Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) by Stuart M. Kaminsky

repeated.
    “Someone killed Ralph Howard,” I went on. “Someone who knew how to go to the face and head. Maybe a fighter or ex-fighter. You know anybody like that?”
    Parkman was shaking his head furiously now, sweating and shaking.
    “What’s the matter with you,” Moe said, pointing at me. “You dumb or something? You don’t know when to shut up and walk? Or maybe you don’t like walking? We can take care of that, fix you up.”
    “Or maybe turn my face into a jack-o’-lantern,” I helped.
    “What are we going to do with this guy?” Moe asked the two flanking me.
    “Bust him,” said Curly.
    “Dance on his knuckles,” mumbled Larry with the scar. I turned to look at him. You’ve got to admire creativity even in a situation like this.
    Moe sat thinking, and Parkman sat shrinking, and I looked around at the wails while I tried to think of what to do before they took one of their alternatives. The walls were covered with dirty wall paper, vertical blue stripes on a light blue background. Between the stripes were shapes that looked like Chinese lanterns, dark blue Chinese lanterns. Pictures were all over the place, photographs of boxers. Some of them were facing the camera with their fists up, wearing grins or serious grimaces. Some had arms draped over guys I didn’t recognize. A few, like Gus Lesnevich, had an arm draped over the shoulder of Al Parkman, a younger version with a grin.
    “That Billy Conn?” I asked Parkman, pointing to a photograph on the wall I knew was Billy Conn. I took a step toward the one source of light in the room, the lamp on Parkman’s desk.
    “That’s Conn,” Parkman said without enthusiasm.
    “He’s in the Army now, isn’t he?” I said.
    “Yeah,” sighed Parkman, touching his little mustache to be sure it was still there. He had trouble finding it. “Yeah, a private,” he said. “He’s in the hospital now. Fractured left hand.”
    My hand was on the desk as I stood admiring the photograph and gauging where the three pugs were in the room. The space between the two at the door wasn’t much, but it was possible.
    “Who did he fight?” I asked.
    “His father-in-law, at home with his father-in-law. Can you live with that?” Parkman said, warming to the conversation a little.
    “Peters,” Moe said, getting out of the chair. He had made a decision. “You don’t ask no more questions, not around here, not about fights, not about Howard. We’re going to mess you around a little, not too bad, enough to remind you, and then you’re going to crawl away and not bother anybody again. You understand?”
    “I understand,” I said. “Can I get in one last question before we dance?”
    Standing up he was a lot bigger than I had imagined. My guess was six-four. He was a few inches from me. I could smell his dinner on his breath, which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten and helped me not to want to think about it.
    “There’s no being nice to some people,” Moe said.
    “Two guys were seen walking away from Howard’s body on the beach at Santa Monica, two guys who looked like they might be in the game. And another guy, maybe one of the two, tried to run down Ralph Howard last Saturday. You wouldn’t know who these guys might be, would you?”
    Moe looked puzzled and moved his eyes past me to Curly and Larry, questioning. It was time. My stomach grumbled and I hesitated. My head was still vibrating like a tuning fork from Meara’s game with my head, and my face was raw. I knew a session with these guys would land me in a hospital. On the other hand, if I did what I was planning and I didn’t make it, I could wind up a corpse with $650 in my pocket, down for the final count. What the hell. You only live once or twice. I reached past Moe, grabbed the lamp, and threw it in the corner of the room. The cord snapped and the room went dark.
    I turned and ran toward the space between the two at the door, my hands out like Bronco Nagurski. I hit one of them, felt the other