Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,140
his best stuff, and I’d write the introduction—a short biography and criticism of his work. Well, I told him I’d be honored to do it for old Stryker, maybe even edit a few of his last, unfinished works for publication.
“Well, this started Morris thinking still further, and all of a sudden he came out and said: ‘Brooke, there’s no reason Stryker’s public has to be deprived of these last few masterworks. He always made extensive notes, and you were always close to him as a writer and friend...”
“You son of a bitch.”
“How’s that?”
“You ass-kissing, cock-sucking son of a bitch.” Mandarin’s voice was thick with rage.
Hamilton drew himself up. “Now hold it there, Mandarin.” In his egotism it had not occurred to him that Mandarin might resent his assumption of role as Stryker’s literary heir. But he was confident of his ability to destroy the other man in any verbal duel—his wit, termed variously “acid” or “rapier,” had dazzled his fans at many a social function.
Heads were turning, as both men came to their feet in an angry crouch.
“You ass-licking fake! You couldn’t write your name and phone number on a shithouse wall! And after all the snotty condescension you had for Stryker, you’re stealing his name and his work before his grave’s even been spaded!”
“I don’t have to take that—even from a drunk! ” Hamilton snarled. “Although I understand I’m not likely to ever find you sober.”
The distance to his movie-star chin had already been noted. Mandarin reached across the table, put a fist there.
Hamilton sat down, hard. The rickety chair cracked under him. Arms flailing, he hit the floor in a tangle of splintered wood. The beer stein smashed against the dirty concrete.
Anger burned the dazed look from his eyes. Accustomed to urbane exchanges of insults at cocktail parties and catfights, Hamilton had not expected the manners of a barroom brawl. “You goddamn drunk!” he spat, struggling to rise.
Mandarin, who before medical school had spent a lot of Saturday nights in Montana saloons, was not a gentleman. He waited until Hamilton had risen halfway from the wreckage of his chair, then put another straight right to his chin. Hamilton went down again.
The writer shook the stars from his head and came up frothing mad. He was only five years or so older than Mandarin and of approximate physical size. Regular workouts at the faculty health club had hardened his body into the finely tuned fighting machine of the heroes of his novels. Now he discarded his initial intent of dispatching his drunken opponent with a few precisely devastating karate blows.
The beer stein had shattered with a jagged chunk still attached to its handle. Hamilton rolled to his feet, gripping the handle in his fist like a pair of brass knuckles.
Mandarin, unhappy that he had not had more on his punches, cleared the end of the table with no apparent intention of helping the other man to his feet. Hamilton’s fist with its jagged knuckleduster slashed at his face.
Rolling under the punch, Russ blocked Hamilton’s arm aside and threw a shoulder into his chest. They smashed to the floor, Mandarin on top with a knee planted in the other man’s belly.
Breath whooshed from the writer’s lips as his head cracked against the floor. Mandarin took the broken stein away from him, grinned down at his pinned opponent. Hamilton gave a hoarse bleat of fear.
“Jesus H. Christ! Russ, stop it!”
Saunders shouldered through the crowd, caught Russ’s arm in a shovel fist, hauled the two men apart. His interference was booed.
Groggily, Hamilton came to his feet, his face astonishingly pale. He glared at Mandarin, struggling to break away from the burly detective, decided not to risk a punch against him.
“Call the police!” he said shakily. “This man attacked me!”
“I’m a policeman, buddy!” Saunders growled. “What I saw was this man disarming you after you tried to jam a busted bottle in his face! Want to take out a warrant?”
The writer composed himself, massaging his bruised chin. “A policeman? Yes, I believe I recognize you now. One of the late Curtiss Stryker’s night school proteges, I recall. No doubt you learned more effective ways of writing parking tickets, officer—although it’s always encouraging to see one of your sort trying to improve his mind.”
“Ask him if he’s stolen any good wastebaskets lately,” Mandarin suggested, wriggling out of the detective’s grasp.
“Very clever, aren’t we,” Hamilton sneered. “I wonder what the state medical association will say about an alcoholic psychiatrist who gets into barroom brawls?”