The Missing Boatman Part 10

Stickman pulled more, leaning way back, wondering if he would feel the snap of his victim's spine.

Chapter 13.

Boomer's head twisted around. He had a sudden dismal feeling that a family member had just died. He patted Melinda the door person on the shoulder. She was a pretty, pear-shaped brunette in her forties with a cigarette glued to her mouth. She watched him go into the bar. Then, he was gone.

Light lasered back and forth, dazzling Boomer's eyes. The first thing Boomer didn't see was Hillman. The fact that the moron had gone to the canwhat, five minutes ago?Didn't sit well in Boomer's mind. Who could tell rain clouds not to pour down, and who could tell Hillman not to whack off? Boomer smiled grimly at the a.n.a.logy.

It did not last.

Stickman was also nowhere to be seen.

That really bothered Boomer. He looked around the dark room, scanning the seated patrons enjoying the number jiggling on the stage. No Stickman. He took five big steps towards Tigh's office door, not understanding why but feeling something was wrong in the thickening air.

Tigh had talked.

So the Stickman released the pressure on his back and leaned forward. He wanted the man to be conscious for the next part. "So da by's name is Levin, eh?"

His head still in the cradle of Stickman's hands, Tigh whimpered an affirmative. b.l.o.o.d.y snot blew out his nose. He believed he had several discs in his back crushed. Squished. The entire length of his spinal column felt as if someone had done surgery on it with a chain saw.

"Where's 'ee at?"

Tigh sighed, and a bright wet ribbon of mucus flew away from his face. Another great shudder of breath went through his agonized frame. It was a question of will now and whether or not he wanted his death to be quick or not. He knew the Stickman was a killer. He knew the Stickman knew he was a man capable of b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance and that, if he was released, Tigh would indeed use every means at his disposal to hunt him down. Tigh knew the Stickman knew this, and thus, the Stick would not let him live. It was sound logic in Tigh's mind.

"To the States."

"Where?"

Nothing. A ragged intake of air, bracing for pain.

"Where?" Stickman demanded, tired of Tigh's bulls.h.i.+t.

The office door opened.

Stickman looked up. He forgot to lock the door.

Tigh whimpered in relief.

Amidst a thrumming beat of techno music, Boomer's eyes went from shocked disbelief to slits of terrible anger. "Let him up," he seethed.

Stickman was already complying, releasing the crime lord underneath him like a man releasing a broken sapling. He slap-wiped his hands and kept them loose at his sides, as if he were a sprinter about to take his mark. His eyes s.h.i.+ned with dangerous mirth.

"No need t'call the cops here, I think," Boomer said, letting the door swing closed behind him and taking a step towards the man. His hands came up before him as if he were about to pounce on a rare insect. Tigh dragged himself slowly in the direction of his henchman and the door.

"Yer d'last, me son," Stickman told him with a sly grin. "I was gonna let ye alone. Nuttin' against ye, really. 'Ee's the one 'oldin' back d'info. And I gots the name I was looking for. I'm done 'ere. Ye can let me go."

He pointed at the slowly moving bulk of Tigh. "Maybe get 'im to an 'ospital."

Boomer shook his head. He stepped over Tigh inchworm-slinking towards the other side of the room, away from his attacker.

"You are so f.u.c.king wrong, man," Boomer said, his big hands getting closer. "You are so f.u.c.king dead. I'll f.u.c.king do CPR on you just to kill you twice. A third time for s.h.i.+ts and giggles."

The bouncer was a full head and a half taller and every bit as wide as the Stickman. The man was a tsunami coming in hard. Stickman moved to his right, placing the edge of the couch between them. Music, m.u.f.fled but furious, a techno war drum, permeated the room.

"You ain't runnin', you little s.h.i.+t," the bouncer swore.

"Run?" the Stickman smiled all the way to his eyes. "I's gonna walk outta 'ere, me son."

Boomer kicked the sofa with a groan of wood on carpet towards the Stickman. Stickman darted around it as nimble as a crab on speed. Boomer matched him and got close enough to unleash a missile of a punch, straight from the shoulder, at the other man's face. The smaller man slapped it away with an open palm, wrist flicking outwards. Boomer threw a combination of three punches, any one of them powerful enough to break bone. Two went for the head, the last sought a kidney. Stickman forcefully slapped the first two punches away as if Boomer were a child going for his grandmother's cookie jar. He moved back from the last punch. Stickman circled left a step, keeping his open hands before his chest, peeking up at the larger Boomer from just over the tips of his hooked fingers.

"'Eard ye were badder den dis, Boom me son."

"You'll know it," Boomer snarled, rolling his shoulders. He was just revving up his engines. The blood was surging into the places where he needed it, like multiple torpedo silos filling up with deadly ordinance. He was about to live up to his name.

"Yeah? When?" Stickman asked, stepping back to his right.

"When you feel my knee up your a.s.s."

A storm of pre-practiced punches flew at the smaller man; a five-fisted combination targeting the face and body. Boomer exhaled spent air like the boxer he was as he moved in, wanting to corner this f.u.c.k rat and take his head off at leisure. But Stickman dodged left, keeping well out of reach. He bounced off a nearby wall and ducked under a swing meant for his head. Now, the desk was between the combatants, and they eyed each other with the techno pounding from beyond the door.

"Doubt it," Stickman smiled his slyness again.

"Yeah, that's right," Boomer snorted, deciding right then not to chase this little f.u.c.ker all over Gary's place. He brought his fists up to guard. "You were in prison. Probably can take both knees up there now, can't cha?"

Stickman's grin frosted over.

Boomer knew he had hit a nerve and decided to shake it.

"Probably just f.u.c.kin' full of con jizim, too. How often your nose run there you G.o.dd.a.m.n, stupid f.u.c.ked up Newf?"

Stickman lashed out, flat fingers stabbing for Boomer's throat. He blocked them with his forearms, but Stickman was in close now, and knife hands went for his adversary's windpipe. Boomer stopped them on his forearms again and punched out, grazing a forehead this time and knocking Stickman back, his eyes half closed with the contact. The man spun about and dropped low. A foot lashed out and swept Boomer's right knee. He cried out and crashed down. Stickman swooped in, his hooked fingers seeking the fallen man's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. Boomer kicked out his left leg and got a piece of his attacker's hip, stalling him in mid-flight. Stickman roared then, his eyes like livid cuts, his fingers like claws. He came in again low, slas.h.i.+ng at the air like he possessed knives. Boomer got to his good knee and threw up his forearms to defend himself. Stickman's fingers drew b.l.o.o.d.y grooves in the man's flesh. Boomer twisted, furious with pain, and brought his arms about like a huge net. He missed his quarry, managing only to grab a brief handful of leather. Stickman flittered away, towards the door. He looked down and saw Tigh an arm's-length away. He drove a boot into the man's stomach. Tigh balled up like a dying insect.

"Yer not going anywhere," Boomer breathed, glancing quickly at the wounds in his forearms. Did the man have blades underneath his fingernails?

The Stickman only grinned. And attacked.

He loosed a frightening KEEYAH as he zeroed in, a series of short kicks snapping at Boomer's midsection and lower legs. Boomer sidestepped and dodged, but one boot glanced painfully off the meat of his right thigh. It went numb. The bigger man retaliated and jabbed a two fisted combination at Stickman's head. The Stick darted backwards, impossibly fast, almost as if he knew where Boomer's punches were flying before he unleashed any. Stickman took another step backwards, almost up against Tigh's grand desk, and then charged back in, his hands, claws now, doing a furious weave in the air like an old fas.h.i.+oned lawn cutter's loose blades about to fly away. Boomer got his arms up to defend himself and a punis.h.i.+ng storm of fists, strange strikes and counter strikes, thrusts and blocks erupted from both men. The breath escaped them like rutting bulls. They bared their teeth in the exchange even when the blood really started to fly. An open hand caught Boomer's jaw, smas.h.i.+ng his lips against his teeth. Another punch made him bite down on his tongue. A fist caught the right side of Stickman's face, turning it a brazen red. A cut on his forehead channelled blood into his right eye, making him squint. A punch got through Boomer's forearms and caught him full in his left eye. Electrical pain crackled through a brain already reeling with multiple damage reports.

Then, another punch broke his nose.

They fought toe-to-toe for only seconds, but ask anyone in a fight about how a few seconds weighs like years on a combatant. Then Stickman whirled again, sweeping Boomer's weakened leg out from under him. The bouncer crashed onto carpet, throwing his arms out behind him to break the fall. His head bounced on the surface. Stickman kicked him in the face, smas.h.i.+ng an already broken nose. Blood splashed. Stickman snapped his kick out again, and Boomer did not even try to block the blow. Boomer was not registering much of anything except for the distant roar of surf in his ears. He shook his head, and it felt as if he were underwater. In slow motion, he watched the Stickman circle to his left. Instinct got Boomer moving. He pushed himself away from his attacker, backing up against Tigh's couch. The hate in his eyes made the Stickman pause. Boomer spat blood.

"Littlesumab.i.t.c.h," Boomer hissed in a berry-red froth. He got to his knees, managing to get his arms back to guard. "Gonna break all yer bones." He got to his feet. "Make sure I get yer favourite ones." Boomer swayed but his glaring eyes cleared. "Gonna be known as jellyf.u.c.k. Just like them blow-up dolls. 'Cept you'll be getting more orders on account of all that man service you sucked in."

Instead of a comeback, Stickman barked a hoa.r.s.e laugh.

Then he was charging, his fingers straight out and seeking to scoop out eyes.

Boomer caught both of the man's wrists.

"Gotcha," he spat into the other's face. Boomer grinned evilly and twisted, knowing a little about joint locks himself. Boomer twisted the man's wrists down. The resulting mid-air somersault would happen to anyone not wanting their wrists broken. The effect was incredible. For a microsecond, Stickman flew. Boomer held on to one wrist as the man slammed into the floor. He kicked and Stickman twisted, feeling the man's foot hammer into his shoulder instead of his face. The kick was strong enough for Boomer to let go. Stickman got to his feet, rolling his shoulder. Boomer did not have the juice to press his attack. Breathing hard, swallowing blood and limping, Boomer brought up his weary arms to guard, again. The little f.u.c.ker had chi, but he didn't have the experience the legendary bouncer possessed. The two men regarded each other through swelling eyes and blood-filled vision. Both looked hard now. Both would look like surreal s.h.i.+t in the morning.

"C'mon," Boomer motioned, expending precious energy for that little gesture. "C'mon. Always wondered what a Tyson would do against a little Shaolin s.h.i.+t. Yeah. Tyson. You see him in prison? You his girl?"

Stickman grinned back, his teeth traced in red.

"Yeah, I can see you're a happy f.u.c.ker. We'll see how G.o.dd.a.m.n chipper you are in the next thirty seconds. Hear me short s.h.i.+t? Thirty seconds. All you got. C'mon then. Bring that Jet Li s.h.i.+t across. f.u.c.k you up."

Techno music pounded through the walls. The smell of blood was on the air. Gary remained curled up like a dead baby on the floor.

"Seconds, eh?" Stickman breathed. His head was ringing like a f.u.c.king gong, and his shoulder felt like a blow torch had been taken to it. He wondered if he looked anywhere near as bad as the corpse across from him. He drew breath from lungs that badly wanted to take the rest of the year off and sighed. He supposed he was stupid after all to think the Beacon's Boom would down go easy.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up." Boomer hissed. "You talk too G.o.dd.a.m.n much."

And Boomer lunged.

Combinations of fists and elbows pistoned out with the force of ten gauge shotguns. Some connected with maul-like force; others were deflected or dodged. The bouncer rained in his punches until he was close enough to grab his opponent. He wanted to wrap an arm around the little f.u.c.ker's neck. He wanted to choke him until both of his f.u.c.king eyes popped out of his head. Choke him out, and then put the boots to his head.

Instead, they boxed around the room, heading into an unknown round.

Getting out of Boomer's way one too many times, Stickman's foot caught the corner of the couch. The bouncer saw him stagger and attacked. Technique was too much effort now. His punch was a straight over the shoulder thunderbolt right. It connected with Stickman's cheek, shattering it, spinning him round and showing the bouncer his back. Boomer grabbed him then, his heavy arm wrapping around the smaller man's neck. He lifted him up, and in the fury of the techno, Stickman's feet went up, kicked at the florescent light above and knocked it from its ceiling mooring. The light fell and swung to and fro, and the room spiralled in brightness and shadow. Stickman's face went crimson.

"This's it," Boomer breathed into the man's ear, holding Stickman up off the ground by his neck. "I'll make it hurt."

Boomer squeezed and panic surged through Stickman's body. The panic that comes with knowing that imminent disaster is rus.h.i.+ng in. A stream of images exploded in Stickman's mind then, of a young man named Crawford, naked, in a crowded shower room, self-conscious of his nakedness. Other men shoving him, touching him, pulling at him. Men with bulging bellies covered in hair and ropey wet p.e.n.i.ses. Slippery soap. Gerald Burr's voice cutting through the steam lathered air, buzzing in Crawford's ear just as the shoving finishes and his arms are grabbed from behind. His legs are kicked out, and he's forced to the shower floor. Water beats against the concrete like wild rain and is sucked out by a black drain. All of Crawford's limbs are seized. His legs are spread apart. A forearm presses down across the back of his neck, further immobilizing him. Hot soap enters his r.e.c.t.u.m. Terror widens his eyes, but otherwise he cannot move.

"That's it," comes Burr's voice close to his ear. "You fight."

And the tungsten pain of being invaded.

That one episode, so long ago but never forgotten, instilled a primal fear of anyone-especially a man-pressing themselves up behind the Stickman. It made him ferociously paranoid of small cramped places. He could only do elevators if he got on first and put his back to a wall. Even public transportation, especially if he were standing, made him sweat with all of the close bodies. But being held from behind, being grabbed...

Like now...

Stickman freaked.

He s.h.i.+fted his hips to his left and clawed upwards into Boomer's crotch. Frantic fingers hooked into soft t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and ripped with as much force as possible. Boomer's voice became a breathless wheeze as if he had just jumped into freezing water. The blood came like a burst water balloon. Paralyzed sick with agony, his knees buckled, Boomer felt his grip go on his prey. Stickman spun about and drove an elbow into the man's temple. Another foot crashed into the man's groin.

Boomer went down hard, hands instinctively clutching at his broken b.a.l.l.s.

Stickman landed on top of him. His knees pinned the big man's shoulders to the carpet.

"Take yer picture," Stickman grated and drove a wrecking ball fist straight into Boomer's face.

The music had stopped, but the beating went on. And it continued for several long, wet seconds. It went on long after Boomer stopped moving. It went on long after it felt as if Stickman were punching a bag of meat pulped with shards of marbles. It went on and on and on.

And after Stickman tired of punching, he stood up and began stomping.

But by this time, Boomer's consciousness had long since left the continent.

From where he lay, Tigh heard the blunt sound of flesh on flesh. After what seemed like years, it stopped. Then, stillness. There was no music from the outside. There were no voices above him. Just pure stillness. The storm had ended. Boomer had saved him. Boom would get him to a hospital, too. Then, they would get back to the little s.h.i.+t known as the Stickman.

Footsteps. Near his head.

Movement. Very close.

"Now den," came a weary voice that made Tigh cringe and whimper and caused tears to seep from his tightly closed eyes. "Where was we...?"

Tigh set his jaw before wet hands began working on him. He knew then that the storm had not pa.s.sed as he had hoped.

He had just sailed into the eye of it.

Chapter 14.

It was early Tuesday afternoon, long before the battle at the Beacon, and Tony slowed the car down. It was lunchtime, and he thought about eating something, feeling guilty for just thinking about food. He wondered about Fred, as well. Freak boy Fred who had not said a word since the hospital's parking lot after Tony had said his goodbye to his mother. He just sat there, listening to the radio and DJ Jeff's coffee high. When they became further out of range of the signal, Tony played with the dial until he found a cla.s.sic rock station. Fred never said a word. He simply sat there and watched the landscape blur by. At first, Tony thought the man was p.i.s.sed at him for some reason. Maybe the cracks Tony made at Freddy's expense were taken to heart. Not that that worried Tony in the least. f.u.c.k the freak. Then it became blissfully clear to Tony that the man was simply not a conversationalist. Try driving along the highway in open country, and see if you can resist talking to the person beside you. Unless the man had no tongue, Tony figured that it couldn't be done, but, as f.u.c.k was his witness, Fred was doing it. He could almost clap the man on the shoulder for his silence, for a job well done, but that would send the wrong message. It was better for Tony this way.

He felt his stomach get cranky.

He finally decided that it came down to a test of will. Fred wasn't sleeping over there in the pa.s.senger seat. He was watching gas stations, scattered houses and the odd tourist shop roll by as they travelled towards New Brunswick.

By three in the afternoon, Tony decided that old Freddy had won. And it was after lunch.

"I'm hungry," Tony stated as he sighted the next Irving Station, convenience shop and restaurant all rolled into one.

Fred said nothing.

"How about you?"

"Me?" Fred's eyes never left the road.

"Yeah, you. You hungry?" Tony asked as he pulled into the parking lot. "You eat earlier or something?"

Fred thought on that for a moment. "No," he said finally, perhaps answering both questions.