut up a minute.”
“George.” Ben dropped a knee to the dock. “George, listen to me.”
“What’re you doing?” Joe’s face twisted. “Don’t talk to him.”
“George.” Ben extended a gloved hand to the boy. “I’m a friend of your mommy’s.”
“Shut up.” Joe pushed the boy a step forward.
“I love your mommy, George.”
Joe tangled his hand in the boy’s hair. “I swear, Harman, I’ll do it.”
George blinked through his tears. “You love her?”
“I do. Just like you do.” Ben slid his knee forward along the dock. “And you know what she told me?”
Joe jerked the pistol away from the boy’s head and thrust it at Ben with a bellow.
Ben scrambled backward, gloves up.
George grabbed Joe’s wrist with both hands and sank all his teeth into it.
Joe screamed and battered the boy with a backhanded blow, sending his little body sprawling off the end of the dock.
Ben charged forward, shoulders up, head down.
Joe leveled the pistol as best he could and fired.
The slug took Ben in the left shoulder. He faltered and cried out, but lunged onward.
Joe brought the pistol back on target, but Ben knocked the gun aside with his left elbow, stepped forward with his right foot and pulled his shoulders as far back as he could.
Screaming as his wounded abdomen contracted, Ben thrust his head forward with everything he had left and smashed Joe’s face in with his brow.
Joe’s face exploded, his nose and cheeks destroyed. He dropped the gun to the dock and keeled over backward into the black water.
Ben fell to the dock on his elbows, blood oozing from the bullet hole in his shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he crawled forward, scrambling for the eight little fingertips clinging to the wooden edge. He threw his right arm over the dock and turned his head toward the boy. “C’mon, George. Use me to climb back up.”
The boy’s arms shook. “I’m scared.”
“So am I.” Ben swallowed. “But I can’t grab you. C’mon, I know you can do it.”
Shouting could be heard in the distance, closer than when it came from the street. Ben heard the words shot and over there among the voices.
George wrapped one little arm around Ben’s big, sweaty one, then the other. Then both his legs. Ben pulled him up over the edge and they collapsed in a pile. The boy’s face was on Ben’s chest. Ben’s left forearm was draped over George’s back.
The boy pushed off Ben’s chest with both hands and stood. Ben struggled to his feet. George stared at the cut across Ben’s stomach and the bleeding hole in Ben’s shoulder. “You’re hurt.”
“Yes.” Ben waved his right glove in front of the wounds. “But it’s not that bad.”
“Mommy got hurt like that once.” The boy looked at Ben’s middle, then up at his brow. “Are you really a monster?”
“I don’t know.” Ben put his right arm around George’s waist and lifted the boy to his hip. “I might be.”
“Where’s mommy?”
“I’ll find her.” Ben glanced over his shoulder and moved along the dock away from the slip and the shouting voices. “But I’m going to take you someplace safe first.”
He picked his way through the dark harbor and carried the boy toward Chicago and St. Vincent’s.
St. Vincent’s boys always do the right thing…
END
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FELONY FISTS
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SPLIT DECISION
COUNTERPUNCH
HARD ROAD
KING OF THE OUTBACK
A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD
TOMATO CAN COMEBACK
BLUFF CITY BRAWLER
GOLDEN GATE GLOVES
IRISH DUKES
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RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE
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GET HIT, HIT BACK
BROOKLYN BEATDOWN
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BAREFOOT BONES
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