No Business of Mine

I waited hopefully for him to get up, but he didn’t. As I was trying to make up my mind whether to call it a day or stand on his face, Frankie came in. He looked murderous. In his right hand he had a carving knife, and he handled it as if he meant to use it.

He didn’t rush at me, but came slowly, the knife held in front of his skinny body, his lips off his teeth, his eyes glittering.

“Hello, Marmaduke,” I said, “didn’t your ma tell you it was dangerous to play with knives? You might cut yourself.”

He crept towards me, snarling.

I decided it wouldn’t be healthy to let him get too close. My hand groped behind me for a book, selected one, shot it at him. It hit him on the shoulder, but it didn’t stop him. He kept coming, so I gave ground. I suddenly realized that if I didn’t watch my step he’d murder me.

We moved around the room, each stepping over the ruins, careful not to trip, never taking our eyes off each other. I guessed he was manoeuvring me close to Bradley, and that Bradley would try to grab my legs. If that happened, Frankie would have plenty of opportunity to ventilate my hide.

I stopped giving ground, crouched.

This move startled Frankie for a moment: he stopped too. I moved a step forward. He made a feeble poke at me with the knife, undecided whether to go back or rush me. I rushed him while he was making up his mind.

I felt the knife slit my shirt-sleeve, scratch my biceps, but by then I had hold of his wrist. He clawed my face as I bent his arm back. It hurt, and I lost my temper for a moment. I snatched him up by the slack of his pants, threw him at Bradley as Bradley was slowly levering himself to his feet.

While they were sorting themselves out, I tossed the knife downstairs.

Both Bradley and Frankie were on their feet when I faced around. Bradley seemed to have found a little courage now Frankie had joined him.

“Kill the swine,” he mumbled to Frankie, pushed him forward.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Frankie was pint-sized and without his knife he wouldn’t have scared a midget. He had plenty of guts though, and rushed at me, fingers like claws. My fight wasn’t with Frankie; it was with Bradley. I stood off, waited for him, clipped him as kindly as I could on his jaw. I caught him, lowered him to the floor, put a cushion under his head, shook mine at Bradley.

“You shouldn’t let a kid like that fight your battles,” I said, advancing on him. “Now, let’s see if you can answer a few questions. That was Netta here, wasn’t it?”

He grabbed a chair, threw it at me. I got out of the way, caught it by its legs, smashed it across his back. I knelt on him, slapped his fat face four or five times, took hold of his ears and banged his head on the carpet.

“Open up, you rat,” I said, continuing to hammer his head on the carpet. I wished the floor was concrete, but I put a lot of steam into it and it seemed to hurt his ears, which was something. “That was Netta, wasn’t it?”

“Stop it!” he bellowed. “Yes, it was, damn you!”

“Netta hack from the dead, eh?” I said, letting go of his ears, but cuffing him to keep him soft. “What did she want?”

“Money,” he snarled.

“Did you give her any?”

“Three hundred pounds.”

“What did she want it for?”

“To keep out of the way of the police.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

I took hold of his ears, bashed his head on the carpet again.

“Why?” I repeated.

“I don’t know,” he howled. “Honest to God I don’t know.” I sat down hard on his chest, flicked his nose with my forefinger. “Don’t tell me you gave her all that dough just because she asked you for it. Why did you give it to her?”

“She sold me some rings,” he moaned.

“Where are they?”

“Over there.”

I dragged him to his feet, steadied him.

“Come on, don’t he coy,” I said. “Show me.”

He staggered over to the smashed desk, pulled open a drawer.

“There,” he said, collapsed on the floor.

I picked out four diamond rings, turned them over in my hand, looked at him.

“Jacobi’s loot, eh?” I said.

He flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She said they were her rings. I don’t know anything about Jacobi.”

“Yes, you do, you rat,” I said. “You haven’t much longer to live outside a cell. You’d better talk fast. Where did she get these from?”

“I didn’t ask her,” he blubbered. “She offered me the stuff for three hundred. I could see they were worth more so I bought them.”

“I’m going to hand these over to Corridan,” I said, slipping the rings into my pocket. “You know what that’ll mean.”

“They’re mine,” he snarled, shaking his fist at me. “I’ll have you up for stealing.”

“Be your age,” I said. “You know as well as I do that they’re part of Jacobi’s loot. Where can I get hold of Netta?”

“I don’t know,” he returned, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his nose. “She didn’t say where she was going. You came in at the wrong moment, blast you!”

I thought maybe that was the truth.

“Get up,” I said.

He hesitated, but as I threatened him with my foot, he climbed to his feet, stood before me.