"Muthah-fuckah," Roscoe growled. "Bastard…Son of a bitch!"
Roscoe hurled Vern hard against his car, then drove a vicious blow to Vern's solar plexus. Vern emitted a pained grunt and Roscoe smiled. He liked this playing "punching bag" with a human being. He loved to beat up "bad" people when he got paid for it. It was new to him, though, this holding back. He was used to striking with all his might.
"Rotten prick!" Roscoe muttered and drove his left fist into Vern's stomach. Roscoe backed up then, shuffled his feet nimbly and dabbed at his nose with his thumbs. "I'm just toyin' with ya, muthah fuckah," he said. "I could take ya easy, but the boss said to take it easy."
Suddenly a memory from long ago entered Roscoe's muddled brain. He heard the crowd cheering, saw the faces at ringside snarling and calling for blood. "Yeah, I could take ya easy, buddy, but the boss said to keep ya on your feet 'til the tenth round."
Roscoe suddenly forgot that Lance Gregory had instructed him to strike only Vern's body. Dancing, he landed two light left jabs to Vern Shipley's face. Vern rolled with the punches, futilely trying to ward off the light blows. A harder one landed on his left cheek, practically spinning him around. He started to sag, but Roscoe caught him under the arms.
Now, momentarily, Roscoe had returned to reality, the present. "You fall and I'll stomp you to death, prick," he said. "Stand up and take it like a man, bastard. You stay on your feet or you'll be sorry, hear?"
Vern nodded, valiantly holding onto the side of his car with his forearms, gripping helplessly at the smooth metal with his fingers.
Roscoe landed two more light jabs, then drove a punishing right fist, with his full weight behind it, into Vern's rib cage. Vern sagged, seeing stars. Roscoe slapped him, warning him again that if he did not stay on his feet he would be "stomped."
Vern widened his stance and held his arms against his ribs to protect himself against the hard blows to his midsection. He lowered his head at the same time and placed his fists at his cheeks. It did no good. Roscoe would drive a hard blow to his waist, dropping Vern's guard, and then he would jab at Vern's cheeks, eyes, chin, forehead. Vern felt blood Welding from several wounds on his face.
Vern did not know how much longer he would be able to hang on. He feared he would lose consciousness and be "stomped," so he concentrated with everything he could muster to remain on his feet while this giant babbled insanely and alternately sent blows to his face and body. After a while, he realized that for some reason his assailant struck his face much more lightly than his body. But this was small consolation and no help, for even the facial blows were drawing blood and snapping his head back. Still, he felt if he could protect his stomach area he might be able to hold on and avoid getting "stomped."
But how would it end? Vern thought, blood clogging his throat. Would this madman suddenly stop and walk away? Or would he finally permit him to come to merciful rest on the asphalt? He did not know, and this not knowing was even more painful, in a way, than was this beating he was taking.
"Almost the tenth round baby," Roscoe grunted, dancing, firing lefts and rights, first high, then low-toying with his soft and helpless opponent. "Hey, baby, you're outta shape. You're nothin' but a pussycat. Shit, I could drop you anytime I want, but the boss says to keep you on your feet 'til the tenth."
Roscoe actually heard his seconds calling from his corner now. The sights and sounds of the arena he had known so well were all there as he played cat-and-mouse with this pushover opponent.
Roscoe stopped dancing for a moment. Vern's mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. Roscoe leaned forward to hear whatever plea for mercy his enemy was uttering.
"Please…please," the voice managed to whisper. "I-I won't s-see Maria again."
"Damn right you won't, bastard," Roscoe spat, and slapped his opponent hard. Once again he had returned briefly to the now.
Vern Shipley gestured for Roscoe to come closer. His lips were moving, but Roscoe could not hear. Roscoe leaned close, grinning evilly, loving the helplessness of his victim. "What, bastard, what?"
And then, suddenly, with all the energy left to him, Vern brought up his knee to Roscoe's crotch. Even as his kneecap landed Vern knew he had missed the mark. Unfortunately, the blow landed to the right of the giant's testicles-caught him on the upper leg.
Roscoe growled loudly, more angered by the blow than hurt. "So you had to play cute, eh? You had to play games with Roscoe, didn't you? Well, muthah-fuckah, now the tenth round is here. Big Roscoe's gonna deck you!"
The rain of body blows came hard and fast now. Vern felt himself blacking out. He wondered if his ribs were cracked. He couldn't tell. For some insane reason, he found himself thinking that he couldn't make love to Maria if his ribs were cracked. That seemed to be his main concern as his head snapped from side to side from the big fists and his intestines cramped with each blow.
And then he didn't feel anything…he didn't care if he fell or not…he knew he was slipping into, unconsciousness, but he didn't care…couldn't care…couldn't help it if he got stomped or not…
Roscoe stared down at his fallen opponent. There was no bell ending the tenth round and for a moment this confused him. In a moment, he returned quietly to the present. He glanced furtively about, but nobody was in sight. He nudged the unconscious figure on the asphalt with the toe of his shoe, but there was no response. He hoped he hadn't gone too far. Kneeling, he placed his hairy ear against Vern Shipley's chest. He smiled. There was a heartbeat.
Vern Shipley's keys were still in the door. Roscoe opened the door, then lifted Vern up and tossed him in the front seat. He put the keys in the ignition, closed the door and left.
He felt good-triumphant-as he drove slowly down
Wilshire Boulevard. But something was missing. There was no immediate reward-nobody to congratulate him or pat him on the back. He remembered Vern's telling the man called Stan that he was going to "Ellen's house." He remembered that one of the names on the slip of paper Lance Gregory had given him read "Ellen Lanning." His instructions had been to attack Vernon Shipley either at his office or, near Ellen Lanning's place.
Grinning, he knew not quite why, Roscoe pulled into a service station and went to the nearby telephone booth. Information gave him Ellen Lanning's number. He dialed the number, it rang twice, and a female voice said, "Hello?"
"H-Hi," Roscoe said. "Your friend, Vernon Shipley? Well, he won't be able to make it tonight," Roscoe said, giggling.
"Who is this?" the woman said. "Why won't Vern be here?"
"He had a little accident," Roscoe said, barely able to speak he laughed so hard. "Uh-maybe he will make it, though. Later, I mean. He told me to tell you he'll be late. Maria, will you please be quiet!" Roscoe called, raising his face slightly from the telephone mouthpiece. "Shut up, Maria!"
Roscoe reminded himself of clever people on television and in the movies at this moment. He was really being funny, really clever. He had never imagined he could be so clever as to play such a funny trick on anybody.
"Who is this?" the woman called Ellen said firmly. "I demand to know. Who is this-this Maria? What's happened to Vernon?"
Doubling up with laughter, Roscoe hung up and staggered to his car. He sat behind the wheel giggling for several minutes before his very slow-working brain dictated his next course of action. Go and see the woman, his brain said. See the woman of the man you just beat up. You were the winner…more man than him. At least go and spy on her.
Roscoe nodded, guffawing as he pulled his car out of the service station. Ten minutes later, he found the big, expensive-looking condominium building on Wilshire Boulevard. He went inside and found Ellen Lanning's name on one of the mail boxes. Then he went to her floor on the elevator, got out and walked down the hall.