Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

I turned around to look at him and lowered my hands without him telling me. He had dropped the microphone on the floor but had the recorder in his left hand and the gun still in his right. The recorder was half covered with adhesive tape, I knew he’d never get it off with one hand, and that meant he’d have to lay the gun down. An idea started ballooning in my mind.

My cigarette was still burning in an ash tray on a little end table next to a chair where I had placed it before I got undressed.

“Okay to smoke?” I asked him.

“Sure, relax,” he said meanly. “It may be your last one.”

He was eight or ten feet away from me, then moved a couple of feet further away to the bar and laid the gun on top of it. He didn’t have to be an electronic wizard to figure out that the recorder wasn’t a transmitter, and when he did tag it for what it was, I was dead six ways and up. This would be the only chance I’d have.

I reached toward the ash tray to flick my cigarette. It was made of heavy copper, just about the size of a baseball. This looked like my day for ash trays, but if that was all I could come up with, it would have to do. Now my life depended on it.

He was just starting to tear the adhesive tape off the recorder. I dropped my cigarette into the tray, seized it, and in one sweeping motion snapped it off right at his head.

He saw my first motion. His head came up, he hesitated for a split second, then his arm shot out for the gun. But his reflexes took over. The tray was whistling at his face like a meteor. He raised both arms to ward it off and tried to duck. It caught him on the side of his face and almost tore his ear off. He let out a shriek of pain.

I didn’t wait. There was an overstuffed pillow on the chair and I scaled that at him, then took two jumps toward him and dove at him in a vicious tackle. His arm shot out frantically for the gun, but I smashed into him just as his fingers were inches from it and we both crashed to the floor. I dropped my head just as I hit him and rammed him full in the belly. It knocked the wind out of him, but only for a second.

He twisted and turned under me and brought his knee up at my groin and I was just able to roll out of the way. I slammed my elbow into his gut and heard him grunt horribly as the air went out of him again. I rolled away and tried to scramble to my feet, but he came with me, his fingers groping for my eyes.

I smashed my right into his nose and the blood poured out but that didn’t slow him up a bit. I tried to knee him but didn’t get him right and he kept coming at me like an octupus, all arms and legs flailing. I reached a nerve center in his bull neck and squeezed hard. He screamed in pain and rolled away from me. I got to my knees and sprang up.

He didn’t wait. He climbed up and jumped at me in one motion. His right slammed into my chest and it felt like a truck hit me. Then his left smashed into my face just under my right eye and for a second I thought I was going. I backed away from his deadly punches. With that thirty pounds he had on me I had to keep away from him. I kept peppering him with my left to slow him up, but he wouldn’t slow. I threw a right at his chin that would have stopped any normal man — it landed perfectly but he just shook his head and kept coming. He landed another crusher over my heart, then another, and out of nowhere a fist slammed against my jaw. My head was spinning, I fought against passing out. All I could see was his bloodsoaked face and ear and an evil grin on his face.

Then he made the mistake he couldn’t afford to make. A couple more shots like that and he’d have me on the floor, unconscious. But he was a gun man. The gun was still on top of the bar, four or five feet to his right. He stopped coming at me and took a step sideways towards the bar.

I shook my head desperately and jumped him. I landed two hard lefts on his face and a powerhouse right in his ribs. He gasped but tried to shift his weight and start in on me again, but I had all of that I wanted. He was just off balance enough to make himself awkward. I shot another right at his nose and more blood spurted, then smashed my open hand on his right shoulder in a Judo chop. It landed perfectly, his right arm fell dead like a tree. For the first time the evil grin disappeared and a look of alarm came on his face.

This was better, it evened up his thirty pound advantage. He was game, though, he wouldn’t give up. He kept lashing out at me with his left, and kicking viciously at me whenever he thought he could reach me. Only now he couldn’t.

From then on it wasn’t really fair. I kept slamming his body with hard rights and jabbing his face with my left. His useless arm kept him off balance — it was like slugging a punching bag. Only he wouldn’t quit and he wouldn’t go down.