Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

And he swung, without further warning, a vicious, massive fist to Blinney’s mouth. It did not land. Blinney moved his head, just enough. The blow grazed by and Blinney returned a perfect one-two. The jolt of a left jab caught Ronald beneath the heart and as he gasped and straightened, chin exposed, Blinney’s right first, with shoulder and back behind it, thundered at the point of the jaw.

Ronald stiffened to his toes, hung, spun around in one rigid mass, and fell like a plank, his forehead striking the sidewalk. He lay still.

“Oh my,” breathed Evangeline, eyes big, transfixed, fingers at her lips. “My God, I never saw anything like that, not even in a prize ring. My God, that was beautiful.”

Blinney was trembling. He stooped to Ronald.

“No,” said Evangeline, pulling at his arm.

“He’s hurt,” said Blinney.

“That was the general idea, wasn’t it. He tried to hurt you — so you hurt him. Come on. Let’s get away from here.”

“But I mean—”

“Look. He hit and you hit back. He’s some kind of a gangster or something and he certainly deserves whatever happened to him. Now let’s get out of here. What’s the sense in getting into trouble over this? I’ve had enough trouble, haven’t I?”

Her final words convinced him. She led him away and he went. They turned a corner.

“Wow, but that was beautiful,” she said. “Exquisite. I never saw anything like it. You’re really something, aren’t you?”

“Do you have any idea who he is?”

“None.”

“Who’s Little Dee?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“But what the devil was he talking about?”

“I wish I knew. But I don’t. It must be one of those mistaken identity things.”

“Lode,” Blinney said. “He mentioned Senor — Pedro Orgaz. I couldn’t hear all he said, but I caught the name. It might be trouble for you.”

“Nonsense. They’ll find out their mistake soon enough.”

“But—”

“Please forget the whole thing. I want you to.”

Blinney shrugged. He waved down a passing cab, and they tooled toward home. Evangeline held his arm, and she said, “It’s all over. Why are you trembling again?”

“That man,” he said.

“What man?” she said.

“That Ronald. I never hit anybody like that.”

“Now, Ozzie, don’t kid a kidder. I’ve seen guys flattened in my time, but nobody ever got flattened more expertly than friend Ronald. You’ve hit before.”

“I was a fighter.”

“You? A fighter? A prize-fighter? Oh no. Now we’re on the other side. Now we’re way out. I don’t believe it.”

“Amateur.”

“Oh.”

“Boxer.”

“Oh.”

“Intercollegiate champ.”

She squeezed his arm. “Man, you’re a character. In your own way, you’re a character. There’s a lot I don’t know about you. You’re just not a talker. Do you like me, Oz?”

“I... I love you.”

“Hotel Cascade,” said the cab-driver.

And upstairs, outside of 203, he said quickly, “Good night.”

“Good night,” she said.

And in 202 he paced and paced and rubbed his hands together and wondered whether the trembling has all been because of the guilt of the violence. He tried to justify. Even for one as himself, there must be a time, a moment, when violence is justified. But then, instantly, his reason protested. Even if he granted to himself that there could be a moment when violence is justified — had that been such a moment?

He knew that he could have ducked and weaved and dodged and jabbed and made an exhausted spectacle of that blundering muscle-bound would-be strong man. Was it that he had wanted to impress her?

He removed his dinner jacket and cast it upon a chair. And so in patent-leather shoes, dress-pants, cummerbund, collar open, tie loose, he bent to a suitcase, flapped up the cover, and brought out a sealed bottle of Scotch. He opened it, poured into a glass, and gulped whiskey burning, and when the knock came at the door, he went to it and opened it without asking who was there, and there was no one there, and he stood, hand on knob, querulous and squinting blankly.

And the knock came again. And he shut the door of 202 and went quickly to the door between 202 and 203 and there he stood, as though in fear, trembling again. And the knock came again, softly. And he twisted the lock and turned the knob and opened the door, and she was there, and he crossed over.

VIII

Blinney had experienced love-making in his life but he had never experienced love-making as performed by Evangeline Ashley giving expression to her one incontestable talent. He suffered no pang of conscience; at the beginning there is no distinction between infatuation and love; and now, at the beginning, Oscar Blinney was proudly, fiercely, blindly, and overwhelmingly in love.

The door between 202 and 203 was open every night; closed and locked temporarily each morning for the practical reason of propriety involving chambermaids. Blinney expanded with love, and, under the proddings of an already-bored vis-a-vis, he even talked about himself, reluctantly, but then with gradual growing confidence.