Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

“Not like me, you haven’t,” Carmody said gently. “Remember that.” Then he laughed and swung around to face Johnny Stark, his eyes alive with fury. “Now throw me out, sonny boy,” he said. “Earn your dough.”

“Mike, you and me don’t want to fight,” Johnny said.

“Why not? That’s what you’re paid for.”

Johnny hesitated, a sheepish smile touching his wide pale face. Without taking his eyes from Carmody, he said, “Mr. Ackerman, Mike carries a gun.”

“Don’t let that worry you,” Carmody said. He took the gun from his shoulder holster and flipped it suddenly to Johnny. “Now you’ve got one.” While Johnny was turning it around gingerly in his massive hands, Carmody stepped in and hit him with a right that knocked him sprawling across the coffee table and into the fireplace.

Ackerman and Beaumonte scrambled aside, and at the bar Nancy screamed softly and put her hands to her mouth.

Johnny wiped his bleeding lips with the coat sleeve as he got slowly and purposefully to his feet. His little eyes were mean and hot. “You shouldn’t have done that, Mike,” he said, mumbling the words through split lips. “Now I’m going to hurt you.”

“Come on, sonny,” Carmody said, waiting for him with his hands on his hips. “You’re no street fighter. I’ll give you a lesson for free.”

Johnny didn’t answer. He came in fast, hooked a left into Carmody’s side and tried for his jaw with an explosive right. It missed by half an inch but he recovered instantly and crowded Carmody back toward the wall with a flurry of punches that came out like pistons from his heavy shoulders. Carmody took a blow in the stomach and another that loosened a front tooth and sent a spurt of blood down his chin. Then he erupted; he could have handled it from a distance, cutting Johnny to pieces with his left, but that wouldn’t have appeased his wild, destructive rage. He battered his way back to the middle of the room, trading punches with savage joy; he didn’t want to do this the smart way, he wanted to be hurt, he wanted to be punished.

They stood toe-to-toe for half a minute, slugging desperately, and then Johnny broke it off and backed away, his breath coming in sharp whistles through his flat nose. He was cut badly around the mouth and there was a look of cautious respect in his narrowed eyes.

“Ackerman fixed your fights,” Carmody said, grinning. “Didn’t they ever tell you that.”

Johnny leaped at him, swearing, and Carmody stepped back and let a punch sail past his head. Moving in fast he speared Johnny with a left and caught him off balance with a tremendous right that drove him across the room. Johnny bore back recklessly, but the right had weakened him; his breath was coming hard and he was down flat on his feet. Carmody hit him with another right and when it landed he knew the fight was over; the blow smashed into Johnny’s throat and spun him around and down to the floor. Johnny screamed once in a desperate choking voice and his legs threshed as he fought to squeeze air into his lungs. He got enough down to quell his panic and then lay perfectly still, concentrating his strength on the painful work of breathing.

Carmody picked up his revolver, put it away in his holster and looked at Ackerman, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “Nothing happens to my brother.”

Ackerman smiled very carefully. The ingredients of death were in the room, he knew, and another jar might explode them in his face. “Maybe we can figure out something else,” he said.

Beaumonte cried suddenly, “We don’t want to hurt him, but the crazy sonofabitch hasn’t got the brains of a two-year-old.”

He had used the wrong word and he knew it instantly. Carmody walked toward him and Beaumonte said, “Now look,” but that was all he got out; Carmody snapped a left up into his big padded stomach and Beaumonte’s mouth closed on a sharp, disbelieving cry of pain. He sank to the floor slowly, settling like a punctured balloon, his face flushed with anguish and fear.

“It was just a manner of speaking,” Ackerman said, still smiling carefully.

“It’s a manner I don’t like,” Carmody said.

Nancy laughed suddenly, like a happy, delighted child, and skipped over to sit beside Beaumonte. She crossed her legs, spread her skirt out prettily then leaned forward and smiled into his crimson face.

“Daddy got a tummy ache?” she asked him merrily. “Or is Daddy over his ration?” Beaumonte stared furiously at her, his face squeezed with pain, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “Look, it’s sloshing in the scuppers,” she cried, and raised her glass ceremoniously and poured the contents over his head. “See it slosh, Daddy? And what the hell are scuppers, anyway? I’ve always meant to ask.”

The liquor darkened the shoulders and lapels of his white silk suit and dripped down onto his lap, but he paid no attention to it. He sat awkwardly, hunched over like a Buddha, staring at her with murderous eyes.

Ackerman smiled at Carmody. “There’s still time to settle our problem smartly.”

“The time ran out,” Carmody said, moving toward the door but keeping his eyes on everyone in the room. “Remember what I told you, Ackerman. The guy you send after my brother has got to come through me first. He won’t like that, I promise.”

Ackerman shrugged slightly, and Carmody knew the break was clean and final. When he stepped from this room he wouldn’t have a friend in the city. Okay, I don’t need friends, he thought. I’m enough by myself, I’m Mike Carmody.

With a cold smile on his lips he turned and walked out the door.

Ackerman stood quietly for several seconds, frowning thoughtfully at the wall. Then, without looking around, he said, “Dan, did you get everything set with Dominic Costello?”

“He sent us a guy,” Beaumonte said, his voice small and hoarse. “He’s already on young Carmody’s tail.”

“Tell him to go to work,” Ackerman said. “And you’d better figure out something to keep Carmody out of the way. Nobody will have a chance to get at his brother while he’s around.” His voice was flat and disgusted.

“Okay.” Beaumonte still sat on the floor, watching Nancy. She smiled unsteadily at him as a slow fear began to work through her drunkenness. “I didn’t mean it,” she said in a sad, little girl’s voice. “Honest, Dan.”

Ackerman looked around then, his eyes dark and furious. “Maybe you can handle my business better than you handle your women,” he said to Beaumonte. “You’d better, that’s all I can tell you.”

Johnny Stark climbed slowly to his feet, massaging his neck with both hands. “He caught me in the windpipe, Mr. Ackerman,” he said in a squeaking voice. “I’d of got him if he hadn’t caught my windpipe.”

“You couldn’t take him with an armored tank,” Ackerman said, glaring at him. “What do I pay you for? To listen to birds singing?” Turning abruptly he walked to the door. Over his shoulder he said, “Don’t bother coming along, Stark. I’m safer alone.” He walked out and slammed the door shut behind him with a crash.

“Give me a hand, Johnny,” Beaumonte said.

“Sure, sure,” Johnny said quickly, glad to be useful to someone. He got behind Beaumonte, put both hands under his armpits and hauled him to his feet. Beaumonte swayed and put his hand for support against the mantel. “He could have killed me,” he muttered. “He could have broke something inside me.”

“Yeah, he can hit,” Johnny said, nodding earnestly.

Nancy put a hand timidly on Beaumonte’s forearm. “Look at me, Dan.” She was pale and trembling, sobered by her fear. “It was just a joke. You do things like that to me sometimes, don’t you? I was drinking too much, like you said. But I’m going on the wagon, I promise, Dan.”