The Thousand Faces of Night - Jack Higgins [19]
He walked slowly back towards the truck. As he passed the loading bay at the front of O'Connor's warehouse he noticed Kennedy standing in a doorway talking to a young girl. She wore tight denim jeans and a hip-length leather driving jacket. Her face was round and soft like a young child's and framed in hair that was almost pure white, like soft flax glinting palely in the morning sun.
Kennedy said something to her and she looked up quickly towards Marlowe. He gazed steadily at her for several seconds and then continued across the front of the building towards the truck. He looked back once and she was still staring after him.
A little way along the narrow street that ran down one side of O'Connor's warehouse, Marlowe noticed a cafe sign and market men passing in and out. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry and he turned into the street and walked towards the cafe.
There was a narrow alley at the rear of O'Connor's warehouse and as he drew abreast of it he saw a crowd standing on the corner and heard voices raised in anger. He crossed the street quickly and shouldered his way through the crowd.
There was another loading bay at the rear of the building and four men stood arguing furiously on its edge. One of them was a Negro and on the ground at his feet stood a battered, fibre suitcase tied with string. The man who was doing most of the shouting was well over six feet tall with a chest like a barrel and a mane of black curly hair. He was swearing vilely with a pronounced Irish accent and he held up a clenched fist menacingly. 'We don't like spades round here,' he said. 'They make the place smell bad. Get back to bloody Jamaica where you came from.' He lifted his boot back and kicked the man's suitcase several feet through the air until it crashed against the far wall.
The Jamaican took a step forward and his fists clenched. For a moment Marlowe hoped he was going to strike the Irishman and then his chin dropped and he relaxed. He turned to step down from the ramp and one of the other men stuck out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily to the ground.
The big Irishman jumped down beside him, a huge grin on his face. 'That's where you belong, nigger. In the muck,' he said.
The Jamaican was on his feet like a cat. He moved forward in one beautiful fluid motion and slammed his fist hard against the Irishman's jaw. He went down as if he had been poleaxed.
He scrambled to his feet with a roar of rage and at the same moment his two friends jumped down from the loading bay and grabbed the Negro's arms from behind. 'Go on, Blacky,' one of them cried. 'Knock hell out of him.'
The Irishman stood back for a moment, wiping blood from his mouth, and then he moved forward, a smile of pleasure on his face. Marlowe turned and said to the crowd contemptuously, 'What kind of men are you? Isn't anyone going to give the bloke a hand?'
An old man in a battered corduroy cap and greasy raincoat turned to him. 'You must be new around here. It doesn't pay to interfere with Blacky Monaghan.'
There was a street cleaner's cart standing nearby with a brush and spade inside it. Marlowe picked up the spade and moved down the alley towards the four men.
As he approached, Monaghan turned towards him, surprise on his face. 'What the hell do you want?' he demanded truculently.
Marlowe ignored him. He hefted the spade in his right hand and spoke to the two men who were holding the Jamaican. They were looking at the spade, complete unbelief on their faces, and he said calmly, 'If you two don't get to hell out of here I'll break your arms.'
He swung the spade once through the air. The two thugs jumped back, horror on their faces. They released the Jamaican and scrambled up on to the loading bay.
The Negro smiled, showing even white teeth. 'Thanks a lot, friend,' he said in a soft, Jamaican voice. 'I'll remember that.'
Monaghan stood with his back against the wall, mouthing obscenities. 'I'll catch you without that spade, bucko, one of