WISH YOU WERE THERE!

Jantallian

Holiday Snapshot 6

"Nice hat." The hung-over one had to admit that, despite a fervent wish to spend the rest of the day somewhere cool and quiet and free from the crazy modes of behaviour that seemed to characterise life on the Barbary Coast, Anna-Maria looked charming enough to make any man want to show a little more spirit than he felt capable of at that moment. "Where's Jess?" he asked, realising that the purchaser of the millinery was nowhere to be seen.

"He said to take you to breakfast." She linked her arm enthusiastically through that of the handsome blonde and smiled exactly as if she had not spent the preceding hours in the company of his best friend.

"Doesn't he feel like eating?" Impossible! Nothing short of incapacitating illness or injury ever stopped Jess getting on the outside of a square meal.

Anna-Maria obviously divined his thoughts or, more likely, was just very well versed in Harper behaviour. "He'll find us. And I expect," she smiled with charming dimples, "he'll manage to eat another whole breakfast while we're finishing ours."

"Another?" The thought of one breakfast was causing his hangover some trouble. And where – and with whom! – had Jess already had breakfast once anyway?

"Come along!" Anna-Maria patted his arm and gently steered him towards one of the less disreputable eating houses. It was all very soothing and by the time he had managed a couple of black coffees – good heavens, he was catching Jess's habits – he was beginning to feel like a human being again. And to respond much more enthusiastically to the delightful company he found himself in.

They had eaten quietly and slowly. There was no sign of Jess. Now, stretching out in the chair and enjoying more coffee, he didn't care if his unpredictable companion never turned up. Well, not for a while anyway. At least until this new acquaintance had ripened into something more definite. But what was keeping him? Never mind – we can do without his appetite. Just a minute, Jess never misses a free meal! Not unless someone's hog-tied him or knocked him out. Something's happened! The conscientious one suddenly sat bolt upright, a look of anxiety and responsibility clouding his face.

His fellow diner was obviously good at reading minds. "He's fine," Anna-Maria assured him, reaching over to pat his arm once again.

"That's what I'm worried about. Jess is never fine except when he's in deep trouble!"

"He certainly likes a fight," she agreed, "but you really needn't worry. Aunty Mae is introducing him to a couple of people."

"And that's good news?"

"Yeah – she knows everyone there is to know in San Francisco," asserted a familiar gravelly drawl behind them. "I got us ring-side seats for the fight tonight." With that, the truant sat down and proceeded to demolish a full breakfast at a speed that left the other two with mild indigestion just from watching him.

Ring-side seats on the Barbary Coast did not mean exactly what they had expected. To start with, there was no ring and although there were sides, these were mainly composed of warring factions of people who had bet heavily on one fighter or another. Nonetheless, they were seized upon on their arrival by a couple of extremely tough-looking men whose demeanour said "soldier" in every move. Thus escorted, they were pushed and shoved – and on their own part, did some jostling and hacking – to reach what was, more or less, the front row. It was, unfortunately, quite a way from the bar and the duty of their escorts obviously did not include fetching drinks for tourists.

"Sit there!" Once again the tall man found himself pushed into a chair. "An' don't let anyone sit next t' y'." His companion shot a quick glance round the massive room and, having assured himself that the next fight was not immanent and that the Reverend was nowhere to be seen, proceeded to insinuate himself into the crowd once more, wriggling, sliding, jinxing and eliding his way to the bar. This was not difficult, given his slender frame and the fact that his stature meant he could simply use the space below most other men's elbows – at any rate in this crowd.

Miraculously, he returned with almost all of the two pints of beer he was carrying. Trouble only started when, after several fights had taken place, he went back for, as it were, a second round. This involved squeezing past the contestants waiting for their turn in the ring. The Reverend was not one of them and their behaviour was, in any case, hardly suitable for one with clerical qualifications, however good a boxer he might be.

The dark man's ducking and weaving tactics did not pay off this time. Almost as soon as he had set out he ran into trouble. Big trouble, in the shape of a waiting contestant. A man of considerable muscle, weight and height, but relatively tiny brain. Feeling someone brush against the arm that was holding his tankard, this man reached out with his other and grabbed the offender by the collar.

This seemed to be a favoured part of the clothing during attacks on the Barbary Coast, the blonde man noted in passing. Concern for his friend was, however, uppermost in his mind and he was watching the confrontation with the alarm of a mother hen who has discovered one of her chicks playing tag with a fox cub. After all, he had promised Jess's sister, Francie, when they stayed overnight with the family on their way down, that he would look after her little brother. Mind you, when Francie said this, she probably meant Harper style, which involved leaping loyally into trouble, fists flying and gun at the ready, at the drop of a hat – or sometimes even without the drop of one – and with complete disregard for the odds, the outcome or any consideration that could be labelled 'common sense'. This was not his own method of proceeding, as he usually tried to steer his friend away from trouble, rather than having to fish him out of it.

Now, to his horror, the worried watcher heard the boxer say: "Yer pushin' me, y' little bastard!" *5 That was not a good idea. If anything was guaranteed to act as a red rag to Harper bullishness, it was being called 'little'. Even as the would-be protector caught his breath, the one so addressed escaped from the boxer's grip by the simple expedient of ripping his coat apart, shedding buttons in every direction, and dropping out of its confines onto the floor. He landed on his toes, poised to start flinging punches and instantly launched himself into a furious attack of whirlwind blows. The boxer rocked momentarily on his heels, then, rather like a steer pestered by a particularly persistent hornet, dropped the torn coat, picked the irate one up again by his shirt instead and held him at arm's length. This immediately rendered the attack completely useless, as the boxer's reach was far longer than that of his smaller, or perhaps that should be 'shorter', opponent. The black bull was hung out to dry and harmless and now in a position of considerable disadvantage. The boxer pondered for a moment and then began, methodically, to hit the dangling body with a series of well-aimed blows, working from the top downwards, encouraged by enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.

He was interrupted in this enjoyable activity by a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself facing much taller man with a determined but polite expression. "Excuse me," this apparition said firmly, "would you mind putting my friend down. I think he's a little under your weight. Try me instead."

This was a novel approach and brought loud laughs from the crowd. The boxer scratched his head with the fingers of the hand that had been doing the punching. He didn't like being laughed at. He was getting bored with just hitting. He didn't mind a proper fight. "Get y' gear off!" he grunted, as he dropped his punch-bag into a vacant chair. The tall man tried not to look. It wouldn't do his companion any favours to fuss over him in front of this crowd and he certainly wouldn't get any thanks for it from the recipient. Besides, he now had troubles of his own.

Shedding his coat and shirt, he folded them neatly and placed them on the chair next to the battered looking tourist. "Sit there and stay put! You can look after my clothes for a bit," he informed his friend. After a moment's thought, he took off his boots too: "And don't forget my boots!" This lost him some height, but would give him much better footing, and that might be essential if his plan was to work. He stripped off well and, in contrast to the boxer, looked muscular, healthy, powerful and bore more than a little resemblance to one of the better sculptures of the Greek gods. His physique caused considerable consternation amongst the female members of the audience. Added to this, he was in his prime. The boxer, on the other hand, although he had the advantage of experience, was not in the first flush of his youth and had not bothered to keep fit. He relied solely on his reach and the weight of his punch to win.

The blonde man squared up to him, shifting nimbly from foot to foot as he dodged the punches that immediately rained on him, moving just out of reach each time. This infuriated and exhausted the boxer very quickly. His rage was further fuelled by the deft and hefty blows that the tall man managed to land whenever he could get inside his opponent's reach. He was careful, however, not to allow himself to be caught in a grapple – there were no rules in this ring and the boxer, at close quarters, would be quite capable of crushing or pounding the life out of him. Despite the punishing punches that did make contact with his body, the blonde fighter kept moving, dodging, circling, like a wolf wearing down a moose. The crowd were vastly entertained as this was very different from the usual slugging matches that took place. Soon they were betting heavily on who could last out the longest.

It seemed the longest ten minutes of his life to the fair-haired pugilist. Every moment was one of pure concentration and control, using his brain and the sharp reflexes of his body to outwit and ultimately defeat the hulk who was attempting to bludgeon him into the floor. He just needed one good blow to the solar plexus and a hard upper cut to meet the descending chin – that should finish it. Meanwhile he kept moving, dancing, feinting and generally maddening his opponent, who was wasting what little breath he had left in roars of wrath. The boxer in a furious frenzy was a terrifying sight. The tall man just kept cool. Waiting. Manoeuvring. Seeing the other man's guard drop, he made good his two planned blows. The boxer's feet left the floor as he toppled backwards with a crash to bounce on the floor like a felled oak.

The crowd erupted into ecstasy – especially those who had bet on the blonde. The winner was fêted and fawned on, numerous incompatible drinks were thrust into his hand, offers of a professional career (albeit short-lived) were pressed upon him and so were a number of other offers, some of which baffled him completely – which was probably just as well. As his friend was fond of saying, there were some things that he just didn't need to know about the Barbary Coast.

Glory is short-lived and crowds are fickle. The next moment he was abandoned as another, more orthodox fight started. He pushed his way back to the chairs they had occupied as tourist spectators, feeling rather more part of the place than he actually wished to. His comrade in arms was still slumped in the chair, looking distinctly the worse for wear. One eye was closing rapidly, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and a dark shadow of bruising lined his jaw. His shirt had parted company from its collar and his rent coat was minus the buttons that had been quickly snatched up by the local urchins. The blonde man approached him cautiously. There was no telling if unspent anger and residual inclination to fight would be vented on the nearest target.

To his surprise, the younger man simply got to his feet and picked up his ripped coat. There was no sign that he felt anything other than philosophical about a public and humiliating beating. He looked the winner up and down and said: "Y' whipped him. Good!" Then he turned and began to push his way towards the door, leaving the victor to pick up his clothes and follow in his wake.

Once outside, they paused on the board-walk so that the fighter could dress again, an activity, unusually, which drew not the slightest attention from anyone. While this happened, the other leant against an upright, much as he did at home except that he was not smoking. When the victor was ready, he took another, closer look at his friend and asked anxiously, "You ok?"

"I'm fine!" the other grated. He managed about a hundred yards down the nearest alley before he was out on his feet. The blonde man picked him up and carried him back to the hotel.

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SS – JH

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Slim deposited the limp body of his friend on the bed and stood looking down thoughtfully for a moment. Then he leaned forward and brushed back the dark forelock lying across the bruised temples. "You really are a reckless idiot!" he said softly. "You just don't know when to back down, do you?"

Jess stirred under his fingers and mumbled, "Ain't gonna …"

"Yeah? What aren't you going to do?" Slim asked, with a wry smile. "Nothing right now!" he told his patient forcefully. Turning away, he went and found a towel which he soaked with cold water. He proceeded to sponge down the cuts and bruises, then slid off the ripped shirt and gently treated the battered rib-cage on which dark bruises were already evident. Feeling carefully, he decided that Jess had been lucky this time - nothing was broken, although he knew how often those ribs had borne the brunt of their owner's wilder confrontations. It was obvious that he was in no condition to put himself to bed, so Slim stripped off his boots and pants and pulled the covers over him.

He had barely completed his ministrations when there was a tap at the door and Anna-Maria came quietly in. She stood for a moment looking down at the comatose figure in the bed. "So it's true. He's never been any good at knowing the dividing line between brave and suicidally stupid!" Slim was both touched by and jealous of her understanding and concern.

She put down the basket she had been carrying and produced some salve with which they could treat the injuries. There was also a bottle of brandy. Anna-Maria looked apologetically at Slim and said softly, "He's going to need something to get him to sleep tonight."

"Unlike previous nights," Slim couldn't help observing. "He seems perfectly able to do without sleep if he chooses. I suppose that's what he did last night?"

Anna-Maria's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I wouldn't know."

"But I thought –" Slim blurted out.

Her swift response stopped him in his tracks. "Jess bought me a hat as a thank-you for looking after you!" She paused and smiled at him, those dimples appearing attractively again. "I'd have done it for nothing, but he insisted. Then he was going to meet an old friend, someone called Julie, I think – but what happened after that, I don't know. I went home and got an early night."

"You don't … you did …" Slim stuttered.

Anna-Maria once more put a reassuring hand on his arm, but they were interrupted as their patient began to struggle back to consciousness. The first thing he did was to repeat his previous comment: "Y' whipped him! Good!"

"I didn't stop him working you over!" Slim, conscientious as ever, was prepared to take the blame for Jess's irrepressible fighting instinct.

"It's nothing," he was assured in rather groggy tones. "It was worth it. Now - pass me my pants." When these were duly handed over, Jess fished in a pocket and produced a fat roll of money. "$500!"

"What?" Slim stared at him in amazement. "Did you rob a bank or something?"

"Nope," Jess grinned cheerfully, though a trifle lopsidedly, at him. "I bet on you when the odds were long. Always knew y'd win, if y' could just be provoked into fightin' in the first place!"

Slim glared at him "You mean the whole thing was a set-up?"

"Kind of –" Jess massaged his aching ribs and added with a grimace, "and then again, kind of – not!"

"You wanted me to fight?"

"One sure-fire way of gettin' the Reverend to notice y', supposin' he was there," Jess pointed out with irritating reasonableness. "Just didn't figure on bein' caught in the cross-fire!"

"Serves you right!" Anna told him severely. "Especially if you got Slim into it too!" She turned to Slim: "Next time, just let him get the … tar … beaten out of him. It might make room for some sense!" All the same, she poured out a generous glass of brandy and put her arm round Jess to support him while he drank it. "At least I don't need my sewing skills to put you back together again this time."

"Yeah. I think this is yours?" Jess ran a finger over one of the scars on his left arm.

"I prefer costumes," Anna retorted. "They stay still while you work on them and they don't argue!"

Jess didn't look in the least chastised by all this, but he did lean his head back wearily into the pillows and hold out the glass for a refill.

"One more is all you're getting," he was told roundly. "I had to pinch this from Aunty Mae and there'll be hell to pay when she finds out."

"Tell her Slim took it," Jess said with a sleeping chuckle. "He ought to be able to deal with anythin' after that boxer." He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow and appeared to be sound asleep without further ado.

Slim and Anna-Maria stood looking down at him, their expressions of exasperation and affection matching each other exactly. Slim sighed: "I wish we'd found the Reverend right there in the boxing ring!" All the pair of them had got was a lot of bruises – and of course $500.

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*5 Apologies for the language, but this is the Barbary Coast!