James Chase - The World in My Pocket

Bleck had his gun out and it was pointing at him.

‘Come back here!’ Bleck said.

‘He’s dying!’ Kitson said. ‘Can’t you see that?’

‘You come back here!’ Bleck said, his voice vicious. ‘You’re not getting the car. Come back here and fast! I’m not telling you again, plough boy!’

Aware that his heart was beginning to thump, Kitson came slowly back down the slope. This was it! he thought. This is where I take this punk. I’ve got to watch out for his right hand. This is the show down. I’m not going to let Gypo die.

‘We’ve got to do something for him,’ he said as he approached Bleck. ‘We just can’t stand here and watch him die! We’ve got to get him to hospital.’

‘Look at him, you fool!’ Bleck said. ‘By the time you get up there, get the car, bring it down here, load him in and get him to hospital, he’ll be dead.’

‘We’ve got to do something for him,’ Kitson said and, not looking at Bleck, he moved past him, his muscles tense, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bleck lower the gun.

Kitson swung around, his fist coming down in a chopping blow on Bleck’s wrist.

The gun shot out of Bleck’s hand and dropped into the shrubs. Bleck jumped back and faced Kitson. There was a pause as they looked at each other, then Bleck grinned.

‘Okay, you bum,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve been asking for it. I’ve always wanted to take you, now I’ll show you what fighting means.’

Kitson waited, his hands in fists, his eyes narrowed.

Bleck moved forward, weaving a little, his chin tucked down, his hands held low.

Kitson shot out a probing left, but Bleck’s head shifted and Kitson’s fist scraped past his ear. Bleck ducked under Kitson’s right hand counter and his right thudded into Kitson’s ribs; a thump that made Kitson give ground and gasp.

As Bleck moved in, Kitson caught him with a left and a right to the head that staggered Bleck.

The two men shifted away, then came in simultaneously, slugging at each other, shifting from the heavier blows, taking the lighter ones, moving in and out, cautious and watchful.

Kitson thought he saw an opening and he slammed in a hard left, but Bleck weaved away and Kitson’s left slid over his shoulder. His lips peeling off his teeth, Bleck let go with his right that took Kitson solidly under his heart.

It was a devastating punch and its solid impact brought Kitson down to his knees.

Still grinning, Bleck moved forward and clubbed Kitson on the side of his neck and Kitson dropped face down, his mind blacked out.

Bleck stood back.

Kitson managed to heave himself up on his hands and knees, shaking his head. He saw Bleck moving forward, and he threw himself at Bleck’s knees, his arms wrapping themselves around Bleck’s legs.

As Bleck fell, he thumped Kitson on the top of his head.

The two men sprawled on the ground. Still dazed, Kitson tried to get a grip on Bleck’s throat, but Bleck hit him on the side of his head, and then rolled clear.

As Bleck got to his feet, Kitson pushed himself upright. He was a little late in getting his hands up, and he took Bleck’s right hand punch, high up on his cheekbone. He sagged under the force of the punch. Lurching forward, he tied up Bleck’s arm, and for a long moment, the two men wrestled, Bleck trying to break Kitson’s hold, and Kitson frantically trying to hold on until his head cleared.

Bleck finally broke free and let go a long, raking left that Kitson just managed to avoid. He sank a right-hand punch into Bleck’s ribs and he saw Bleck’s face contort with pain.

Encouraged, Kitson crowded forward. He slammed a right and a left to Bleck’s head.

Grunting and snarling, Bleck backed away.

Kitson tossed over a left swing that landed high up on Bleck’s head. Bleck staggered and threw up his hands. Kitson sank his right into Bleck’s belly. Bleck reeled back, gasping.

Intent now on the kill, Kitson moved forward recklessly. He started a punch, but realized a shade too late that Bleck was throwing his right hand.

Kitson felt the thud against his jaw, then something white and hot exploded inside his head. He knew as he fell he had walked into Bleck’s special punch, but there was nothing he could do about it. He fell face down, his face coming into contact with sharp stones, and, grunting with pain, he rolled over, his cut face upturned to the hot sun. He lay there, stunned, for some moments, then he made the effort and raised his head.

Bleck was bending over Gypo, staring down at him.

Kitson shook his head, then he got unsteadily to his feet. He came staggering over to Bleck, who looked over his shoulder at him, his face set and hard.

‘He’s dead,’ Bleck said in a cold, flat voice. ‘The creep would pull a stunt like this on us.’

Kitson knelt by Gypo’s side and took his cold, damp hand between his hands.

Gypo looked relaxed, his mouth open, his dark, small eyes stared fixedly up at the blue sky.

Regardless of the pain that moved through his beaten body, Kitson thought: with Gypo dead, what hope have we now of opening the truck? The million dollar take is now a mirage. The world in our pockets! Morgan certainly picked the wrong one this time.

‘Leave him,’ Bleck said. ‘He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for him.’

Kitson didn’t say anything. He held on to Gypo’s hand, looking down at the dead man.

Shrugging, Bleck started the long walk back to where the truck was hidden.

Two men came down the path by the lake and walked to where Fred Bradford was sitting, reading the morning’s newspaper. He had just had breakfast, and having sent his wife and son down to the lake, he was enjoying a little relaxation before joining them. He looked towards the approaching men, wondering who they were.

One of them was wearing the uniform of an Army major; the other wore a cheap, ready-made suit with a pork-pie hat set squarely on his head. The major was a small, fair man with a military moustache and a brown, lean face. His blue eyes were hard and direct. His companion was tall and bulky. His red, weather-beaten face was coarse featured, and Bradford guessed he was a police officer in plain clothes.

‘Mr. Bradford?’ the major asked, coming to rest in front of the sitting man.

‘Why, sure,’ Bradford said, getting to his feet. ‘You want me?’

‘Fred Bradford, junior?’ the major asked.

Bradford stared at him.

‘Why, no. That’s my son.’ He folded the newspaper nervously and dropped it into his chair. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘I’m Major Delaney, Field Security,’ the major said and waving his hand to his companion, ‘this is Lieutenant Cooper, City Police.’

Bradford looked uneasily at the two men.

‘I’m glad to know you gentlemen.’ He paused, then went on, ‘You don’t want my boy, do you?’

‘Where is he?’ Cooper asked.

‘He’s down by the lake with his mother,’ Bradford said. ‘What is this all about?’

‘We would like to talk to him, Mr. Bradford,’ Delaney said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

At this moment, Fred Bradford, junior, came wandering up the path, whistling shrilly. He stopped whistling when he saw the two men, and he approached more slowly, a sudden wary expression on his face.

‘Here he is now,’ Bradford said. Turning to his son, he said, ‘Hey, junior, come here. Where’s your mother?’

‘She’s fooling down by the lake,’ the boy said, a scornful note in his voice.

‘Are you Fred Bradford, junior?’ Delaney asked.

‘That’s right,’ the boy said, looking up at the two men.

‘Did you write this?’ Delaney asked, taking an envelope from his pocket and extracting a sheet of notepaper.