PACKY AND I SAT IN THE CHEVY AND WATCHED THE LIGHT on the third floor of Maggie’s old three-flat.
“It looks peaceful enough,” he said dubiously.
“I’m not taking any chances.” I hurt, I ached, I was in agony. Every ice rut that Roxy hit on our ride from the hospital had been a reprise of my beating.
I wouldn’t be much good in a fight.
Unless, I told myself with true Navy Cross heroism, I had to be.
I glanced at my watch: nine-thirty.
“I’m going up there.”
“Maggie wouldn’t waste the electricity.”
And she’s still saving money because of the cost of my maroon leather notebook.
“You can’t go alone.”
“You’re the reserves. Give me five minutes and come up after me.”
“Police?”
“What can they do? We have no evidence against him.”
If I had known just how dangerous the night would be, I would have called the police instantly.
I struggled painfully out of the shotgun seat of Roxy, took a deep breath, decided inhaling was a mistake and hobbled up the unshoveled wooden staircase to the door of the three-flat.
I put my finger on the buzzer, hesitated, and tried the door. It was open.
Someone else had come before me and left the door open. There were four other apartments.…
Don’t let him get behind you in the sun this time.
I slipped through the door and climbed quietly up the steps. At first, each step sent a new shot of agony through my body. Then, as the adrenaline began to flow, I forgot about my aches and pains.
I paused on the third floor landing. Someone—male—was shouting in Maggie’s apartment.
“Go get Packy,” CIC advised me. He was right about how you won the war. Quantity, not quality.
He might hurt her.
I crept closer to the door.
“That peckerwood is trying to destroy me. They took away my job. They took away my car. I’ll kill them all.”
Maggie’s reply was muffled.
“He’s your friend. You’re part of the plot. The peckerwoods are always scheming to get me.”
So I pushed the door open.
Maggie was cowering near the stove. He was holding the collar of her chenille robe in his hand. Her hair was a mess, BUT there was no sign that he had hit her yet.
“Well, Colonel McCarron,” I said genially, now aware again of all my aches and pains, “nice to see you again. Haven’t seen you since your general discharge at Parris Island. Phony.”
“I’ll kill you,” he thundered.
“You seem to have lost your hired thugs. I hear they had to take a little trip to Cuba. Too bad; it will be a fair fight this time.”
“I’ll kill you!” With a brutal shove, he sent Maggie flying across the room and against her bed.
“I doubt it very much.”
But I wasn’t sure. I had no experience in either American boxing or Japanese martial arts with a badly injured body. Well, I would soon find out what it was like.
“Get out of here!” Maggie yelled furiously. “I don’t want you stupid men fighting in my apartment.”
She pushed McCarron toward the door, as if she were a bulldozer and he a pile of dirt. “Get out! I don’t want to see either of you ever again.”
“The young lady wants us to leave, peckerwood.” He leered evilly at me.
“Fine with me.”
“I’ll take care of you and then come back and see if she’s any good in a quick rape.”
“Lock the door, Maggie.”
“You think that’s gonna stop me, peckerwood?” He chuckled. “I’ll break that door right in.”
The smell of gin, and a lot of it, wafted toward me. Jacob Walz always drank too much before a fight. That would make it easier.
I let the Dutchman get behind me again. I tried to hobble down the steps quickly to stay ahead of him.
“Running, huh, peckerwood?” He was bumping and weaving above me. “Can’t run fast enough to get away from old Wade McCarron. I’m going to tear you apart with my bare hands.”
I didn’t look behind me. I must get to ground as quickly as possible so I could turn and face Walz on an equal footing.
On the wooden landing outside the door of the second floor entrance, he lunged after me. I dodged to the side of the platform, not quite quickly enough.
He landed on me with the full force of his large, fat body and sent me tumbling down the full flight of slippery stairs.
Battered, breathless, bleeding from my mouth again, and with shudders of pain echoing and re-echoing through my body, I lay on my back in the snow on the sidewalk. The Dutchman rushed down the stairs full speed, prepared to stomp on me with both feet.
A Zero in the sun.
Behind him the demons were screaming for my blood.
Just as he jumped, I kicked him in the gut and twisted away. Screaming like an injured rhinoceros, he sailed over me and tumbled into a snowbank, now doubled up in pain of his own.
So now we’re on even terms. And you’re outnumbered, even if you don’t realize it.
I’m not sure what I would have done next. Probably picked him up and dragged him off to the local police station. I hurt too much for a sustained fight.
He rolled over, pawed in his coat pocket, and pulled out a small silver revolver, a twenty-two, probably, I noted as I watched it emerge, small and deadly like a water moccasin sliding around a tree stump.
That’s how the Dutchman had killed Meisner, his partner. And the Mexicans.
“I’m going to blow you apart, peckerwood.”
He was too drunk to aim properly. On the other hand, he might get lucky.
I spun on my left foot, and with a clumsy imitation of the proper martial-arts kick, swung my right foot toward his gun hand.
I missed his hand completely but connected with his shoulder.
It was enough to send the gun spinning into the snow.
And turn me into a raving maniac.
Threaten my woman, would he? Try to take her away from me, huh?
Not in this caveman’s district, Jacob Walz. Not here.
I forgot my own injuries. I forgot decency and honor. I forgot to worry about how I would explain eventually to the police. The horror of the Lost Dutchman must at last be ended. I didn’t want his gold, but he wasn’t going to take my woman away from me. Not now or ever.
My fists, remembering enthusiastically the skills from my days on the Fenwick boxing team, slammed into his chest, his gut, his face with exuberant glee. I beat him to a bloody mess.
Even now I don’t feel much guilt.
He fell into the snow a couple of times. I dragged him to his feet and pounded away again.
Finally I tossed him into a snowbank.
Two of the Dutchman’s hired demons tried to grab me. With a sharp swing of my shoulders I sent them into the snowbank too.
“I’m outnumbered, CIC; where are you with your BAR when I really need you.”
Suddenly he was there.
“That man assaulted my brother, officers, with a gun. There it is. It’s the second time he’s attacked him. I’m Pat Keenan, a Quigley seminarian, this is my brother Jerry. He won two Navy Crosses in the war and this slacker who was thrown out of the Marines tried to kill him.”
Not Pat Keenan. That was not Pat Keenan. That was a fleet admiral with wings.
“What year did you start at the Q?”
“Forty-two.”
“Pete Grabowski. I was there in thirty-nine. Did you have Clarkie?”
“Sure did.”
“He flunked me out. Just as well, my wife says. Hey, this gun is loaded. Mean-looking son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
“My brother was escorting him from a young woman’s apartment where he’d made improper advances. Then he pulled the gun.”
“Sure looks that way to me; but how come you didn’t help your brother.”
He wasn’t my brother. He was Michael. Seraph. Specialist in wars in heaven.
“Does he look like he needs any help?”