John Boland - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 54, No. 3, March 2009

You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

“Okay, Andy, today’s the twenty-eighth. I had some luck finding an idle rig. He’s on the way to the site now. As soon as this check clears, I’ll pay him and start the drilling. We should have some results within two to three weeks.”

“Perfect! Can you give me a map? I’ve never seen an oil well before.”

I slid a map over. “Go down any time after Monday. It’s about a two-hour drive, but take some water. It’s in the boonies.” Marks always relaxed for a while after they saw the rig in operation.

The check cleared, and I put the crew to work. After two weeks, it was time to pull the plug. I called the other investors and told them that technical problems made it necessary to quit drilling, but I’d be in touch when we could resume. With Andy, who thought he was my only partner, I went by the house. I wanted to cool this mark in person.

He took it hard. “Problems, what problems? What went wrong?” He twisted his hands as if they hurt.

“Look,” I said. “We hit some granite substrate. The rig we’ve got can’t handle the necessary drill bits without modifications.”

He groaned. “Does this mean we won’t hit any oil or gas?”

“No,” I said slowly as I thought. “The granite’s a cap, like a dome, over the oil shale. That’s why nobody tapped this field before. The granite’s actually a good sign.” Marks need hope like corn needs rain.

“Look,” Andy said, “I thought you’d have good news by now. I’ve got a big problem.”

You still don’t know the half of it, I thought, but I looked questioningly at him.

“That check I gave you wasn’t for seventy thousand. I altered it from seven thousand. I thought you’d bring the well in by now, and I’d surprise Stella. She’ll find out about the check when the bank statement comes in on the fifth of next month.”

I thought, You poor bastard, but he interrupted my sympathetic musings.

“Can’t we speed up the bit change? What would it take?”

If he was cheating his wife I had better speed my departure. Nothing good could come from sticking around, but Andy surprised me.

He opened a small wooden case on his desk. “You see this?” he asked. “This is the mate to the pistol that killed Alexander Hamilton.” He pushed the wooden case toward me. Inside was a slender antique dueling pistol. “Feel the balance,” he said, “Look at the bore, no pits or scratches. It’s in mint condition. The owner of the other pistol offered me fifty thousand for it. Would that be enough?”

I couldn’t pass this up. He was making it so easy. I returned the pistol to its case.

“Look, Andy. It’ll cost sixty grand for the air transport, new bits, and the pipe. I’ll kick in ten if you can get the fifty. Your percentage goes to seventy-five. Deal?”

“Great,” Andy said, “I’ll have it by Monday. Can you come by the house Monday night? Stella and the staff will be gone.”

Monday night I came though the gate and drove toward Andy’s place. Without the floodlights and the parking attendant, the house looked stark, dark, and lonely.

I walked to the front door which stood slightly ajar. I called out “Andy!” Walking toward the living room, I heard something move ahead of me. The sound led me into the entertainment room. I walked toward the open door of Andy’s office. Suddenly I saw a flash of light though the doorway and heard a thunderous boom. Shock pinned me to the doorframe until someone ran over me like a city bus. When I got up, still holding the doorframe, I saw Stella sitting in Andy’s chair lit by the desk lamp, her chest a red ruin and a look of wonder frozen on her face. Only the sound of a door slamming behind me brought me to my senses. Suddenly I knew. Somewhere close was a dueling pistol covered with my fingerprints, and the altered check would be near at hand. I heard a siren from the direction of the gate. It was too late to run. I was well and truly had, but I could almost admire the con. Almost.

Copyright © 2008 Jay Brooks

“It’s for real this time, Corey, me lad,” Patrick assured the boxer. “Thunderin’ Joe Bullock ain’t no small town hero who’s never been tested in a real fight. No, he’s just like you — a solid professional bare-knuckle boxer making his living following the stage and rail lines. I’ve talked with some men who saw his last fight. He’s a regular steam locomotive once he gets going. This time we’ll have our hands full!”

Corey absorbed his trainer’s words without really listening to them. Instead he was concentrating on the series of timing blows he was firing into Patrick’s open palms. He knew the older man thought he was being encouraging, but Corey didn’t need any further motivation. He was up and ready to knock this ex-slave on his backside and claim the best purse he had had a chance at since Denver.

“You’re going to have to come in strong!” Patrick continued. “Take control straight from the start — never let him establish his rhythm. You can beat this boy, but he’s going to make you work for it.”

Corey had never quite understood the custom that referred to an adult man as if he was still a child. It made even less sense when that adult was Thunderin’ Joe Bullock — two hundred fifty pounds of black steel forged in the shape of a man. But despite the Irish brogue that still thickened Patrick’s speech, the old man had become very American in the way he viewed social customs.

A rapidly ringing bell interrupted Patrick’s words and Corey’s thoughts. Both men lowered their hands.

“Sounds like they’re ready for us,” Patrick said. “Let’s go out there and show these locals what boxing really is.”

Flat Rock, in the Idaho Territory, was an up-and-coming town in 1874. While the railroad didn’t yet reach it, the stage lines did, and the local sheep ranchers used the town as a stopover on their way to market.

When the founders of the town learned that there were two professional boxers in the area, they had been quick to seize the opportunity to arrange a fight and host a festival. They’d assembled a good-sized purse for the prize and even built a decent open-air ring in the middle of the town square. The schoolhouse had been set aside as Corey’s dressing room and the stables had made similar accommodations for Bullock.

Now Corey left the schoolhouse to the delight of the assembled crowd. He threw his hands high in the air in anticipation of victory and pranced across the green toward the ring.

Joe Bullock appeared at the far side of the square to a mixture of cheers and howls. He thrust his own arms high toward the sky and charged across the square toward Corey.

It was going to be a good fight. Everyone could feel it. Thunderin’ Joe Bullock was as big as a mountain and looked twice as strong. Rock Quarry Callaghan was a powerful combination of strength, speed, and grace. The winner would earn his money today and be celebrating on the generosity of his fans until the wee hours of the morning.

Corey climbed between the ropes and into the ring. Miss Pandora Parson was standing in the front of the crowd completing her betting arrangements with several of the town’s male citizens. Some of the bets that she was placing would be for Corey, so a victory today would pay twice as sweetly.

Joe Bullock clambered into the ring — a fine figure of a man with muscles rippling beneath his coal-dark flesh. This was going to be a fight to the finish.

“Remember now,” Patrick advised. “You’ve got to hit him fast, knock him off his balance, and keep him from hitting his stride.”