The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

“I didn’t before and when the shot came I ran over to see how badly my husband was hurt. It was my first duty,” she added primly.

Cellini decided he might as well ask it. “Do you happen to know of any enemies your husband might have had, any former girl-friends, for example?”

“He had no girl-friends.”

Her eyes looked beyond Cellini and he turned around. Juno Worden and Maggie Scott had finished their match and they were coming toward them. A ring robe was draped around the Blond Bomber’s shoulders and the powder on her skin was caked by sweat. She stopped by them and nodded pleasantly to Cellini. He wondered if Eddy Bly had told her to change her attitude toward him.

Prunella said: “This guy is trying to find out if Hank had any girl-friends. You tell him.”

Juno looked shocked. “That’s a hell of a thing to say so soon after the tragedy. Hank and Pruney were an ideal couple.”

“Like you and your husband?” asked Cellini.

“Why, you louse!” Juno’s body curved into the familiar crouch, ready to leap.

Cellini cautiously stepped to one side. Duck-Eye said: “I’ll take care of it, Cellini. Please let me take care of it.”

Prunella said, “Don’t dirty your hands, Juno,” and the two of them stalked toward the dressing room.

Murph began to laugh. Cellini regarded him sourly and said: “I could do with a drink. There’s a bottle in my car.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Smith.”

Cellini led the way out to the parking lot and to his car. The wrestling matches were still going on and, other than an attendant at the far end, the place was deserted.

“The time has come,” said Cellini. He suddenly grabbed Murph’s arm, twisted it behind his back and pressed him, with crushing force, over a fender. With his free hand, Cellini reached into a pocket, removed a gun and tossed it to Duck-Eye.

Then he said: “No hard feelings, are there?”

There was a dubious and unsure “No” from Murph.

“That’s nice, because I want to see how good you are when you’re not asking for a light.”

“Good enough for you,” said Murph, and suddenly lunged forward.

Cellini took the blow on his forearm and hit out heavily at the other’s heart. They circled cautiously in the restricted area, with Murph’s left fist darting out in quick defensive jabs. Murph was fast on his feet and he seemed to know what he was doing.

Cellini side-stepped quickly and his left looped out and caught the other under the ear. Again and again, Cellini tried it until Murph’s defense automatically moved higher. Abruptly, Cellini stepped in, feinted at the head, then shifted and delivered a smashing right deep into Murph’s stomach. Murph stopped, stood unmoving and a tight-lipped groan escaped him. His arms dropped down and his head was unprotected, virtually inviting a knockout blow. But that was not Cellini’s intention.

Cellini’s arm lashed out and his knuckles struck down on the other’s cheek as if he were splitting wood. Murph fell against the car, blood coming from a wide gash in the face. Then, with a scientific and ruthless precision, Cellini went to work. His blows came slower and more exactly, aimed now at the eyes, now the nose, now the teeth.

Cellini’s left hand pressed Murph’s chest, steadying him against the car door. The resistance was feeble and Cellini could calculate the probable effect of each blow as with a billiard shot. After a while, his arms began to feel a little tired. Now he was striking at a red, pulpy mess that bore little resemblance to flesh. It felt, to his fists, like the insides of a huge oyster.

Cellini stepped back to observe the artistry of his work and Murph slid to the ground. He said, “Now, there are really no hard feelings.”

The car attendant suddenly showed up and began to yell. With his two hands, Duck-Eye Ryan gently lifted him by the waist and set him atop the radiator of an adjoining car. The attendant stopped yelling.

Cellini pushed Murph’s inert figure out of the way with his feet. He was feeling hungry. He said: “Let’s go out and see if we can find a good steak.”