by Jack Tunney
Once again I experienced a wave of dizziness and felt cold. I wondered, was it something to do with Jack? I decided then that I would put the theory that I had been working on to the test.
***
The boxing booth was popular as usual, despite the fact that Henry was not part of the team. He acted as a second for all of the challengers.
As a result, the others had more fighting to do and they were all tired and more than a bit irritable at the end of the first day.
After the evening meal I took my leave of them all and told them that I was heading off for a walk into Scarborough town.
But once I had left the fairground boundary I changed direction and headed up to the cliffs where Jenny had pointed out where Jack had fallen. I wanted to see for myself whether the story that he had slipped was plausible, for I had my doubts right from the start.
And I had already put my plan into action. If Jack had just fallen, as the inquest had concluded, then nothing would happen. Otherwise, things could be very different.
It was not a long walk and I found the point quite quickly. I noted that there were thick bramble bushes and masses of tall, shoulder-height bracken ferns all along the top of the cliffs. Anyone could hide themselves away there.
I strolled back and forth along the area until the light started to fade. I was standing looking out to sea when I heard the rustle of bracken close by.
“Ah, so you have come?” I said out loud. “I was pretty sure that you would.”
I turned with my back to the cliff edge.
“Won’t you come out? We can talk about the note I left you.”
A moment later the bracken parted and Sam Samson came out. He looked belligerent. “What the hell’s this pissing note about?”
“You know exactly what it is about,” I replied. “The note said to meet me at the scene of the crime. If you didn’t know what I was talking about you wouldn’t have come here in a month of Sundays. So I was right, this is where you waylaid Jack and shoved him off the cliff.”
He sneered. “He deserved it, the cocky bleeder. He came back the high and mighty hero from Korea and everyone started fawning over him. I had been the main attraction at the booth and then he came back talking about becoming British Heavyweight Champion. He wasn’t that good. They dropped me down the list, like I was a has-been.”
“So that was it. You were jealous?”
“I was angry. I’ve given this booth the best years of my life. I meant to just give him a good hiding. I knew he used to like coming up here, so I got here first and was waiting for him.”
“And then when it came down to it, you changed your mind. You just ran out and shoved him over. Was his back turned? Was he looking out to sea?”
Samson raised his fists and started to move towards me. “Well, let’s see what you can do, Mr. Dizzy-clogs. No one will think it’s odd when they find you at the bottom of the cliffs. You with your fancy bit of shrapnel in your brain and your dizzy-dos.”
I put up my guard and stood my ground, suddenly aware of my vulnerability.
He came jabbing, advancing, and determined to make me yield ground and plummet to my death.
But I was not as inept as he imagined. I caught him with the same combination that Henry had used against Warboys. Jab, straight right and left hook to the side of his head. And down he went.
Before he could recover I had knelt on his back and pulling a cord from my pocket I had his wrists behind his back and firmly tied.
He cursed and writhed.
“And this is for Jack,” I said, giving him another thump to his temple that knocked him out cold.
“Well done, Oscar,” came Jenny Brodie’s voice. I looked round and saw her coming up the path.
“I thought that you were up to something.” She held up the note that I had left in her handbag. “I am guessing that you left the same message for each of us?”
I stood up. “I’m sorry, Jenny. I thought all along that somebody had killed Jack and the only way of getting the culprit was to leave you all the same note. I was almost certain that it wasn’t you. You wouldn’t have killed your own son, but everyone else, except Rodney was a suspect. He joined the booth after Jack had died.”
I took a deep breath then went on. “Henry admitted to me that he had always felt he was in Jack’s shadow. Carol had been Jack’s girlfriend and had formed a relationship with Henry after his death. And Sandy was a gambling addict. He could have been in financial difficulties, maybe even dipping his hand into the boxing booth’s coffers. Those were all possibilities, as was Sam’s jealousy.”
“Jealousy? He killed my son for jealousy?”
I nodded. “I saw it on his face the other night when Henry won his title and he just admitted it.”
“Then he deserves to die. But hopefully it will be a different type of drop that he dies from. The drop on the end of the hangman’s rope.”
Sam Samson started to groan.
“I guess that will be up to one of your courts of law,” I replied. “Why don’t you go and fetch the police and I’ll stay and make sure he doesn’t roll off this cliff.”
***
The next day we visited Jack’s grave and I said my thanks to him for saving my life in Korea. I had expected to experience that familiar wave of dizziness and the cold feeling again, but I didn’t. As I lay a bunch of roses mixed with bracken fronds on his grave I actually had a warm glow.
It felt as if Jack was present and he was thanking me.
CLAY MORE
Using the pseudonyms Clay More and Keith Moray as well as his own name, Keith Souter has published over thirty books, including twelve novels in four genres, with several more in the pipe-line. Married with three grown-up children, he is also a part-time doctor and lives within arrow-shot of Sandal Castle, the scene of two of his historical crime novels.
He is a member of the Crime Writers Association, the Society of Authors, International Thriller Writers, Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America and the Medical Journalists' Association. He won the 2006 Fish prize for one of his historical short stories.
ON THE WEB:
www.keithsouter.co.uk
ROUND 12
FIGHT DAY IN DIABLO
CHUCK TYRELL
Samuel Jones stood on the porch of Poker Flat, chewing at a twig he used to clean his teeth and scrutinizing the jostling rowdy crowd gathered around the fight ring. His eyes were on the people, but his mind was on Shawn Brodie, gone to Winslow with his wounded boss. Would he make it back in time? Shawn’s fellow Lazy EP cowboys were in Polker Flat, drinking lightly, staying quiet, as if they had more on their mind than a bout of fisticuffs. Their foreman, Guy Rankin, drank not at all. His face wore hard lines, as if he expected something unusual to happen.
“Isn’t it exciting, Sam?” Maisie leaned over the porch rail with her hand over her brow. “Do you really think the Chinaman will win?” she asked.
He removed the twig and spat over the rail. “If he doesn’t, we’ll be out a pretty penny,” he said. “But I read something in that man. He’s fearless. Confident. Always ready.”
Half a dozen men barged out of Poker Flat. “Where’s Butch Kennedy,” one shouted. “Just put thirty dollars on him winning. Wanna see how he’s up for the fight. Butch! Butch!”
Butch Kennedy strode from the Road to Ruin, brushing crumbs from his mouth. “I’m here, Willis, here.” He pulled a pocket watch from his vest by its chain. “Five minutes yet until noon. Where’s the Chink?”
Several in the crowd laughed. “If he’s smart, he won’t show,” a man yelled.
Kennedy shed his jacket and vest. He rolled his sleeves up over massive forearms. He took a seat on the upended beer keg placed in the corner at the edge of Hell Street.
Jones shook his head. “Damn Keno Harry’s got me refereeing this fight,” he said. “Hell of a lot I know about fist-fighting.”
“That’s good,” Maisie said. “If you are the referee, at least it will be fair.” S
he took a long look at Jones’s face. The planes were hard and flat. Sharp lines ran from nostrils to the corners of his mouth. Crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. Slashes between his eyebrows. The easygoing Sam Jones of the bluff table was nowhere in sight. “You will make it fair, right?” she asked.
“Hmmmm.” Jones’s attention shifted to the railroad track running down the south side of Hell Street behind the line of drinkeries and gambling places and dove roosts. A whistle sounded. Then came the chuffing of the A&T train as its drive wheels grabbed the rails and started the cars off toward Winslow. As they rumbled past, a flock of people came from Chinkburg. They came twenty people wide and fifteen or so deep. And at their head, bare to the waist and glittering with grease or something smeared all over his face and neck and torso, came Shoo Lee. He wore a pair of lightweight canvas trousers that came to midway between ankle and knee. They came silently. No cheers. No laughter. No catcalls. Just three hundred Chinks and Mexes and Blacks. Three hundred, behind Shoo Lee.
Jones timed his stroll down the steps and along Hell Street so he would reach the south edge of the fight ring about the same time as Shoo Lee. “I’m to referee the fight, Shoo Lee, just to make sure all is fair and square.”
Shoo Lee stopped two paces short of the lariats on the ground. “I am here,” he said. The Chinkburg residents who followed him fanned out in a semicircle behind him.
“You can sit there,” Jones said, indicating an overturned beer keg in the corner opposite Butch Kennedy. The Irishman showed his teeth in a snarl and bunched his fists as he stared at Shoo Lee, who calmly sat on the keg.
“I’m to referee this fight,” Samuel Jones said. He spoke loudly, but didn’t holler. “You all know me from Poker Flat. I always run a fair game. This fight will be the same. Now, Butch Kennedy, as the Oriental Shoo Lee is stripped to the waist, I’ll expect you to do the same.”
“She-it,” Kennedy said, but he stripped off his shirt. “Union suit’s one piece,” he said. “Cain’t take it down.”
Jones took a slim knife from a little sheath in the small of his back. “I’m going to ask you to cut the top off of it,” he said. “I’ll buy you a new union suit after the fight.”
“New one?”
Jones nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“Gimme the shiv.”
Jones handed the little knife to Kennedy.
“Bobby boyo, give me a hand, will ye not?” Kennedy gave the knife to another Irishman, who sliced the top off his union suit. “That do, Jones?”
“It does.” Samuel Jones raised an eyebrow. “And who is your second?”
“Ain’t no duel,” Kennedy groused.
“Each man will have a second,” Jones said. “This fight is a civilized one.”
“Then Bobby McGilly’ll be mine, won’cha, Bobby boyo?”
“Aye,” said the Irishman with the knife.
Jones held out his hand for the knife, and McGilly handed it back. He slipped it into the sheath behind his belt as he turned toward Shoo Lee. “And you, Mr. Lee? Have you a second?”
“I’ll be Shoo Lee’s second.” The voice came from the porch of Poker Flat.
Jones looked over his shoulder, and his eyebrow went up again. “You, Mr. Brodie?”
Shawn Brodie grinned. “Glad I got back from Winslow in time, Samuel. You see, Shoo Lee was my bunkie at Yuma. I’ll be his second.” He walked down Hell Street to stand behind his Okinawan friend.
“Mr. Brodie seconds for Shoo Lee,” Samuel Jones intoned.
Shoo Lee sat his beer keg as still as a statue, gleaming with grease. Jones thought he looked strange, and then realized the Oriental had shaved his eyebrows, too.
The crowd rumbled. “He’s all yours Butch,” a man yelled. “Put the poxied Chink in his place. Hell, thinking he can fight an Irishman.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The crowd east and west of the ring, spread up and down Hell Street, bet on Butch Kennedy, bet on his broad shoulders and his bulging muscles, bet on his saloon-brawl reputation, and bet on white against yellow. “Butch,” they hollered. “Butch. Butch. Butch!”
Samuel Jones held his hands high in the air, signaling for silence. Butch glared across the ring at Shoo Lee, who examined the ground in front of him. But neither moved, except for the tick of a flexing muscle in the Irishman’s torso.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jones said.
The crowd quieted a bit.
Jones lifted his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome. Welcome. Welcome to the greatest fight east of the Barbary Coast. In the west corner, we have Butch Kennedy, well known in Diablo for his skill in fisticuffs.”
The crowd roared. “Butch. Butch. Butch.”
Jones held his hands up again. “Please. Ladies and gentlemen. This is not a barroom brawl. It is a match of fisticuffs, west against east. Something we are not privileged to see every day.”
“Damn Chink,” someone yelled. The crowd rumbled.
That is, the crowd lined up and down Hell Street rumbled. The one that had followed Shoo Lee across the A&T tracks from Chinkburg stood silent. They looked at Shoo Lee with something like hope in their eyes. Perhaps they’d put what little money they had on him to win.
“The rules, ladies and gentlemen. Any bout of fisticuffs must have rules. As this is a bare knuckles contest, we shall adopt the London Prize Ring rules. As you see, the contestants are to fight within a square 24-feet to a side. If a fighter steps outside the square, his opponent shall move back to allow the fighter back inside the square. If a fighter is knocked down, the round ends. A one-minute rest period then ensues, but the knocked-down fighter must get to his feet within 30 seconds or forfeit the bout. Biting, head-butting, and punching below the belt are fouls, and if repeated after the referee’s warning, the fighter who continually fouls will be declared loser.”
Jones turned to Butch Kennedy. “Mr. Kennedy. Do you understand the rules?”
“What’s not to understand?” Kennedy growled.
Jones shifted his gaze to Shoo Lee. “Mr. Lee. Do you understand the rules?”
“Yes, Mr. Jones. I understand,” Shoo Lee said, his tone deferential.
“Well said, Mr. Lee. May I ask what you have put on your face and torso?”
“Vaseline,” Shoo Lee said.
“Asshole,” Kennedy said.
Shoo Lee smiled with his lips but not his eyes. His shaved pate glistened. “It’s just petroleum jelly. That’s all.”
“Not gonna help your ass,” Kennedy said. “Not even a little bit.”
Shoo Lee’s smile never left his lips. He bowed his head to Butch Kennedy.
“The contestants will stand,” Jones intoned.
The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath.
Jones stepped to the edge of the square. “Let the fight begin!”
Kennedy jumped to his feet and strode across the square, his fists doubled up but swinging at his side. The big Irishman stood slightly over six feet and looked like a collection of beer barrels with his stumpy legs. No one doubted his power. Still, a rather thick layer of fat encircled his midriff and it jiggled as he walked.
Shoo Lee took two long steps toward the center of the fighting square and stopped, one foot slightly ahead of the other with his knees bent somewhat. His left fist rested fingers up at his waist. His right arm was elbow-locked into a solid immovable stave-like position with a fist at its end. He waited for Kennedy to attack.
Samuel Jones angled around to where he could see both fighters. He watched closely. No one cheated at his poker table, none would cheat in this fight. That’s how Samuel Jones operated.
Butch Kennedy hunched, rounding his shoulders and keeping his elbows to his sides. He’d been in too many saloon brawls to open himself up. His ham-like fists made circles in the air.
Shoo Lee didn’t move. He lowered his head and watched Kennedy from beneath his shaved brow. He didn’t move, but somehow exuded the tension of a coiled spring.
“Come on, asshole Chink,�
�� Kennedy growled. “This here’s a gawldang fight, not a standoff.”
“I am here,” Shoo Lee said. “I will stay here.”
“Then I’ll just hafta knock you on your cracker ass.” Kennedy shuffled closer and bunched his shoulders, preparing for a roundhouse swing that would knock the Chinaman clean out of the ring. He towered over Shoo Lee but somehow didn’t look overpowering compared to the Oriental. The last two steps were swift and straight. Kennedy’s right shoulder moved back as he readied his smashing swing. For an instant, his left shoulder pointed at Shoo Lee and his torso tensed for the roundhouse.
Kennedy swung . . .
The instant Kennedy moved, Shoo Lee moved as well. He moved just enough for Kennedy’s ponderous fist to whistle by as he turned his face away. The momentum carried Kennedy by Shoo Lee, who shifted his weight and sent two swift, lightning-like blows into Kennedy’s right kidney. The Irishman staggered and nearly went to one knee.
“Butch. Butch. Butch.” The crowd roared, but the sound did not bear the easy confidence of a bare minute ago. “Smash’im down. Stomp’im. Beat’im to a pulp.” Different voices shouting the same thing.
Shoo Lee once again took the same place and stance he’d held when Kennedy tried the roundhouse.
Kennedy squared his shoulders. “Gonna take you, Chinaman. Purely gonna take you.”
Shoo Lee shifted to face Kennedy straight on.
As Kennedy got close, he threw a straight punch aimed at Shoo Lee’s face. Shoo Lee moved enough that his iron-hard left forearm could block the Irishman’s blow aside. Before Kennedy could recover, Shoo Lee’s right fist, elbow locked with the full weight of his upper body behind it, smashed into his sternum like a hammer splatting against a side of beef.
In reaction, Kennedy’s arms wrapped around Shoo Lee, but he merely ducked away, and they slipped off the layer of Vaseline covering Shoo Lee’s head and upper body. His lips curved upward slightly as he stepped away and once more took his defiant stance.
Kennedy shook his head, then lowered it like a bull. “You stinky slick little Chinaman, you. You’ll not make a fool of Darren Kennedy, you surely won’t.” He took two steps to close the distance to Shoo Lee. Fists closed, forearms up to block Shoo Lee’s blows, Kennedy readied himself again. But this time, while drawing his right arm back as if to strike, he cut in with a left hook that landed on the side of Shoo Lee’s face.