No Business of Mine

The room was empty except for its rich furnishings. A smell of lilac hung in the air. So it had been Netta, I thought, again felt spooked. There was a door at the far end of the room. I ran over, tried to open it, found it locked. I drew back, kicked at the lock, the door burst open. I looked out into the night from the head of an outside wooden stairway. As I stood there, I heard a car start up, drive away.

I turned, found Bradley sneaking up on me, a poker in his hand. I ducked the wild swing, caught his wrist, wrenched the poker out of his hand, I looked at him. His face was white and his eyes glared.

“I remember you once said you were tougher than Frankie,” I said. “Here’s your opportunity to show me.”

I tossed the poker across the room. It knocked over a lamp standard which in its turn knocked over a small table on which stood bottles and glasses. The crash made a nice noise to my ears.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” Bradley snarled, backing away.

“So you’re not so tough,” I grinned at him. “You’re the guy who tells other mugs to do your dirty work. Okay, Bradley, you’re on the spot now. You’d better exert some of that fat and try to get out of it.”

I grabbed hold of him by his dressing gown, shook him, threw him after the poker. He weighed about sixteen stone, but the bulk of it was fat.

I walked over to where he lay, sat on the arm of a chair, smiled at him. He didn’t attempt to get up, glared up at me with eyes a snake’d be proud to own.

“Remember me, Bradley?” I said. “The guy who doesn’t mind his own business? I thought maybe you mightn’t recognize me after what your thugs did to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snarled. “Get out of here before I call the police.”

“You warned me you’d teach me a lesson, didn’t you?” I went on, taking out a cigarette, lighting it. “Well, the lesson didn’t stick. But my lesson will. I’m going to ruin that fat puss of yours, but before I start on you, you’re going to answer some questions. Who was that girl you were talking to just now?”

“Nobody you know,” he said, sitting up slowly. “If you don’t get out, Harmas, I’ll fix you. My God, I’ll fix you!”

I kicked him in his fat chest, sending him over backwards.

“I told you that rats like you are a nickel a gross, didn’t I?” I said, flicking ash it him. “You don’t know what it is to be tough. Fix me?” I laughed. “You won’t fix anyone by the time I’m through with you.”

He lay holding on to his chest, his face purple with fury and pain, but he stayed right where he was.

“Come on, who’s the dame? Talk or I’ll sock you, and keep on socking you.”

“It was Selma Jacobi,” he snarled. “Now get out!”

I shook my head. “Oh, no, it wasn’t,” I said, kicking him gently. “It was Netta, wasn’t it?”

His face went flabby. The purple drained away leaving his skin like tallow.

“You’re mad!” he gasped, struggling up. “Netta’s dead.”

“You’ve given yourself away,” I said, taking off my coat and rolling up my sleeves. “Get up, Bradley. You can try to do what your three hired thugs tried to do.”

He lay as still as a corpse, looked at me with fear in his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he said. “You can’t touch me, Harmas. I’m an old man. I have a weak heart.”

I laughed. “You mean you’re going to have a weak heart,” I said, drew back my foot and booted him in his fat ribs. “Get up, you heel.”

I had to kick him to his feet, then I hauled off and hit him in the eye, sent him reeling across the room. He clawed at a bookcase as he staggered back, trying to regain his balance. The bookcase swayed, crashed to the floor, spilling books. I picked up the heaviest, flung it at him. It caught him on the chest, and he went over, upsetting a chair.

Standing off, I pelted him with books until he took cover behind a settee. I went in after him, met his bull-like charge as he rushed at me, swept his feeble right lead out of the way, socked him in the other eye, steadied him as he reeled back, hit him in the mouth. My knuckles scraped along his teeth. I felt them give. He staggered away, spitting blood, his lips ballooning up, his eyes closing.

He made a wild dive for the telephone. I let him get his paw on it, then made a flying tackle, grabbed him around the knees, brought him down.

He caught me a glancing blow as we broke, but it had no more iron in it than could be expected from a fat, middle-aged rat who fed on whisky for breakfast.

I tore the telephone wire out by its roots, hit him with the receiver until it shattered in my hand.

I stood off, looked around the room to see if there was anything standing. There wasn’t, so I grabbed an oil painting of a fat dame in her birthday suit off the wall, broke it over Bradley’s head as he came up for air.

I grabbed the lamp standard, hit him with that.

He lay flat on his back, gasping and wheezing, his face a lot less pretty than mine.