The Spiked Heel

“Go, Charlie, go. In the gut, Charlie.”

Steve backed off down the aisle. Charlie followed him, probing the air with the cutting knife, grasping the air with the wide-spread fingers of his left hand. Steve hissed a little, the hiss escaping his clenched teeth like an involuntary rumble of his seething hatred.

“Come on, come on, let’s go! Go, go, go!”

“Go, go,” the workers began to chant. “Go, go, go, go!”

Steve swung the mallet at nothing, and Charlie backed away, skipping up the aisle again. Steve kept swinging the mallet, the air whispering behind it.

“That’s the boy, Steve! Now, go, boy, go, go, go.”

Charlie was close to Griff now. He could smell the sweat on him, and the greater smell of fear.

“Charlie,” he said.

Charlie did not answer. He kept his eyes on the swinging mallet in Steve Maiches’ hand.

“You going to fight, you yellow bastard?” Steve shouted. He advanced a step and Charlie yelled, “Keep away from me, Maiches!”

“Charlie,” Griff said, “listen to me.”

Charlie did not turn his head.

“It’s me, Charlie. Griff. Now listen to me, will you? Put down that knife and—”

“Keep out of this, Griff,” Charlie said tightly. “Keep out of it.” He wet his lips and stepped forward on the balls of his feet. Steve backed away from him, eying the crescent blade. Charlie stabbed at the air.

Steve suddenly stamped the floor with his foot. “Yo!” he shouted, bringing back the mallet. Charlie jumped back, startled, and the workers began laughing, and then the laughter changed from something honest to something slimy. The laughter became mocking laughter, an insult to Charlie’s courage, and he flushed with embarrassment, and then the embarrassment fled before resolve, and he set his jaw tighter and moved forward a few inches, gripping the knife more tightly.

“Charlie, don’t let them talk you into this,” Griff said. “You’re being stupid, Charlie. Put down the knife and—”

“Shut up,” Charlie snarled without turning his head. “Keep your goddam mouth shut!”

“Hey, brave boy, let’s see some action!” one of the men shouted.

“Come on, handsome!” a woman yelled, “cut him up good.”

“It’s no use,” Jored said. “Griff, they’re both crazy. What the hell are we gonna do?”

“Did you call Hengman?”

“Before I come up to get you. What’s Hengman gonna do? He gonna step in there and take their weapons away? What the hell is anyone gonna do?”

“Maybe it’ll peter out,” Griff said. “If neither of them makes the first move, maybe it’ll just fizzle.”

“Come on, Charlie boy,” Steve taunted. “Come on, yellow. Come an inch closer and I’ll crack your rotten skull open. Come on, Charlie.”

“Go get him, Charlie,” a woman yelled.

“Don’t let him talk to you like that, Charlie!”

Charlie rushed forward with the knife high, and Steve leaped up onto one of the benches and then dropped into the neighboring aisle. He laughed uproariously and, when Charlie leaped up onto the bench, he swung the mallet in a murderous arc, its base colliding with the bench and leaving a dent in the wooden surface, missing Charlie by inches. Charlie leaped to the floor and Steve ran up the aisle, and a shout went up from the workers. Two women began dancing on the fringe of the circle, in burlesque of the fighters. Charlie lunged with the cutting knife, and its crescent blade caught one of Steve’s rolled-up sleeves, snagged there for an instant, and then pulled away with a rasping tear. The smile left Steve Maiches’ face. He glanced briefly at the torn sleeve, and then his lips skinned back again, and the crowd went suddenly silent.

He ducked behind a bench piled high with brassbound patterns, and Charlie wiped the bench clean with a sweep of his left hand, sending the patterns clattering to the floor. Steve lashed out with the mallet, and Charlie pulled back his hand as the heavy piece smashed into wood once more. Griff shoved his way around the fringe of spectators.

“Charlie!” he shouted, “for Christ’s sake—”

“Leave me alone!” Charlie yelled, and then he took another sideward swipe with the knife, and Steve sucked in his stomach and yelled, “Leave the son of a bitch alone! Let him fight this out. Let him get his rotten head bashed in.”

“That’s the way, Steve!” someone bellowed.

“Go give it to him!”

“Break his arm, buddy, break it off!”

The fighters faced each other warily now, as if they had just become acquainted with the destructive power of their respective weapons. There was no more taunting from the crowd. The two men faced each other breathing raggedly, one holding a cutting knife, the other a mallet. Their weapons seemed to lower a little, as if, realizing what damage they could do to each other, they had also realized the stupidity of their fight. The hatred, too, seemed to have fled their eyes. They were tired now, and it showed in the heaving of their chests and the heaviness of their feet.

“Come on, fellas,” Griff said, “let’s break it up, huh?”