Miss Lizzie (34 page)

“Mr. Hornsby.” Mr. Slocum smiled. He stopped walking and he nodded amiably, slipping his hands into his pockets. “What a pleasure.” He gazed round at the others. The two at the fence swung their legs over it and stepped back sheepishly, away from the house. Mr. Slocum said, “And Pete Dirkson, and the inestimable Farley brothers. Captain Hardee's entire crew. Are you people by any chance lost? The harbor's in that direction.” He nodded toward the east.

Hornsby said, “Get outta here, Slocum.”

Still smiling, Mr. Slocum said, “Afraid I can't do that, old man. Have to transact some business with the people up there. Tell you what, though. How about you trot back to town right now, all of you, and then we'll meet later, aboard Captain Hardee's boat, and toss back a pint or two of ale, or grog, or whatever. How's that?”

“You're lookin' for trouble, Slocum,” Hornsby said, turning to face him directly.

“Really?” Mr. Slocum smiled. “What gives you that idea, old man?”

The two of them were only seven or eight feet from the porch; consequently, even though Hornsby lowered his voice now, I could still hear him clearly. He said, “Get the fuck outta here, faggot.” And then he struck out, straight-armed, palm forward, fingers splayed, and smacked Mr. Slocum in the chest.

His face awry, the lawyer jerked his hands from his pockets as he backpedaled. He caught himself, regained his balance, and straightened up. He smiled mildly. “You know,” he said, “I was rather hoping you'd do something like that.” Carefully, so as not to crease it, he took off his suit jacket.

Boyle was standing at the entrance to the porch. I scurried over to him. “Mr. Boyle, you've got to stop this.”

He shook his head. “Can't, kid. Not now.”

Mr. Slocum folded his jacket at the shoulders, brushed it off, and turned to the other man standing on the lawn. “Mr. Dirkson, would you hold this, please? Good man.”

He turned back to Hornsby just in time for his face to collide with Hornsby's roundhouse punch.

TWENTY-SIX

HORNSBY'S FIST CAUGHT Mr. Slocum square on the left cheek. The lawyer spun away, off his feet, and crashed full length to the ground, rolling twice along the lawn. He lay there, his back to the grass, and for a long cold moment I feared he was dead. My breath stopped; and, I think, my heart as well. Then, slowly, his hands pushing against the ground, he sat up. He looked around himself, mildly puzzled, like someone waking up in a strange room.

Hornsby laughed. “Had enough, Nancy?”

Mr. Slocum rubbed the left side of his face. He glanced down at his hand. From the porch I could see the smear of red along his fingers. His lip was split.

I moved forward, trying to slip around Boyle, who stood at the porch entrance. I cannot imagine what I intended to do; wipe the blood off, perhaps, with my dress. Boyle put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it once, firmly. “Not now,” he said.

“But—”

“Give it a minute,” he said, and released me. I stayed where I was.

Mr. Slocum looked at Hornsby and smiled. It was the same bland amiable smile he had smiled before. He drew his feet in and levered himself to a standing position. He took a deep breath, let it out, raised his fists, and began to move them in small tight circles in the air, the left somewhat forward. His spine straight, his head canted slightly back, stepping lightly on his toes like a dancer, he advanced on Hornsby.

Grinning, Hornsby called out over his shoulder to the men behind him, “We got Gentleman Jim here.” Mr. Slocum jabbed him in the nose with his left fist.

Hornsby did a little backward jig, blinked his eyes, and shook his head. More startled than damaged, he reached up to touch his nose. Mr. Slocum knifed his right fist into Hornsby's stomach, just below his rib cage.

Hornsby's eyebrows dived downward and his hands clapped at his stomach. Mr. Slocum's left hit him again on the nose, once, twice, three times, very quickly.

Hornsby staggered back. A bright-red trickle ran down his chin. He shook his head again and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. Suddenly he growled deep in his throat and lunged forward and swung another roundhouse right at Mr. Slocum. Mr. Slocum ducked below it. As Hornsby tried to recover from the momentum of his swing, Mr. Slocum rapped him twice more in the face with his left.

Hornsby flailed out with his right arm, as though to sweep the lawyer off the face of the earth. Mr. Slocum swayed back, dodging it, then leaned forward to swing a fast angled left at the corner of Hornsby's jaw.

Hornsby rocked to the side. Then, all at once, he lowered his head and rushed toward the lawyer, his hands but, his fingers spread.

Mr. Slocum danced aside and Hornsby hurtled past him.

Hornsby checked himself and whirled around, nearly slipping on the grass. He had his hands up now, closed into fists, and apparently he planned to try beating Mr. Slocum at what was clearly Mr. Slocum's own game. Slowly, eyes wary, he moved toward the lawyer.

Boyle turned to me and said comfortably, “He's gonna try something dirty now. You watch.”

I watched. Boyle was right. As soon as he was close enough, Hornsby lashed his foot out, toward Mr. Slocum's groin. The lawyer sidestepped, swerving his torso, but the kick scraped against his thigh. He stumbled, and Hornsby came in.

Mr. Slocum's right shot out and smacked into Hornsby's mouth. Hornsby jerked back, and Mr. Slocum jabbed a fast left into the mouth, and then another. And then the lawyer's right fist, cocked down at his side, shot up like a piston and slammed into the bottom of Hornsby's jaw.

His arms windmilling, Hornsby went back too quickly for his legs to keep him vertical. When he landed flat on his back, I could feel the vibration through the soles of my shoes.

After a moment, it became obvious that Hornsby was not going to get up. Mr. Slocum lowered his hands, stepped over to the man holding his jacket, and took it back. The man merely stood there, staring at Mr. Slocum. The lawyer jerked his head toward Hornsby. “Get him out of here.”

Draping the folded jacket over his left arm, he walked up to the porch.

“'Bout time you finished him off,” Boyle said.

Mr. Slocum smiled. He turned to me. “Hello, Amanda.”

“You're bleeding, Mr. Slocum,” I said. “Your lip is hurt.”

He reached up, touched it with his fingertips, glanced down. He shook his head. “Nothing serious.”

Mr. Slocum was not the sort of man to swagger, but his standing there, calmly dripping blood onto the grass, was itself a kind of boast. Men enjoy the marks of a victorious battle, their red badges of courage; and I have always found this profoundly irritating. It never occurs to them that physical courage, as opposed to the moral kind, is usually nothing more than a failure of the imagination.

He was also, I think, enjoying the audience. What he really needed was someone to take him home and clean him off and tend to his wounds. And wash his shirt and slacks, both of which were stained with soil and grass.

He looked across the porch. “Hello, Charlie. Sorry about all that.” He waved his hand toward the lawn. Beyond the picket fence, the three men were loading Hornsby into the back of their Ford.

“You ain't got no reason be sorry, Mr. Slocum,” Charlie said. He was grinning, displaying what remained of his teeth. “That an
exhibition
. You a
boxer
, Mr. Slocum.”

Boyle smiled at him. “Wouldn't stand a chance against Jack Johnson, though.”

“Different weight,” said Charlie. “Jack Johnson, he be a heavyweight.”

“If he were a midget,” said Mr. Slocum, “he'd still be out of my league.”

One of the men cranked the Ford's engine astart, then ran around the hood, climbed into the front seat, pulled the door shut behind him. He glanced back at us as the car pulled away.

“Now,” Mr. Slocum said to Boyle. “What was that all about; exactly?”

Boyle said, “Hornsby and his buddies wanted to talk to Mr. Peterson here. Hornsby had this idea Mr. Peterson killed Mrs. Burton.”

Mr. Slocum nodded, looked over to Charlie. “Are you all right, Charlie?”

Charlie grinned. “Yessuh, just fine. You ever fight like that again, Mistuh Slocum, you let me know up ahead. We sell tickets, make us a fortune. You thirsty now? I get you a drink? Some lemonade?”

Mr. Slocum smiled, tugging a handkerchief from his back pocket. “You wouldn't happen to have anything stronger, would you?”

“Nosuh, sorry, I sure don't.”

Nodding, Mr. Slocum wiped the handkerchief against the knuckles of his left hand. It came away red.
His hand too
, I thought.

“His or yours?” Boyle asked him.

“His, I think.”

“What I figured. He never laid a finger on you, champ.”

“Funny, though,” said Mr. Slocum, dabbing the handkerchief at his lip. “For a moment there, I thought he had.”

“Sucker punch,” said Boyle. “Doesn't count.”

“Ah.”

Boyle said, “So what brought you out here?”

“Hmm?” said Mr. Slocum. “Oh. I was just leaving the office, on my way out to Mortimer's for a drink, when Fred Spencer called. It seems that the other Pinkerton, Foley, may've discovered the identity of the man who gave the Burton boy a ride into Boston.”

I had been gazing up at him. Now, suddenly excited, I said, “He found him?”

“Not him, exactly,” Mr. Slocum said. “His name. Or what might be his name.” He turned to Boyle. “Norton. Wilbur Norton. He sells shoes, works for a wholesaler in Boston. He matches the description, and he was in town on Tuesday morning. In any event, I telephoned Miss Borden to tell her, and she mentioned that the two of you were out here. It's on the way to Mortimer's, and I decided to drop by. I thought Amanda would like to know the news.” He smiled at me. The green of his eyes was really quite uncanny. A deep green, the color of emeralds, and lit from within.

I discovered, once again, that I was blushing. “Thank you, Mr. Slocum.”

Mr. Slocum held out his hand to Boyle. “My God, would you look at that?” His fingers were trembling.

“Happens all the time,” Boyle told him. “Afterwards. No big deal. Just don't do any brain surgery for a while. Tell you what, though. Why don't we head over to Mortimer's and get that drink.”

Mr. Slocum took a breath, blew it out. “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, I think that's a splendid idea.”

I asked Boyle, “Do we have time?”

Boyle grinned. “
We
?”

“You mean I can't come?” I thought I kept the pout from my voice extremely well. “Annie Holmes has been there. She says it's not really a saloon, it's more like a restaurant.”

Boyle glanced at his watch. He turned to Mr. Slocum. “What do you think? Is she ready for Mortimer's?”

Mr. Slocum smiled at me. “So long as she promises not to turn into a flapper.”

“I promise,” I told him. I would, of course, have promised Mr. Slocum anything.

Boyle said, “And maybe you better not mention this to Miz Borden.”

I said, “She'd want me to go. Really.”

Boyle laughed. “Okay then.”

We said good-bye to Charlie and we walked down the flagstone walk to the cars. As Mr. Slocum was getting into his Cadillac, Boyle called out from beside the Ford, “Hey. Where'd you learn to box like that?”

Mr. Slocum smiled. “Yale,” he called back.

Grinning, Boyle nodded. “Figured that was Hornsby's problem. Never had the benefit of a college education.”

As the Ford rattled back down the road toward Main Street, I said to Boyle, “Do you still think Mr. Slocum's not tough?”

Without looking away from the road, Boyle smiled. “Never said he wasn't, kid. Said I didn't know if he was or not.”

“Well, what do you think now?”

Still smiling, he sucked on a Fatima. “Tough as nails.”

“I'm
serious
,” I said.