A Million Tears (57 page)

I followed up my first blow with a second, aimed roughly at the same spot. The effect was the same. I stepped back hastily, realising he had recovered from his first swipe at me and was steadying himself for another. I then encountered a further problem. It was so packed there was not room to step back anywhere. His left hand was about to close over my shirt front and haul me to meet his swinging fist when I caught his wrist, swung him around and pushed him as hard as I could, my foot up his backside.

40

He went sprawling into a group of equally drunk men and for the first time others began to take notice of what was happening. I wish they had not bothered, because all it meant was they yelled, pushed each other into a rough circle with me and fatso in the middle and screamed for blood – my blood. I had hoped to be able to push my way through the crowd before fatso recovered but now there was no chance.

There were cries of ‘Gut him Eric,’ ‘Slice his balls off,’ ‘Cut his throat,’ and other similar expressions, all of which scared me to death.

One thing I had learned from football, in which my speciality had been place kicking, was the follow through. We had been taught to kick as though what mattered was the top of the trajectory of the foot, and the fact we contacted a ball mid-way was incidental. I couldn’t beat this oaf with my fists, of that I had no doubt. If he was as impervious to a kick as he was to a blow in the guts then I could say goodbye to life. I did not wait for him to come to me. I moved in to get the range right. I put more behind that kick than I ever did at university, even when going for a match kick.

He did not scream. I don’t think he could. He went a sort of puce and green colour and collapsed in a heap on the ground, his hands clutched in front of him. There was a sort of stunned silence while the knowledge that their champion had been defeated sunk into their pickled brains. Then the clamour started and, contrary to my expectation, they did not acclaim me but howled for my blood. Before I could do more than blink, a swarthy fellow, a bit shorter than me, with bow legs and an earring, stepped into the circle and faced me. The crowd clapped and cheered.

While they dragged the fat man unceremoniously out of the way the man said: ‘Mo’sieur, he was my friend. I shall take his place.’

‘I don’t have any quarrel with you,’ I replied and turned my back on him. The trouble was there was nowhere to go. The sea of faces before me was not going to let me out. Resignedly I turned back. That was when he produced a wicked looking knife and held it in front of him in a way that convinced me he knew how to use it.

‘That’s it Frenchy, give the ponce what for,’ said a voice. More yelled similar lines of encouragement. None were directed at me.

Now I was really scared. Frenchy looked sober whereas the fat man had been so drunk he could hardly stand. Frenchy also knew I could use my feet to good effect, so I would not have much chance to do that again. I did the only thing I could think of. I backed away. Those behind gave a little and a few more paces I realised why. I stopped at the bar.

I had made up my mind to jump the bar and make for the back door, the one the whores used, when another man intervened.

‘That’ll do Frenchy,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Leave him be. He ain’t done you no harm. So leave it.’

‘Aww, c’mon Jake,’ Frenchy whined. ‘Just let’s us have a bit of fun, that’s all. He ain’t not’ing but a dude what got no rite in zis bar.’

‘Don’t jump the bar sonny,’ he said. ‘You won’t stand a chance. But you will if you come here and follow me out.’ He suddenly clamped his hand over Frenchy’s wrist and effortlessly squeezed. Frenchy’s eyes popped and the knife clattered to the floor.

I had no choice: I went with him. Following him, a path opened up like the Red Sea rolling back for Moses, and in an atmosphere of hostility, expecting a knife in my back any second, we climbed the stone steps and into the fog laden night.

We walked a few yards in silence and then my rescuer said, ‘I leave you here. I go this way. If I was you I wouldn’t go down there again. The Gut to Throaters isn’t a place for the likes of you.’

‘Hey look, let my buy you a drink and say thank you. That’s the least I can do. Come on man, I probably owe you my life,’ I took hold of his arm. ‘Come on. It isn’t every day a man gets to thank somebody for his life. You pick the spot and I’ll buy the best drink money can buy.’

He hesitated a moment and then gave his lop-sided grin. ‘Hell, why not? It’s an offer to drown my sorrows in and I won’t have another chance.’

‘Eh, eh . . . okay. Except we aren’t exactly dressed right for the Carlton.’ It was the smartest, best and most expensive place in New Orleans and that was saying some.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he replied. ‘There’s a back bar where no mind is paid to the way you look, only to the colour of your money.’

I followed him in silence. We went past the imposing entrance to the best known hotel in the Southern States and through a side door. We descended a short flight of steps, Jake knocked on a door, an eye appeared at a spy hole, Jake murmured something and we entered. It was a cellar, I presumed part of the hotel, with a small bar, a few tables and chairs and not too many patrons.

‘Smiley, give us a bottle of best French and two Champagne,’ said my companion to the dour faced man behind the bar. The man looked at me quizzically. ‘He’s all right – have I ever let you down before?’ With a shrug Smiley turned to get our drinks. Twenty dollars was expensive but under the circumstances I didn’t mind.

‘It’s a part of the Carlton, like I told you. Here the drinks are exactly what you can buy upstairs, a lot cheaper and with no fancy frills,’ he paused. ‘Also it’s run by the management but the owners don’t see the profits, if you get my meaning.’

I got his meaning.

Smiley thumped the bottles and cut glass tumblers in front of us with a frown in response to my thanks.

Jake mixed brandy and Champagne in equal amounts, filling the glasses to the brim. ‘Cheers,’ he said, lifted the glass and drained it. I tentatively sipped mine and looked at him in awe. ‘I intend getting blind, legless drunk and when they sweep me out I shall wake up in the gutter sometime tomorrow and remember you made it possible,’ he grinned humourlessly.

I shrugged and tried a mouthful. I half choked, much to his amusement. After a few more tries it seemed to slip down easier, though I can’t claim to have kept pace with Jake. At some stage I passed out.

When I did come to a hundred little men were inside my head trying to get out. The world about me was creaking and moving in a most peculiar manner and I felt sicker than I could remember. I think I groaned.

‘You’re alive,’ somebody said in a cheerful tone. I opened my eyes the smallest fraction and tried to identify the person. It took a few moments. Jake somebody or other. It took a few more seconds to recollect the night before but no matter how I tried I could not remember anything after we arrived at the Carlton. The secret bar I told myself, pleased I could remember that much. I croaked and then tried again. ‘Where am I?’ I managed with some effort. ‘Christ, I feel sick.’

‘Yep, that’s right. The
Lucky Lady
. Registered New Orleans and stolen from me by legal shenanigans. The bastards.’

‘If it was legal then it wasn’t stealing,’ I defended the law.

‘It was stolen – but I don’t know how, by a fast, smart talking lawyer,’ he paused. ‘I’ll make you a coffee. You’ll have time to drink it before the Sheriff gets here and throws us off.’

The coffee was strong and bitter but not destined to stay in my stomach. I just made it up top when I vomited. Another coffee and the room stopped spinning, a third and I could think, after a fashion. ‘Why are you having the boat taken off you?’ I asked, finally.

He shrugged. ‘All I know was that after I thought I’d made my last payment the deputy came here, said I had to appear in court and gave me a paper. I didn’t know what was going on so I went thinking there was a mistake. When I got there I was told I still owed another payment and as I hadn’t paid the boat was forfeited. I kicked up hell and asked for more time but it didn’t get me anywhere. So now I lose her.’

‘Didn’t you get a lawyer to help?’

‘What good is a smart-arsed lawyer? All it would have meant was more bills. And anyway I had to pay the money to one of the biggest lawyers in town – so I supposed he knew the law all right.’

‘Didn’t it occur to you he might have been using the law to his own ends?’ I asked, irritated with such stupidity.

He shrugged. ‘I guess it did occur to me but I didn’t have a brass nickel to do anything about it. Anyway, there wouldn’t be anybody in this town that would buck him.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Neil Guinn.’

I nodded in understanding. I had seen and heard his name around; it seemed that he was one of the biggest and sharpest lawyers in the State, if not in a lot of states.

‘Hmm, I see. Look, something isn’t right about all this. I don’t deny you may owe money but the way things have happened it seems to me you’re being taken for a ride.’

‘What would you know about it?’

‘I, em, I’m a lawyer myself.’

I did not see what was so funny. I think it must have been my indignant look that stopped him sufficiently to ask, ‘Are you joking?’

‘I’m not arguing. Still. Are you going to help me? Oh hell. There isn’t anything you can do, so what’s the point of thinking about it?’

‘There might be something. Get me all your papers and let me read them.’

‘What papers?’ he asked with a frown.

‘The record of loan repayments, the court order. The loan agreement. And while you’re at it, if I’m going to try and focus to read I’d better have another cup of coffee.’ I handed him my cup.

He rummaged around in a drawer for a while and then handed me some badly creased, official looking documents. The loan he had arranged was simple. Fifteen percent interest plus capital to be repaid in one year.

He had borrowed a straight two thousand dollars to be repaid in thirteen instalments at four week intervals. I scanned his repayment receipts. Guinn had not been too particular at the regularity of the payments because it was certainly not every four weeks. The contract said within three days of the due date payment had to be made or else the loan could be foreclosed and the remainder of the loan plus interest would have to be found, and if it wasn’t the boat would be seized in forfeiture. It seemed clear enough until I added the number of repayments made.

‘Why did you only pay twelve times instead of thirteen?’

‘What sort of lawyer are you? Everyone knows there’s twelve months in a year,’ he frowned. ‘Though come to think about it the court said something about that but I didn’t understand the blasted problem. All I knew was I had lost my blasted boat. And after paying for it, too.’ His lopsided grin, now in a downward position, gave him a ferocious scowl.

‘That’s calendar months but this contract is for four weekly periods. Hence thirteen payments.’ I guess I was being a bit thick or it might have been the drink from the night before but it was only then it dawned on me. I rechecked the payment dates. I should have spotted it earlier but every payment had been made within the first three days of each month. ‘Tell me something. When you were in court did Guinn say that he had been patient letting you pay late and finally given you an extra month to pay in?’

‘Something like that. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I even got a paper there that said I had paid it all. Underneath that lot,’ he added.

‘Is this it?’ I asked, he nodded. I read the letter warning him he was in default and that unless he paid up within one week he would be taken to court. ‘How did you get this?’