Strip for Violence | Page 8

dances are drunks, and when they saw this midget bawling them out, they laughed and that was that Of course, always had another man that could handle any real trouble. Now for twelve dollars a man, I supply you experienced, intelligent, uniformed men who..."
"Intelligent? You cracking I'm a dummy?" bully-boy snarled, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.
Guess I still could have avoided trouble, but there was a gleam in Boscom's eyes that got me sore. He deliberately had the punk in so he'd have a ringside seat for a free brawl. I said, "Two-bit goons like you come at bargain rates, dime a dozen. And in a real scrap you're not even worth a dime."
"You little sawed off...!"
He didn't try to sock, instead he charged, a horrible scowl on his face. I grabbed his lapels, pulling him toward me, jockeying around till I had Boscom at my back. The punk had a hand at my throat, another about to wallop my kidneys, as I sunk one foot in his stomach and suddenly fell back on my shoulders. We landed with a boom, but his arm and my other foot broke the fall for me. I pushed my shoe in his gut as hard as I could and let go of his suit--fighting down a desire to grab his neck. His body made a neat arc as it sailed through the air and crashed into Boscom and his old desk. There was a deep grunt from Boscom, then the sound of broken wood and glass. I jumped to my feet, brushed my suit.
The punk was sprawled across the desk top, a busted ink bottle dripping on Boscom, who was doubled up in his chair, both hands holding his pot belly. The goon must have kicked him as he came in for a landing. For a second I stared at bully-boy and was scared the clown had broken his back--even a simple judo fall can be dangerous as hell. But when he got his wind back, he sat up and worked his shoulders, blinked his glassy eyes.
With mock politeness I said, "Sorry, Mr. Boscom, but you saw him start the show. Now you know what I mean by knowing how to handle yourself. Shall I call you tomorrow, talk over a contract?"
Boscom's doughy mouth was sucking air but he managed to grunt, "Yeah," as I walked out.

8
I DROVE UP the West Side Highway, watching the shad fishermen working their nets out in the Hudson, turned off at Dyckman Street and went up Broadway. Will Johnson lived in one of these neighborhoods where everybody had been averaging fifty a week for years--nobody real poor, nor eating high off the hog either. I climbed five flights, stabbed the doorbell with my finger. A plump woman in a worn, pink housecoat opened the door. When I introduced myself, she said, "Come in. I'm Mrs. Thelma Johnson. Willie--the detective is here." She sounded nervous as she called Willie, and when she spoke, all her face seemed to work.
Will came shuffling down the hallway in slippers and as he shook my hand, Thelma said, "Excuse me, I'm cooking," and went into the kitchen.
Their living-room was a comfortable, standard job, a couple of bad paintings on the wall, even some artificial flowers. Except for being neater, it reminded me of Louise's place. Will said, "Of course I've had the window fixed, but there was a hole in the bottom pane, and here's the one in the Venetian blinds." I examined a jagged hole in one of the thin metal slats. He showed me the copper vase over the fireplace, the dent in its side. "See, I was sitting here, reading, when it happened. Little lower and it would have ploughed through me."
"If it hit the bottom pane, then it must have come up, from the street," I said, brightly, pulling up the blinds. He had a nice view, nothing around but open lots and private houses. I could see the Empire State from his window, and part of the Hudson and New Jersey.
Will said, "The view is worth walking all them stairs. Hey, want to see something real good?" He took an old pair of binoculars out of a desk drawer, handed them to me and pointed to a tennis court about six blocks away. The glasses were powerful, I could plainly see a girl in white shorts banging a tennis ball against the side of a small house. She had her back to me, but her legs were lean and muscular, and her small breasts jumped against her T-shirt.
"Man, you should see the broads there on a Sunday," Will said, winking like a school boy. "That one you see now, she's there all the time."
"Nice-looking dish," I said, scanning the rest of the area.