Hamilton sidestepped him easily. “What do you say we take this outside?” he said with a smile.
His would-be attacker wheeled around, ready to advance again, before thinking better of it. By now they had caught the attention of several other people, including the bartender, who nodded sternly toward the rear exit. Fights were common in the Hound and Hare, but the back alley was the preferred place for brawls if you ever wanted to set foot in the place again.
As Hamilton headed for the rear exit, Sergeant Dickerson looked wildly around, thinking perhaps to corner an ally, but most of the patrons had lost interest, returning to the real business of the evening—drinking. A couple of them laughed and patted Hamilton’s antagonist on the back as he charged past them.
“Mind ye don’ knock ’is teeth out, Jimmy, or ye’ll have tae pay the dentist bill!”
“Oiy, Jimmy! It’s early yet fer a fight, innit?”
These remarks were followed by guffaws and shoulder slapping as the three of them pushed through the crowd toward the exit. Dickerson swallowed hard as he followed the others out. Hamilton’s adversary had at least a two-stone advantage and looked mean as a cornered badger. Dickerson noticed a small chap with a neat little black mustache break off from his companions and follow them as they left the pub.
“Terry McNee,” the little fellow said, extending his hand as they made their way through the narrow wynd leading to the back of the building. “Most people call me Rat Face. I’ll be Jimmy’s second. And you’ll do likewise for your friend, I suppose?”
His voice was light and high and educated, minus the dull, mindless aggression of the pub’s other clientele. Dickerson wondered what he was doing at a place like this.
“William Dickerson,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, smooth and soft as a woman’s, the fingernails neatly trimmed.
“Right, Willie, let’s see what your friend has to say for himself,” McNee, alias Rat Face, said pleasantly. Dickerson tried to apply Hamilton’s methods to figuring out what kind of person this fellow was. Clearly not a menial laborer—but why would a respectable office worker be hanging around with the brutish Jimmy?
The alley behind the pub was squalid and smelly, bordered by a pigsty on one side and a penny tenement on the other. The odor of rotting cabbage and sour cheese assailed Dickerson’s nostrils as he watched Jimmy remove his coat, muscles bulging against the fabric of his flannel shirt. The brute rolled up his sleeves, exposing muscular forearms scored with colorful tattoos. Hamilton did the same, and Dickerson noticed with disappointment that his figure was considerably less bulky than his opponent’s. Though a tall man, DI Hamilton looked scrawny next to the massive Jimmy. Dickerson hoped the detective’s intellectual edge would count for something. He shivered at the thought that one dead body in the back of the pub was already more than enough.
He glanced at Rat Face, whose sharp features registered eager anticipation. Dickerson saw how he got his nickname—there was something feral about the long nose, small eyes, and receding chin. The way he brushed his tiny mustache with his long, tapered fingers was like a rat cleaning its whiskers. Rat Face extruded a long, thin piece of what appeared to be hardtack from his pocket and held it out to Dickerson.
“Beef jerky?”
“Thank you, no,” Dickerson said, realizing how dry his throat was. He dearly wished they had imbibed a pint or two before trudging out to this godforsaken alley. His stomach contracted as the two men squared off and a light rain began to fall. He had no idea what was required of him; he had never been a participant in a bar fight. He looked at Rat Face for a clue, but his counterpart was calmly chewing his beef jerky. The sergeant took a step toward Hamilton.
“Sir—”
The detective shook his head. “Later, Sergeant. Well, shall we?” he said to his opponent, who resembled a bull about to charge. His small eyes were narrowed slits, his broad shoulders puffed up and hunched forward, body tensed and ready for combat.
With a grunt, Jimmy launched his massive form at Hamilton. The two men collided with a dull thud, and Dickerson closed his eyes, expecting to hear the crunch of bone as Hamilton collapsed under the weight of the beast. When he opened them again, he was relieved to see the detective had his opponent in a headlock. One wiry arm was wrapped around Jimmy’s neck, while the other grasped his elbow, pulling it tighter.
Jimmy’s face deepened from scarlet to vermillion as he tried to throw off his opponent. Raising his right arm high, he drove an elbow hard into Ian’s back, dropping them both to their knees. Taking advantage of the moment, Jimmy twisted his body and wrenched free, rolling to the ground. The two staggered to their feet, breathing hard and facing each other.
“C’mon, sir,” Dickerson muttered, fists clenched. He longed to enter the fray, but he knew better. This was a fight between the two of them, a test of courage as much as skill.
Jimmy ran at Ian again, head down, in what looked like an attempt at a rugby tackle, but the detective managed to sidestep his opponent, whirling around like a matador evading a bull. This only enraged the big man, who came at Ian with a roar, fists flailing. Again, Dickerson was afraid to look as the two exchanged punches. Jimmy was bigger, but Ian had the advantage of being more nimble and evaded more blows than he caught. An uppercut to the face appeared to daze him, though, as blood burst from his nose. He staggered backward, leaning against the alley’s stone wall.
Jimmy lunged toward him, and Dickerson had a sinking feeling as the two locked shoulders like wrestlers, sweat dripping from their faces. He could hear their labored breathing as they each tried to bring the other to the ground. Surely the larger man would prevail now, with his superior weight and might.
Suddenly Ian rolled to the ground backward, throwing his opponent off balance, so that Jimmy somersaulted over his head in the direction of the wall behind them. His momentum took him into the wall headfirst, and Dickerson flinched at the sound of bone thwacking against stone.
As Jimmy crumpled to the ground, Ian stumbled over to lean on the rain barrel sitting beneath the building’s eaves. Bloodied and shaken, he didn’t look much better than his opponent. The sergeant watched as Jimmy slowly pulled himself to his hands and knees. Steam rose from his back as he hung his head between his shoulders, his breath coming in thick, hoarse gasps.