James Chase - Figure It Out for Yourself

Something very hard and that hurt hit my shoulder, driving the gun out of my hand: a blow aimed at my head, and which would have sent me to sleep for a long, long time if it had landed.

I fell on my hands and knees. Legs brushed against my side, fingers groped up my arm, touched my face and shifted to my throat: lean, strong fingers, damp against my skin, and cold.

I shoved my chin into my collar so he couldn’t get a prom grip, straightened, groped in my turn for a hold. My hand touched a coat, went up a powerful bicep. That gave me an idea where his face was. I slammed in a short, hard punch that connected with what felt like an ear.

There was a grunt, then a weight that could have been around fourteen stone dropped on top of me, driving me flat on to the floor. The fingers dug into my neck; hot, hurried breathing fanned my face.

But this time he wasn’t dealing with a girl. Probably he hadn’t had a great deal of trouble in handling Gracie, but he was going to have some trouble handling me.

I caught hold of his thumbs and bent them back. I heard him catch his breath in a gasp of pain. He jerked his thumbs out of my grip only because I let him, and as he straightened up I clouted him on the side of the head with a round-house swing that sent him away from me with a grunt of anguish.

I was half up, with my fingers touching the floor, as he launched himself at me again. I could just make out his dim form in the darkness as he came, and I lurched towards him. We met with a crash like a couple of charging bulls. He reeled back, and I socked him in the belly: a goingaway punch that hadn’t the beef to put him down, but that brought the wind out of him like the hiss of a punctured tyre.

At the back of my mind I could see that screwed-up figure in the soiled blue nightdress hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and it made me mad. I kept moving in, belting him with right and left punches, not always landing, but taking good care when they did land they’d hurt. I took one bang on the side of the jaw that sent my head back, but it wasn’t hard enough to stop me.

He was gasping for breath now, and backing away as fast as he could. I had to stop throwing punches, because I lost sight of him. I could only hear his heavy breathing, and guess he was somewhere just ahead of me. For a moment or so we stood in the darkness, trying to see each other, listening and watching for any sudden move.

I thought I could just make out a shadow in the darkness about a yard to my left, but I wasn’t sure. I stamped my foot, and the shadow swerved away like a scared cat. Before he could cover his balance, I jumped in, and my fist caught him on the side of his neck. The impact sounded like a cleaver driving into a hunk of beef.

He gave a wheezing gasp, fell over on his back, scrambled up and backed away. He now seemed very anxious to break up the meeting and go home. I dived forward to finish him, in- stead, my foot landed on a rotten plank that gave under me and I came down with a crash that shook the breath out of me.

He had me cold then, but he wasn’t interested. All he could think of was getting home.

He bolted for the door.

I struggled to get up, but my foot was firmly held in the rotten flooring. I caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered figure outlined in the dimness of the doorway; then it vanish-ed.

By the time I got my foot free I knew it would be useless to go after him. There were too many bolt-holes in Coral Gables to find him after such a start.

I limped to the door, swearing to myself. Something white lying in the passage caught my eye. I bent to pick it up.

It was a white felt hat.

The barman in Yate’s Bar looked like a retired all-in-wrestler. He was getting old now, but he still looked tough enough to quell a riot.

He served me with a slice of baked ham between rye bread and a pint of beer, and while I ate he rested hairy arms on the counter and stared at me.

At this hour of the day the bar was slack. There were not more than half a dozen men at the various tables dotted around the room: fishermen and turtle men waiting for the tide to turn. They took no notice of me, but I seemed to fascinate the barman. His battle-scarred face was heavy with thought, and every now and then he passed a hand as big as a ham over his shaven head as if to coax his brain to work.

‘Seen yuh kisser some place,’ he said, pulling at a nose that had been stamped on in the past. ‘Been in here before, ain’t yu?’

He had a high, falsetto voice that would have embarrassed a choirboy.

I said I had been in before.

He nodded his shaven head, scratched where his ear had been, and showed a set of very white even teeth.

‘Never forget a kisser. Yuh come in here fifty yars from now and I’d remember ya. Fact.’

I thought it wasn’t likely either of us would live that long, but I didn’t say so.

‘Wonderful how some people remember faces,’ I said. ‘Wish I could. Meet a man one day, walk through him the next. Bad for business.’

‘Yah,’ the barman said. ‘Guy came in yesterday; ain’t been in here for three yars. Give him a pint of old ale before he could ask for it. Always drank old ale. That’s memory.’

If he had served me old ale without asking me I wouldn’t have argued with him. He didn’t look as if he had a lot of patience with people who argued.

‘Test your memory on this one,’ I said. ‘Tall, thin, broad-shouldered. Wears a fawn suit and a white felt hat. Seen him around here?’

The squat, heavy body stiffened. The battered, hairy face hardened.

‘It ain’t smart to ask questions in dis joint, brother,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘If yuh don’t want to lose yu front teeth, better keep yu yap shut.’

I drank some beer while I eyed him over the rim of the glass.

‘That scarcely answers my question,’ I said, put down the glass and produced a five-dollar bill. I kept it between my fingers so only he and I could see it.

He looked to right and left, frowned, hesitated, then looked to right and left again: as obvious as a ham actor playing Hard-iron, the spy, for the first time.

‘Give me it wid a butt,’ he said, without moving his lips.

I gave him a cigarette and the bill. Only five of the six men in the bar saw him take it. The other had his back turned.

‘One of Barratt’s boys,’ he said. ‘Keep clear of him: he’s dangerous.’

‘Yeah; and so’s a mosquito if you let it bite you,’ I said, and paid for the beer and the sandwich.

As he scooped up the money, I asked, ‘What’s he call himself?’

He looked at me, frowning, then moved off down to the far end of the bar. I waited a moment until I was sure he wasn’t coming back, then I slid off the stool and went out into the hot afternoon sunshine.

Jeff Barratt: could be, I thought. I didn’t know he had any boys. He had a good reason to shut Gracie’s mouth. I began to wonder if he was the master-mind behind the kidnapping. It would fit together very well if he was; possibly too well.

I also wondered, as I walked across to where I had parked the Buick, if Mary Jerome was hooked up in some way with Barratt. It was time I did something about her. I decided to run up to the Acme Garage and ask some questions.

I drove fast up Beach Road into Hawthorne Avenue and I turned left into Foothill Boulevard.

The sun was strong, and I lowered the blue sunshield over the windshield. The sunlight, coming through the blue glass, filled the car with a soft, easy light and made me feel as if I was in an aquarium.

The Acme Garage stood at the corner of Foothill Boulevard and Hollywood Avenue, facing the desert. It wasn’t anything to get excited about, and I wondered why Lute Ferris had selected such an isolated, out-of-the-way spot for a filling station.