Gilded Canary (2 page)

“Says who?” Bunche snarled, and then grabbed Spencer by the tie, at the same time ramming his fist up at Raff’s face. Raff
partially slipped the punch, Bunche’s blow landing loudly on his cheekbone. Red immediately flared up in the area, as Raff
simultaneously sent a wallop crashing into Bunche’s jaw.

At once, Bunche’s pals leapt on Raff, sending him, with them atop him, crashing into the next table. There was an immediate
ripple effect, as chairs teetered and fell, their occupants thudding into the neighboring table, bodies pitching out at odd
angles, slamming into furniture and flesh. Tempers flared, the contagion of battle caught up this section of the room, and
the sounds of punches and shouts of rage began to fill the air.

Suddenly a wayward haymaker caught Lockwood on the side of the head, and he found himself flung headlong into the middle of
the melee, his boxer’s training automatically sending him into action, warding off blows, then pounding his fist into the
wide-open stomach of a man about to autopsy him with a broken bottle.

Cries, the sounds of shattering furniture, plates, and glasses echoed through the room, the women screaming, their men, some
of them, scrambling to get out of the way, the rest eagerly leaping into the fray.

The space near Lockwood cleared for a moment, and he saw that Raff was in trouble. Bunche and three of his cronies were flailing
away at their adversary, who, incredibly, was smiling as he gallantly fought back. Lockwood leapt for one of them, spinning
him around, and crashed a right into his chest, knocking the wind out of him, a slight cracking sound vibrating out as massed
fist met brittle breastbone.

Lockwood was on Bunche now, Bunche looking startled as The Hook swept him his way, then murderous as he realized what was
happening. Bunche swung, and Lockwood ducked, and ducked again as a second punch came. Then quickly, while Bunche was wide
open, he stung in two quick jabs that brought the wet to the bigger man’s eyes.

“You bastard! I’ll kill you!” Jock Bunche shouted, his face red with fury and two glowing welts, all of it proof of Lockwood’s
deadly fistic precision.

The big man swung a roundhouse right that barely caught the top of his elusive opponent’s head, but the force of it was strong
enough to knock Lockwood to the floor. Scrambling up, he found himself face to face with Bunche and two of his bent-nosed
associates, and back to back with Raff Spencer, who despite the similar odds he was faced with, had lost none of his lively
interest in the proceedings. “You’ve got three and I’ve got three,” he shouted to Lockwood exultantly. “Let’s see which one
of us makes the shortest work of them!”

An adversary threw a punch, and Lockwood, lightning-like, grabbed the rocketing arm and pulled, throwing out a foot as he
did so. The sap’s own impetus, deftly levered by The Hook, threw him into an unstoppable drive forward, head crashing into
the mirrored wall five feet away, his face a crimson mask as he sank, dazed, to the floor.

Now there were two, and they were at Lockwood mercilessly, raining punches upon him. He ducked what he could and absorbed
the rest, the steel of his body a near match for the thundering impact of their blows. He fought back, feinting, jabbing,
trying to keep them off balance, waiting for an opening, and then finding it. A shot into the mark of Bunche’s confederate
and all the air gushed out of him, as the vulnerable cavity just below his chest received the full fury of Lockwood’s hurtling
left hand. He went down and stayed there.

Bunche registered a confused mixture of fear and hate as he found himself facing The Hook alone. He locked his hands and swung
down heavily, missing the dodging Hook by a good eight inches, his bear-like hands smashing onto a table, pain contorting
his face.

“You bastard!” he cried again, hurling his bull-like body at Lockwood. They slammed to the floor, Lockwood rolling out from
under even as they hit, regaining his feet and crouching as Bunche came at him once more. It was like a Ford coupe hurtling
toward an onrushing Packard sedan, as Bunche’s impetus brought him closer and closer to the speeding left hook of his opponent.
The collision was all one way, blood spurting out of Bunche’s mouth as bone and flesh met his face at devastating velocity.
Bunche sailed backward, careening onto and over a table, crashing through a chair, and winding up on the shining hardwood
of the dance floor, his now dead-weight body gently sliding, for a moment, on the highly polished surface.

Satisfied that Bunche would be no more trouble, Lockwood looked back in the direction of Raff Spencer. Cool and unruffled,
Raff was down to one opponent, or, more accurately, one-half of one, judging by the condition of the man he was happily pummeling
about. No need to worry about him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of black streaking out of the room.

“See you later—looks like you’ve got everything under control now,” Lockwood called to Raff, who grinned and then applied
a final clout to the dispirited face of his sagging opponent.

The Hook turned toward the entrance of the club. Bodies were still pitching back and forth, wood splintering, tuxedos ripping,
and it was a struggle to break past, avoiding punches, stepping over bodies, shielding a woman or two as violence thundered
dangerously near them. A five-footer, his eyes closed, began hammering away at him, his punches moving with machine-gun speed
and arriving like duds. Gently, The Hook lifted him up, deposited him on the sidelines, and pressed on.

It was a good three minutes before he could weave his way through, and another few seconds were wasted as he sped across the
great carpet of the lobby, searching for a phone booth, the booth that he was sure would contain the crabbed body of Jabber-Jabber
Jacoby.

Suddenly he saw him, off in one corner near the elevators, mouth moving galvanically, as he poured a rush of emotions into
the shiny black mouthpiece of the pay phone. Cops were arriving, probably called in by a frightened patron, and Lockwood slowed
his pace to a walk, not wanting to awaken their professional interest by hurrying. As he neared his quarry, he heard one word,
“jewelry,” and then Jacoby spotted him, muttered a quick “Call you back later,” and hung up.

“I need to talk to you, Jacoby.”

“Got no time, gotta get to Muffy Dearborn. She’s my client, gotta talk to her, she’s gonna be upset, lemme past, I gotta talk
to her, I tell ya,” the words spilled out of Jacoby like a gusher.

“My name’s Bill Lockwood. I’m here to speak to Miss Dearborn about the robbery of her jewels.”

“I know who you are. You’re The Hook. Everybody knows you, but it won’t do you no good. I gotta get to her, I’m a busy man,
I’ve got pictures to take care of, editors to service, critics to talk to…,” his mouth worked as fast as an actor in a Pat
O’Brien–Jimmy Cagney beauty from Warner’s.

“Okay. I’m coming with you.”

Jabber-Jabber looked up at Lockwood, considered for a moment, then resignedly lifted and dropped his shoulders. He was used
to acquiescing to power, from clients, from newspapermen, probably from anyone bigger than himself, which was practically
everyone. “This way,” he said. “But they won’t let you in.” Lockwood shrugged and followed the little man into the elevator.

Jabber-Jabber was mistaken, a not uncommon thing for him. A quick punch of the doorbell and the door to Muffy’s crowded, noise-
and smoke-filled suite was opened by Raff Spencer, the quizzical expression on his face as he viewed Jabber-Jabber changing
rapidly to pleasure as he locked in on the presence of The Hook. Raff looked fresh and impeccable, casually elegant, as if
the fight of a few minutes before was already ancient history.

“Well, I’ll be—come in, come in, have a drink!” He motioned Lockwood to enter, entirely oblivious to Jabber-Jabber as the
black-suited press agent scuttled past him.

“You’ll have to excuse us a bit,” he smiled. “Muffy, as you might expect, is a little upset at the direction her opening night
has taken.”

He understated it, to say the least. Muffy had taken center stage in the luxuriously appointed room, eyes alternately flashing
and filling with tears. “How dare he! If I ever see Mister Jock Bunche again, I’ll claw his eyes out! Me! Upstaging me! This
was my opening night! The biggest night of my career! All the critics, all the columnists! Agents! Producers! This could have
meant a movie career! Musicals! Comedies! Drama! Instead, I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!”

Immediately, Jabber-Jabber was all over her, though at an obsequiously respectful distance, sending out clucking sounds, reassuring
noises, tiny squeals of persuasion. “It’s okay, believe me! There was never an opening night like this! I’m telling you, the
whole town will be talking about it tomorrow!”

“Talking about it! They’d better not! I want you to silence the newspapers—right now!”

“That’s not what I mean! The newspapers are already silenced. If news got out about this fight, the Persian Room could lose
its liquor license, and none of the papers would want to see that happen. Listen, would I lie to you? That you don’t have
to worry about.”

“What about—uh—freedom of the press?” wailed Muffy, undoubtedly concerned about that amendment for the first time in her life.

“Right! Freedom! That’s what the press’s got. And they got the freedom to kill any story they want, and believe me, with all
the tabs this place has lifted for half the newsmen in the city, it’s got nothin’ to worry about!”

“So if there’s no mention in tomorrow’s newspapers about the fight, how will I get all this publicity you keep jabbering so
annoyingly about?” An imperious cutting edge sounded for the first time in Muffy’s voice, and Jabber-Jabber automatically
went into a cringe. And then bounced back, displaying the capacity for attack that all press agents develop over the years—either
that, or, as failures, drop out of the business.

“Simple!” he cried, almost dancing in his enthusiasm. “Word of mouth! It’s the best publicity anyone can possibly get. The
whole town’s gonna be excited about this, the big fight, your boyfriend, a big tall handsome guy, tangling with your ex, they’re
gonna be talking and talking, believe me.”

“If they’re anything like you, they certainly will.” She was still upset and angry, and Jabber-Jabber made an easy target,
almost a willing one. “But I’m an artist! What good could all that possibly do me?”

“You’ve got to understand publicity, Miss Dearborn,” Jabber-Jabber almost crooned in his raspy voice, excited about possibly
the only thing he did understand. “They’ll come because of all the noise, sure, about the ruckus, the donnybrook, the supper
club massacre, and they’ll be lookin’ for something like that again, but you’re an artist. You’re a winner, I know that, believe
me I’ve been around, you’re a future star. You’re going to be the biggest of them all! And once the music begins, and they
hear your voice, and they put it together with your face and your hair, and—excuse me, but it’s true—the sensational streamlining
of all the rest of you, they’ll come outta here talking again—only this time it’ll be about you, about what you can do with
a song, and how you should be the biggest star Hollywood’s ever had!” He stopped, out of breath, eyes big with hope.

His hope was fulfilled. Muffy was more than mollified, though allowing virtually none of it to show, as befitted her patrician
upbringing. “Oh. Well, that sounds all right then.”

Raff walked up to her. “Darling, I’ve someone I want you to meet. Bill Lockwood—The Hook—meet Muffy Dearborn.”

Muffy barely gave him a glance. “How do you do, Mr. Lockwood. Raff, what
are
we going to do? Will there be a show tonight after all?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my dear. And please pay a little closer attention. The Hook here is a special man
in my life. Has been on at least two occasions,” Raff smiled, as Lockwood shot a look at him, puzzled.

“That’s right. On two occasions. Each time he’s done me quite a good turn.”

“I don’t remember our meeting before this evening, Mr. Spencer.”

“Call me Raff. Please. Just Raff. No, we’ve only met once. Tonight.” Raff turned toward Muffy. “I was in a spot of trouble
with your former gallant’s crowd, and Bill Lockwood here, known, for very good reason, as ‘The Hook,’ stepped in and did a
few of them up brown, lightening my load considerably.”

Muffy looked puzzled.

“He punched a few of them out—including dear old Jock. A real smasheroo, that. I paused for a moment or two in my own endeavors
to watch Brer Bunche go into a recumbent
pas d’ un
on the parquet, little yellow birds cuckooing above his muzzy head,” Raff smiled, addressing this latter sentence as much
to Lockwood as to Muffy.

“Good. He deserved it!” Muffy looked pleased in a slightly mischievous, little-girl way.

“You haven’t asked me about the other time, Muffy, my pet, so I’ll press on as if you were all agog. Many years ago… no,
not so many years ago, my young beauty, since you were already striding the earth, or at least crawling about it, whenever
your Nanny gave you a bit of freedom…. Some years ago, this man saved me in quite another way. Can you guess how, Mr. Lockwood?”
Raff asked, his teeth flashing.

“I’ve my suspicions.”

“Ah! His fists fly, but his words come forth more slowly!” Raff exclaimed affably. “Then let me tell you.”

He drew the two of them off into a corner, away from the elegant crowd of friends and well-wishers who were filling the room
with conversation, and their own gullets with the finest in caviar, hors d’oeuvres, vintage champagne, and twelve-year-old
whiskey.

“I was, as you know, Muffy, in the Lafayette Escadrille, that idiotic legion of even more idiotic American youths, during
the Great War, popping bullets at the Jerries while trying to figure out what I, Mr. Spencer’s boy, was doing up there in
the blue of the sky and the black of the ack-ack bursts,” Raff began.

“And then one day the ack-ack got me, and I fluttered to earth, and found myself in the middle of the Fighting 69th. At the
moment they’d been given a few days off from winning the war, and, like myself, were trying to find ways of disposing of all
that lovely lucre we were earning, money that so much of the time just couldn’t be spent, what with all the flying shells
and bullets and so forth. Nasty inconvenience, that.