against the window, his head temporarily swimming. Like striking snakes, more blows blurred before his eyes, swings and jabs that he had trouble countering.
Murphy’s ribs and stomach ached and things were now getting desperate. He would have to resort to a bit of dirty fighting, the style he had learnt on the mean streets of Brooklyn where he had been raised. Catching hold of one of the man’s arms, he hauled him close, his other hand reaching out and grabbing a handful of unwashed, greasy hair. He pulled violently, ripping hair from his assailant’s scalp, before bringing the head down to meet his rising knee.
Howling in agony, the man tried to break free, smacking two quick-fire jabs into Murphy’s ribs. Murphy held on, hauled his attacker to his feet, spun him around and drove him, headfirst, into the wall. Grabbing his stunned foe by the back of his collar, he repeated the act twice more before throwing the badly battered man to the floor. He was just about to finish him off with a savage kick when, to his surprise, he got to his feet.
Snarling his anger, Murphy grabbed him in a headlock. Applying all of his strength, he hoped to squeeze the life from him or break his neck.
Like a slimy eel, the other wriggled free, nipped behind Murphy and hacked two chops into his kidneys. Groaning his hurt, Murphy half-fell and reeled across the room out into the corridor. Warped and bleary images dashed across his vision. He shook his head and tried to focus. Suddenly a chair came flying. He braced himself as it cracked off his right shoulder. The force of the smash almost sent him careering down the narrow stairs.
Murphy’s implacable enemy somersaulted forward, landing nimbly on his feet.
Wiping away the blood that ran from a split lower lip, Murphy landed several solid blows with his right fist. He then dodged past the other, nipped back into his room and made a frantic attempt to get his gun. His attacker sprang on his back and the two of them made a bizarre shadow outline on the wall as they fought and grappled. Murphy tried to throw the other clear. More by accident than design he stumbled and, using his raw strength, he hauled the man free, dashing him, head over heels, out through his apartment window. Glass shattered.
The Chinese man fell past the fire escape and plummeted five storeys to the dingy street below.
Murphy looked down and saw the body, illuminated in the flashing red neon light of the late night diner nearby.
Then, before his disbelieving eyes, something truly unexpected happened. The body lying broken on the rain-washed street below exploded in a fire-cracker burst of streamers, flame, and smoke! The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted up from some fifty feet below.
* * * * * * *
‘Big’ Teddy Maxwell was lots of things, but he certainly wasn’t big—at least not in the physical sense. He was short and balding, clean-shaven and debonair, but there was a glint of menace in his eyes as he glared at Murphy. “What do you mean, he just turned to smoke?”
Murphy stood his ground. He was used to dealing with wise guys, having spent much of his life in the company of bootleggers and racketeers. “I’m telling you, that’s what happened. I threw him from my apartment window and then he just sort of blew up, like a dummy filled with fireworks on the pavement. By the time I got down there to check, there was nothing left but a pile of streamers and that smell you get after someone’s pulled a Christmas cracker.”
“Well I’m not paying you good money to go round fighting things that ain’t real. I want you to find out what’s happened to ‘Two-Bellies’, you hear me?” Maxwell turned to one of his goons who stood behind him; a thick-set ape of a man with a black handlebar moustache and a squint. “You ever heard of any of this rubbish, ‘Muscles’?”
“No, boss.” ‘Muscles’ shook his head,
“You’ve got to believe me,” said Murphy. “I don’t understand it. The only thing I can think is that there’s some connection with this Chung-Fu guy. Maybe it was some kind of fakery, Chinese magic. I don’t know. Anyhow, I’ve been lying low just in case someone’s got it in for me. Could be this Chung-Fu thinks I’m on to him.”
“Chung-Fu’s nothing but a two-bit pain in the ass. He thinks he rules Chinatown, but he can’t even run a laundry business. This magic show, I bet that’s just a load of baloney to try and bring in a bit of extra dough.” Maxwell cracked his knuckles. “Still, I think you should keep an eye on him. Last thing I need right now, what with those boys down in the south giving me grief, is for that damned slant to muscle in on our operations here. If he is holding ‘Two-Bellies’, then he may try and get some information out of him. But me and ‘The Bellies’ go way back, and I know he won’t squeal.”
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Murphy.
“I want you to do what I’m paying you to do. Find ‘Two-Bellies’. If you think that yellow son-of-a-bitch is involved, then find out and tell me.”
“Okay. I’ll see what this show’s all about,” Murphy replied, “but I might need a bit of support if things turn nasty.”
“Don’t tell me you need one of my men to hold you by the hand? It’s only a freakin’ circus show.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t get beat up by a dummy filled with Chinese firecrackers, did you?”
Disgruntled, Maxwell shook his head. “I’ll see if I can spare anyone. Now go, go watch the clowns.” He reached into a pocket and removed a dollar bill. “Here, the candy floss is on me.”
‘Muscles’ and some of the others chuckled.
* * * * * * *
Chung-Fu. The mere name had come to instill a certain terror in Murphy that now brought gooseflesh to his skin. And yet here he now stood, waiting in line with the forty or so others in the pouring rain outside the ramshackle theatre. There were many more posters stuck to the walls, identical to the one he had first seen a week ago.
The crowd shuffled forward a step, then another, a sign that the doors had opened. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Murphy moved forward, eyes scrutinising the sinister face of the Chinese magician. He sneered at it in an act of bravado and scratched the stubble on his chin. If he were the one responsible for the disappearances, and if it had been he who had sent that strange assassin after him, there was going to be hell to pay. He would have to be a damned good magician to avoid six slugs shot at close range. That was his intent, to catch him backstage and interrogate him after the show was over.
The entrance to the theatre had been done up rather tackily to resemble some kind of Chinese temple, with dragons and red and gold banners hung here and there. It looked cheap and uninspiring, and it was of no surprise to Murphy that many, if not all, of those in the queue were tramps, winos, and deadbeats. A pervasive air of sordidness prevailed, the smell from those waiting to go in adding to its overall unpleasantness.
Still, Murphy had frequented worse dens of inequity.
From the talk he overheard whilst waiting to enter, it became apparent that none had ever been to one of Chung-Fu’s performances before.
Murphy bought a ticket from the coolie hat-wearing usher on duty, paid a nickel for a bag of peanuts at the makeshift kiosk, and was directed to one of the doors through which the crowd was already filing. Now in the foyer, it seemed that everywhere he looked he saw more posters, some depicting forthcoming attractions, others highlighting stages of Chung-Fu’s none-too-illustrious career.
It was dark in the
