And in the end, it was as futile a gesture as it was fleeting and beautiful; a rose spreading its scent on the boot that crushed it, a butterfly wanting to matter.
Nick Kuiper overbalanced by his own momentum grabbed a wall for support, astounded at what he’d done.
A voice behind him said, “Put ’em up,” and he turned to see James Blackwell, seventy-four and silver haired, standing before him in an old-style pugilist pose, left fist in front and guarding, right hand a trip hammer waiting to strike.
“Jeez,” Nick said, “I don’t want to fight you.”
“You should have thought about that before you decked my son.”
They stood on an empty street outside of the conference hall where the Blackwell’s had just stolen his company. The time was nearly midnight and a light drizzle gave the scene a Hollywood feel of deep shadows and smeared red and green lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
James Blackwell, in a black tuxedo, looked dignified and important. Only the cauliflower ear and battered nose suggested he was anything but a businessman.
“You’re too old,” Nick said, and a fist he never even saw coming smashed into his nose, breaking it.
“You don’t,” punch, “know much,” punch, “about boxing,” James said, landing a right cross that spun Nick into the ground. “I was Golden Gloves champion two years running, you know. Won forty-four of forty-six bouts.”
Nick shook his head and climbed to his feet. His ears were ringing. He swung a wild one that James blocked and counter-punched with a jab that rocked him back on his heels.
“You swing like that, you never hit anything,” James said, as Nick found his feet again.
“Short quick jabs are the key.” He demonstrated by pounding blows into Nick’s arms and body. “Don’t watch my hands,” punch, “or my eyes,” punch, “watch my shoulders. The shoulders never lie.”
Nick followed his advice and managed to block a punch and land a feeble blow of his own.
“That’s better,” James said with a smile as he bored in.
Nick was on the ground again and didn’t know how he’d gotten there. He felt the scratch of damp concrete and a piece of candy wrapper stuck to his cheek. Stubbornly, he climbed back to his feet. His legs were rubbery but they still held him up.
James moved around him, jabbing at will. “Look boy, I know you’re pissed off at losing your company.” He landed a left hook that dropped Nick in his tracks. “But it’s not our fault; you’re the one who made charitable donations instead of buying back EnviroTech stock.”
Getting up was harder now. Nick used both hands to push against his knee so he could stand, raised his head and his fists and said, “What you do is still wrong.”
James danced in and delivered two quick body shots. Nick’s legs buckled and he landed on his butt.
“I won’t debate morals with you, but what we do is legal. I see to that.”
Nick pulled himself up, somehow, and said, “Law’s wrong.” He spits out blood. “And screw you.” He took another feeble swing and James hit him in his mouth, loosening a tooth.
Things got a bit vague after that. He took a fist in his mid-section that knocked his breath out and sent him to his knees. He saw James back off and wait for him to recover and was surprised at the old man’s sense of fair play.
“You should stay down, boy,” James said. “You keep getting up, I might hurt you.”
That made no sense at all to Nick, who hurt absolutely everywhere already. He climbed grimly to his feet and James batted his arms aside and pushed Nick so hard he fell, landing in a puddle with a great splash.
“Dammit! Stay down.”
Nick rolled over and used a parking meter to pull himself up. He staggered away from it and put up his fists. One of his eyes wouldn’t open all the way and the other was a bit blurry.
“Jesus,” James said. “You have guts, boy. No brains at all, but yards of guts.”
Nick saw Richard struggling to his feet, but it didn’t compute.
“I’m going to put you down now,” James said with a touch of regret. “It’s for your own good.”
Nick felt the punch slam into his chin and then he was flat on his back looking up at a too-bright streetlight, blinking rain out of his eyes. His clothes were soaked and his mind clouded. But he knew he’d been knocked down so he had to get up. “Get knocked down six times, get up seven.” Words from his father; words to live by.
He heard footsteps approaching as he rolled onto his side and saw Richard’s shoe coming straight at his head. Richard got in three more vicious kicks before his father pulled him off.
The war had begun.
Missing Amanda Page 29