Fist First

by Nigel Mustard

  Crawford bolted upright and became erect in his chair.

  Suddenly, he was alert, calculating. Could Spang be his way out of the clutches of the diabolical King of New York Thomas Magnelli?

  Crawford responded with an Irish drawl:

  ‘Well, Mr Spang, I do believe you speak pretty good Irish, for a Chinaman.’

  They all laughed very loudly and clearly at the good joke.

  Presently, Lowenstein walked out of the sauna, claiming that he didn’t operate well in the heat. His pink pale flesh bounced off his body as if he had been gunged in blancmange.

  Crawford sneered as the door shut and continued to speak to Spang, who had not left.

  ‘There’s just a couple of catches, Mr Spang. I want that Jew Lawyer dead too, and Magnelli’s bodyguard, Hitoshi. We can’t trust Lowenstein to keep on our side, and Hitoshi would gut me like a raw fish if he found out I was behind this move. They both need to die.’

  Spang giggled mischievously. ‘Oh, Mr Crawford, it appears you are the most ambitious man of us all! I had better hope not to get on your bad side.’

  Crawford flinched at Spang’s steely gaze.

  ‘But, Mr Crawford, I assure you, the plan is all in place. Allow me to lay it out for you now.’

  Spang continued, revealing his plans….

  Oh, did you think you’d be able to hear them?

  Think again.

  Chapter 26

  Rooster slept well for a man whose life was essentially worthless. He slept in his cardboard box in an alley with a bible in his hand and prayed in his dreams for a way out of his life on the street.

  But God wasn't listening. The prayers fell upon deaf ears. God is deaf. (If not dead).

  Rooster woke at dawn and stretched. He was about to turn over for another few minutes of sleep before beginning his pitiful panhandling, when he heard a familiar voice.

  The familiar voice of Frank Stoker!

  ‘Hey, Rooster.’ He heard Stoker say. ‘Get up.’

  Rooster smiled warmly and replied enthusiastically: ‘Oh Lawd, Frank you sly motherfucker, I do declare I thought you was dead as dead could...’

  Rooster had left his box and was face to face with twelve Chinamen dressed in black suits and black top hats.

  ‘Sorry folks, thought you was someone else. By god, I gotta lay off the bottle, I do declare I swear I heard the voice of my old friend Frank Stoker…’

  He looked down and saw that the leader of the gang was holding a diabolical stereo system. He pressed play, malevolently. Sure enough, Stoker’s voice sprung out of the stereo, clear as day.

  ‘Hey Rooster, get up.’

  There is a difference between book smarts and street smarts. Book smarts equate to the sum of your Math, English and History knowledge. Alfred Einstein had book smarts. Street smarts equate how to stay alive whilst living in a bin and being faced with thuggers, looters and ne’er-do-wells on a daily basis. Rooster had street smarts. He realised that this was no ordinary situation and the some ‘shit’ was likely to go down.

  ‘Oh Lawd. I guess this is somethin' to do with Frank? Well you gonna have to kill me 'cos I ain't sayin' a damn word! ‘

  Rooster raised his fists and prepared for the worst.

  The twelve chinamen spread out around Rooster, cartwheeling and giggling terrifyingly. They each produced a small hatchets which were as sharp as the keen investigative mind of Frank Stoker.

  Rooster was tired, but was tough. He ran into the group and through three or four jabs which bought him a bit of time. He darted for a side alley, and had nearly escaped.

  He hadn’t escaped yet but things were looking really quite positive. He was running clear and, yes it really felt like he was going to get away!

  Then he was struck through the back with three or four spinning hatchets.

  He died in great pain and did not get away, despite it looking likely earlier on.

  Chapter 27

  Two hours later, Janney and Stoker walked into the dive bar in Queens. They needed a bit of time to regroup, just get their damn thoughts together.

  Earlier, in between the end of the last chapter and the beginning of this one, they had arrived at Rooster’s alley too late. Stoker had picked up what remained of his friend and held him in his hands, shaking his fist at the sky. Janney had pulled him away when they heard sirens. This was becoming a sticky mess, and no mistake. Janney convinced Stoker it was better to watch from the shadows than be in the thick of the action, so they hurtled over fences and over walls to escape.

  The bouncers took one look at the two hulking men striding towards them, and made no move to stop them. One was handsome, couldn’t have been more than thirty, well over six feet, canary blonde hair flapping over his eyes, almost teasing.

  The other was taller still, mid-forties maybe, in incredible shape. Long black hair tumbled from his hair follicles and he had the look of a man who has just lost a close acquaintance or two to a malevolent presence from across the ocean.

  Hell, even if the bouncers had thought they stood a chance to forcibly deny entry, they would have let these two lost souls in anyway.

  Stoker walked to the bar and ordered.

  ‘Gimme two damn beakers of whiskey’ he snarled, terrierlike.

  ‘Sure pal’, replied the old soak behind the bar. He wore a white vest and had a towel over his shoulders. ‘Call me Coach. Used to teach kids how to box a while back, took all my savings and bought this bar. Say, you two look like you’ve had some bad news.’

  ‘You got that right, Coach.’ Replied Janney. ‘Pretty shitty day so far, and it’s only 3am.’

  Two whiskeys became four. Four became six. You get the gist. They drank a lot.

  By 5am, Stoker tried to focus on next steps. He clenched his balls into fists.

  ‘They took Moe and Rooster from me.’

  Stoker crushed the glass he was drinking with in his bare hands.

  ‘Who else could they go for?’ Janney’s voice pierced the smoky atmosphere in the bar like a spear through a trifle.

  ‘Nobody. That’s it. Unless..’

  ‘Unless?’ Challenged Janney.

  ‘Unless what?’ Asked Stoker.

  ‘No, I was asking you…’ clarified Janney.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. Unless they go after Kowalski… he’s like the father figure I never had. But he’s the damn Police Chief of the City. Surely nobody would murder him?’

  Janney looked at Stoker and winked, as if to say ‘come on Frank, this is Magnelli and the atrocious Johnny Spang we’re talking about… Is there any level they wouldn’t stoop to?’

  Stoker winked back, as if to say ‘You’re right kid, let’s go.’

  Stoker then verbally spoke the words in order to avoid any doubt: ‘You’re right kid, let’s go.’

  Before they could even stand up, they saw a large man in biker leathers with long red hair leaning over the bar and trying to get Coach’s attention.

  He started to speak, and the words were:

  ‘Hey coach. Now listen, you’re a little behind with your payments. The Demon Riders are here to protect you, but if you don’t pay, then we can’t do that.’

  Coach responded, angrily.

  ‘Listen here, I won’t pay you a dollar, a quarter, a dime, or even a nickel, or even a damn cent. You get that? I won’t get bullied by some no good biker gang.’

  By this time, Janney and Stoker’s pairs of ears had been pricked by this conversation. Stoker reached over and grabbed Janney’s wrist. ‘Call it a hunch, kid, but I don’t like the look of this.’

  The biker continued: ‘Well that’s an awful shame, Coach.’ He sneered the word ‘Coach’, showing blatant disrespect.

  The guy clicked his fingers and four burly bikers dressed in leathers with tough looking beards strode round the corner. Two were clearly twins, perhaps twenty five years old. Six feet tall. Blonde ringlets dangled down to their shoulders. They wore red bandanas and leather jackets. Leather pants completed the ensemble, (coup
led of course with shoes, socks and other accessories.) They both looked mean, and scars on their faces and knuckles proved that they had had their fair share of fights.

  The other two were middle aged but anything but twins. One was short and fat carrying a baseball bat, and the other was tall, lean and hard. He had a crow-like face like a bird, and had a stack of rolled up quarters clenched in each fist. Crow-Face had respectable biceps – though not as big as Stoker’s, of course - and clearly spent some time pumping one out with his biker buddies.

  But spending so long working the streets had given Stoker a sixth sense. He knew the real danger here was the leader, the evil extorter who had now grabbed Coach’s collar and slapped him round the face.

  This man was not a particularly tall man, perhaps a shade over six foot. But he had a flame of orange hair which dangled in a ponytail to the base of his back. A scar ran from the top left of his forehead to the bottom right of his face. A small straight ginger beard tumbled down his chin-middle like an auburn skidmark. He was covered in diabolical tattoos. The tattoos consisted of words like ‘Fuck’, ‘Shit’ and ‘Maim’.

  In his hand, slept a large rusty chain, the thick links like steel sausages, but twice as deadly. The chain was smattered with matted blood; it was a legendary weapon on the streets of the Big Apple.

  The worse thing was that Frank Stoker knew him.

  Lenny Thunder had led the Demon Riders for over a decade. They flirted with the outskirts of New York, shovelling drugs in and out of the greedy mouths of junkies. They also ran some low level thug ‘protection’ rackets in some of the most dangerous areas of the city. He was known as a true tough guy - and had proved it on his first stint in New York Jail, where he picked out the biggest man in the queue for breakfast and killed him dead with a single punch.

  Nobody touched Lenny Thunder in New York Jail after that stunt.

  And would you believe it? Nobody witnessed the assault. Lenny Thunder was free again in three years after the local judge declared amnesty. The local judge, whose wife and children had been damn well kidnapped by a gang of bikers one week before. And Lenny Thunder was free to run the Demon Riders recklessly and wickedly, for as long as he wanted.

  Stoker stared down him, with disgust in his eyes.

  ‘I think you’ve proved your point, pal. I suggest you get the hell out of here and never damn come back.’

  Thunder let Coach go and turned to face Stoker and Janney. A cigarette hung from each corner of his mouth.

  Guess one stick wasn’t enough to quell his smoky fix.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Hmph. New bouncers I guess.’ Replied Stoker, coolly. He nodded over at the front door where the unconscious bodies of the two bouncers were being dragged in by Crow Face.

  The demon riders all laughed, and slapped each other’s backs annoyingly.

  ‘Oh shit. Looks like we got us a hero, boys.’ Announced Thunder, sarcastically, to his cronies. ‘And him and his young boyfriend are about to have themselves an accident.’

  Thunder clicked his fingers again and the two blonde twins stepped forward. One pulled out a set of nun chucks from his jacket, and the other a sixteen inch filleting knife. They both smiled, threw down their cigarettes and charged for Stoker and Janney.

  The nun chuck twin headed for Janney. He spun the deadly weapons around his head and back again, creating devilish arcs of pain which Janney knew he had to avoid. He jumped off his stool and completed a perfect backflip, a throwback to his time in the Marine gymnastics team, before landing cleanly on his heels. This bought him enough time to fend off the blows with his elbows and chin before striking his opponent in the belly, once, hard.

  The twin was down but not out. He wheezed but picked himself up and came for Janney again, swirling his nun chucks like a display of deadly semaphore. Janney batted away the flailing sticks with his hands, demonstrating remarkable reflexes, before jumping in the air and driving his knee into the jaw of the twin.

  Knock out.

  Whilst this was happening, Stoker faced the twin with the blade. This twin was more cagey, and refused to charge Stoker.

  Smart kid. But how smart?

  Stoker began goading him by making chicken noises and waving his arms (wings) and clucking his beak (lips).

  Stoker was calling him a coward in front of his gang! Well, you can imagine the result.

  The twin lost all his discipline and sprinted for Stoker with his blade held over his head with two hands. Stoker simply dropped to one knee and allowed the blade to soar over his head and into the soft cherrywood of the bar. The twin fought to release the blade, but, precisely as Stoker had planned, it was stuck fast.

  Stoker coolly asked the twin a question, whilst getting himself erect.

  ‘Any last requests?’

  The twin appeared to try to say something, before Stoker’s right fist hit him square in the jaw with such force that the jaw imploded, driving the shattered jawbone and two sets of teeth into the back of the mouth, where this mass of bone and teeth tore through his larynx and penetrated the back of his head.

  Dead.

  Stoker turned and saw that Janney had made short work of his assailant. Not bad, kid.

  Lenny Thunder just laughed, manically.

  ‘Maybe I underestimated you two. You’ve beaten two young prospects, but let’s see how you fair against seasoned bikers.’ He pointed at Crow Face and Fatty. ‘You two, finish this.’

  Crow Face raised his fists to his face like a gentleman boxer. He pussyfooted over to Janney like a welterweight champion of the world, before unleashing a flurry of devastating punches that were almost too quick to follow with the nude eye, But Stoker didn’t have time to watch Janney, he was on the receiving end of a huge baseball bat smash from Fatty on the side of the neck.

  Stoker didn’t get stunned easily, but this one sent him reeling for a while. He had been distracted by the possibility of Janney being in trouble and had let Fatty get near him. He had enough time to gather his thoughts before Fatty was on him again, kicking him in his broken ribs whilst Stoker was down on one knee. Pain coursed through his body like an eel. Stoker was tough, but he knew he couldn’t withstand much more punishment from this little barrel-like biker.

  The next kick was about to arrive uninvited into Stoker’s face when he caught the boot one handed. Stoker heaved the fat biker into the air with one hand and flicked him over his shoulder onto the bar in one motion.

  He leaned over him and drove his elbow down into Fatty’s throat, five times. Fatty was gurgling for breath now, gurgling for life. He picked up a bottle, smashing it on the side of the bar and thrusting it at Stoker’s neck.

  Stoker caught that too, tearing the bottle out of his hand and breaking every fingerbone in his damn fingers in the process. He dragged the biker down the bar to where the bar had one of those pieces of wood on hinge that allows the barmen and barwomen to get to and from the bar section. He laid Fatty’s head over the edge of the bar and brought down the heavy wood onto his face with devastating force, almost severing his face from the rest of his head.

  Dead.

  He turned to help Janney with Crow-Face but was amazed with what he saw. Janney was deflecting the bulk of the punches that Crow-Face was throwing and returning the favour(s) with some devastating haymakers of his own. Janney dodged and weaved, and eventually punched Crow-Face with an uppercut that sent him reeling backwards over the bar. Janney didn’t give him a second to recover and followed up with a crashing right hook into Crow-Face’s temple. Crow-Face’s legs shook like hot glue. He slithered down the bar like a disabled snake before eventually closing his eyes tight shut closed.

  Knock out.

  Stoker strode over to Janney and put his arm over his shoulder, like a protective mother duck over a spunky young duckling.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, assholes!’ Screamed Lenny Thunder, who by now had remounted his motorcycle outside the dive bar and was screeching away into the night. ‘You
’ll fucking pay!’

  Stoker turned to Janney, whispering words that marched from lips to eardrums like little ghost ships sailing in the cool night.

  ‘You OK kid?’

  Janney responded. ‘I should be asking you the same question, old man.’ They both laughed.

  Coach, who was also laughing, came from behind the bar to talk to them.

  ‘Guys, I don’t know how to thank you. I’ve never seen anything like that.’

  Janney was clear. ‘Coach, you can thank us by reopening that boxing academy for local kids. We need that more than we need another dive bar.’

  Janney had chosen a method of thanks that was not self-serving, rather it would serve the community, and for many years. Clearly this was the action of a man who had perhaps formerly been a bad man, but now had become a good man.

  Coach had a tear in his eye, because he was crying. ‘Oh, hell, I guess you’re right. Thanks.’

  Stoker and Janney’s hands shook Coach’s hands and they left the bar.

  Stoker grabbed Janney by the shoulder. ‘Listen, kid, I’ve been thinking. One of us needs to pick up Crawford’s daughter. She’s in great danger and God only knows who Magnelli has paid in the NYPD Police Department.’

  Janney responded, flicking his blonde hair in the air like an attractive surfer. ‘Sure, Frank. Leave that with me. I just don’t like the idea of you going off on your own.’

  Stoker laughed. ‘Hell kid, I can look after myself, and I know you can too. I’ll go check on Kowalski… you pick up Chloe.’

  They went their separate ways.

  But what would they find? (Rhetorical).

  Chapter 28

  Michael Janney’s blonde hair shone like an expensive flashlight from one of those movies. He was cruising at well over the speed limit, but still easily within the safe zone for a competent male driver.

  Life had come easy to a guy like Janney. He won several beauty pageants as a young male (a boy) but was a small child until a powerful growth spurt turned him into a big child. Suddenly, Janney was everything a fourteen year old boy should be – tall, muscled and sexually attractive.