A Slap in the Night

A Bob Russel short story and opening chapter to FALLING HARD, 1947 Tampa, 3160 words.

The night air has a way of amplifying noises, and the sharp sound of a slapped face hit my ears as loud as a pistol shot. Following that all-too-familiar sound of an open hand against skin, came a painful cry, female. That made my feet stop and my ears seek the source.

The sound came from an alley next to a car, from a dark place shaded from the streetlights, and I turned to walk back. The unmistakable sound of a woman weeping came from the shadows and I looked hard to see what was going on.

I had been walking home after playing too much eight ball at Charlie's Bar on a Friday night. The time was plenty late, because I had closed the place and walked Charlie to the bank's night depository to drop tonight's receipts.

In the dark alley off 8^th Avenue a man stood with his left arm resting on the brick wall. His pale hat covered his head and hid his face. Against the wall stood a woman in a polka dot dress, her hands against her face as if hiding. I'd seen men and women before in similar poses, but tonight's looked a lot less romantic.

“Don't make me do that again, baby.” He spoke in a low voice, meant only for her ears as his right hand rose.

“I don't want to.” Her voice shook with sobs and she hunched her head down, as if to present a smaller target.

I stepped closer to the two, keeping my weight on my toes and staying as silent as a shadow.

His right hand grabbed her chin to tilt her face up to him. I saw his fingers sink into the flesh on her jaw. “You know that you want it. Stop being a tease.”

“No.” She struggled to pull her face out of his grasp, and I could hear tears in her words.

The man released her chin and delivered another slap to her face, the sound breaking the quiet like the crack of a whip. “Don't play coy with me.” He raised his hand. “You know what I want.”

Before she could start crying again, I stepped into the situation and grabbed his right shoulder. With a flex of my right arm, I spun him around to slam him into the wall, then backhanded his face with my right hand. He was bigger than me by a few inches and I don't know how many pounds. I had the advantage of surprise and wanted to make the most of it.

“Didn't anybody tell you to not pick on girls?” I took a fistful of his shirt and shoved him against the wall.

His hat rose off his head as the brim pressed into the brick wall, and his surprise registered as wide eyes.

I grabbed his jaw with my right hand, much the same way as he had grabbed the woman's. I squeezed hard and shook his head. “Didn't your dad teach you about not hitting women?” My father had taught me.

The woman covered her face with her hands and cried, her sobs muffled behind her fingers.

“You got what, maybe eighty pounds and ten inches on her, big guy. Yeah, you're a real hero.” I was ready to pound this guy into pulp for what he did, and my fingers clamped down harder on his jaw. “What's it like to take on somebody more your size, punk?”

His right hand dove into a pants pocket to emerge with a folding knife, not yet opened.

I slapped the knife out of his grip with my left hand, then swung him around to throw him against the opposite wall of the alley. His back thudded against the wall and his knees buckled. I liked that, because only punks would strike a woman, and most punks needed roughing up for breaking the rules. They forget too easily.

He got to his feet a lot sooner than I anticipated and threw a right jab at my jaw. I moved back, but not soon enough to dodge his fist. My head lurched to the right.

I let him have it with a left to his solar plexus. I followed it with a right to his gut, just above the belt, and I watched him sink to the ground, his back to the brick wall. His hat tumbled off his head to roll down the alley.

I grabbed his jaw and squeezed tight, making his skin ball up between my fingers. “You don't hit women. Never.” I shook his head and tilted his face upward to look him in the eye. He was still conscious, but woozy after taking those punches to the gut. His eyelids fluttered, and I shook his head to keep him awake. “If I ever see you treating another woman wrong, I'll beat you into next week, understand?”

His eyes focused on my face. “Who the hell are you?”

“Bob Russel.” I bounced his head against the wall, surprised that he was still defiant after I had knocked the wind out of him. “I'm not kidding about not hitting women. It's wrong. Got it?”

“Go to hell.” He didn't seem to get the lesson.

I brought my right knee up and smashed it into his face, feeling the satisfying snap of his nose breaking. As he slumped to the ground, I grabbed his collar and hauled him up. I had to use both hands to pull him to his feet. “Can't take on somebody your own size?” I slammed him into the wall. “A little different when the odds are evened, isn't it?”

Between the late hour and the beating, the man was fading. I shook him to wake him up. “If I ever catch you hitting a girl, I'll kill you with my bare hands.” I shook him hard. “Got it?”

I waited for a sign of acknowledgment, his eyes meeting mine, then released my grip to let him fall to the ground.

The woman had sunk to her haunches, still crying, squatting in place against the wall in the alley. I squatted next to her and handed her my handkerchief. She took it and dabbed at her eyes.

“Where do you live?” I asked. “I'll walk you home.”

She wiped her cheeks and cast a sideways glance at me. “Tampa Heights.”

“That's not too far. You up to the walk?” I kept my voice quiet and level.

She nodded and wiped her face with the balled-up handkerchief. Her eye makeup had run rivulets down her cheeks, and she worked the handkerchief to daub it away. Her sobs had faded to shaky breathing, and she pulled herself together.

I stood and took her arm to help her up. “Let's get you home.” I nodded at the other man, passed out in the alley. “He won't bother you any more.”

She rose to her feet, wobbling only twice as I guided her out of the alley and into the pale glow of the streetlight. She was an average looking woman, somebody most people wouldn't give a second glance, maybe four inches shorter than me, and the polka dots in her dress must have been red against a white background. In the dim light of the streetlamps it was hard to tell.

I held a grip on her arm to keep her steady on her feet. “Let's go. Time to walk you home and away from this guy.”
She nodded, and I led the way to the south, away from Ybor City and toward Tampa Heights. The buses had long quit running for the night, and my car sat parked a long way off in the wrong direction. After what she had gone through, I doubted that she was up for a ride with a stranger.

This was my first rescue of a damsel in distress in a long time, and I felt a bit awkward about what to do next. I wanted to make sure that she got home all right, and that the creep who had been slapping her wouldn't lay a hand on her again. He was done for the night, but I didn't know about tomorrow. He could be her next door neighbor or her husband for all I knew.

“Who was that guy?” I guided her up over the curbstone as we crossed the street. The left side of her face still shined red from the slapping, no swelling or bruise that I could see. The guy hadn't done any real damage yet. My jaw felt hot where he had hit me, and I ran my fingers over the spot. Maybe I'd have a bruise, nothing serious.

“My boyfriend.” She shook her head and glanced over her shoulder. “But not any more.”

“I can understand why.” I pulled out my deck of Luckies and offered it. She took one and we stopped while I took one for myself and lit my Zippo.

“Is he the kind that's going to give you any trouble tomorrow?” I snapped my lighter shut and pocketed it.

“I don't think so.” She blew a plume of smoke upward and resumed walking. “We only met a few days ago, and he doesn't know where I live.” She tucked the handkerchief into her purse.

“Good for you.” I kept pace with her. “I was afraid that if he was your husband, that he'd pick up tomorrow where he left off tonight.”

She looked me up and down as if she were wondering where I came from. “Why'd you stop and help?”

“I heard him slap you, and that was wrong.” I looked her in the eye. “I couldn't walk by like nothing was happening.”

“Are you a policeman?” She didn't give me a suspicious look or step away, so I figured she was the law abiding type.

“Used to be.” I shrugged. “I guess it still shows.”

“Not by your looks.” She shook her head. “But the part about stopping and helping. You must have been a boy scout, too.”

I smiled. “Nope. Just raised right.” I resumed walking. “One of Dad's rules was that you don't hit girls.”

“That's why I thought you were a policeman.” She kept up with me. “You acted like some kind of enforcer.”

I noticed that she wasn't wearing high heels. “Like I said: I couldn't just walk away like nothing was happening.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at me. Her face had that interesting combination of round cheeks and a pointed chin. “I never thought I'd need rescuing.” She took a last drag on her cigarette and tossed it in the gutter.

“Just doing the right thing.” I shrugged.

“I appreciate it.” She looked me up and down again, maybe trying to figure how trustworthy I was. After all, it was the middle of the night, a time when most solid citizens were tucked away in bed.

I stopped at the corner, even though the light said we could go and there was no traffic. We stood at the corner of Florida Avenue and Seventh. I pointed to the left, down Florida Avenue and southward. “Tampa Heights is this way, maybe another mile or two. How are your feet doing?”

“They're OK.” Despite her smile, fatigue showed in her face as droopy eyes.

“You let me know if I'm walking too fast.” I field stripped my Lucky Strike, letting the last loose tobacco flakes fall, then balled up the scrap of cigarette paper.

“You're a veteran.” She watched my hands. “Army, I bet. Every guy I knew who was in the Army does that with their cigarettes.”

“Guilty.” I turned left to head south and waved at her to follow. “What do the Navy guys do with their butts?” I smiled, kidding around.

“I don't know. I don't think I know any Navy vets.” She caught up with me, and I kept my pace slow and steady.

“I think the Marines just swallow their spent butts. They don't know any better.” I grinned.

“Hey, my dead husband was a Marine.” Her eyebrows came down.

I stopped and turned to her. “I'm sorry.” I shook my head. Smooth move, Russel. You really know how to make a widow feel good. “That was a dumb thing to say. I knew too many guys who didn't make it back.” I felt like a first class heel.

She took a moment to study my face. “What did you do in the war?”

“I was a dogface, infantry. Spent my time in Europe. I guess your husband was in the Pacific.” I felt awful about letting my mouth get me in trouble again.

“He made it all the way to Saipan.”

“I'm so sorry about shooting my mouth off.” I shook my head.

“It's all right.” She touched my arm. “You didn't know.” She started walking again. “Some of your friends didn't make it back, either.”

She was right. About half the guys from my old platoon lay buried somewhere near Omaha Beach in Normandy. Even some of those who did make it back didn't always last long. My late partner Tony is in a plot with a nice view in the Italian Cemetery.

I caught up with her. She didn't look angry, just tired and hurt. After what she had gone through at the hands of her boyfriend, I sure as hell didn't want to add to her troubles.

“You sure you weren't a boy scout?” She must have been dog-tired and beat, but she kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other. My old platoon sergeant would have been proud of her effort.

“I've been a lot of things, but I wasn't a scout.” I pushed my hat up. “When I was a kid, I was more interested in baseball than camping and tying knots.”

She tipped her face up to me. “What position did you play?”

“Third base.” I put my hands in my pockets.

She narrowed her eyes as if she were sizing up a poker game and looked me up and down again. “I bet you're left handed.”

I chuckled. “What makes you think that?”

“Makes it a lot easier to cover third.” She nodded. “You can throw the ball to the second baseman a lot quicker for a double play when you're left handed.” She eyed me like she was waiting for my answer.

“You got me.” I pulled my hands from my pockets and held them up. “I'm a southpaw.” I couldn't help but smile.

“I thought so.” She smiled back.

“So you're a baseball fan,” I said. “I'm impressed.” We continued plodding our way south. I kept a watch on the side streets from the corner of my eye as we stayed under the streetlights. Florida Avenue looked deserted.

“My dad taught me. He never missed a game on the radio.”

“Both of you must be big Tampa Smoker fans.” I put my hands back in my pockets. We were both feeling relaxed, holding the pace as we walked and gabbed. I hadn't encountered many woman baseball fans, and this was a pleasant surprise.

“The only games Dad and I didn't catch on the radio were the ones we saw in the park.” She stopped to squat and hold her left hand out front like a catcher. “You know Al Lopez?”

“The name rings a bell.” I stopped to look at her. Her eyes had come alive as she remembered something.

“You keep your eye on him, mister. He's the best catcher I've ever seen. He'll be playing the big leagues soon.” She looked up at me to make sure I got the message.

I extended a hand to help her up. “Al Lopez, catcher. I'll keep an eye out.”

“He's going to make the big time, just you wait and see.” She nodded, then continued walking next to me as we made our way south into Tampa Heights.

“I thought I was the baseball fan. You put me to shame.” I shook my head. I did the best I could to follow the Smokers in the newspaper and radio, but I also had jobs to do.

“You never saw a girl who liked baseball?”

“Not like you.” I looked at her. “Most of the big sports fans I know are guys.”

She grinned at me. “Surprised you?”

“Yes, you did.” I nodded.

She looked ahead to the next intersection and pointed. “It's a left turn up there. My apartment building is a couple of blocks from the corner.”

“Got it,” I said as I eyed the intersection.

She picked up the pace, no big surprise when home is almost in sight.

“How are your feet holding up?” I asked.

“I'm doing OK, and it's not much further. We're almost there.” She squared her shoulders.

We turned left at the intersection, and she led the way the next two blocks to her apartment building, a red brick structure with a wide staircase leading to the main entry. A light burned on the porch, illuminating the double doors.

“This is it,” she said. “My apartment.” She looked at the building and nodded, then rummaged through her purse for her keys.

I tipped my hat to her. “Glad to see you home safe and sound.”

She pulled out a keyring and stopped moving. “What's your name? I'm, Marla.” She eyed my face waiting for an answer.

I smiled and extended my right right hand. “Russel. Bob Russel.”

She took my hand and shook it. “Thank you for walking me home.” She picked through her keys to find the one she wanted. “I don't know what I'd have done without your help, Tom.”

“I'm Bob, not Tom.”

Her face reddened.

I dug through my jacket pocket for a business card and handed it to her. “This'll help you remember.”

She studied the card, then looked me in the eye. “Bob. I'm sorry for getting your name wrong.”

“It's not that important.” I shrugged.

“Private investigator.” She glanced at the card.

“It's my job, what I do.” I shrugged again.

She jammed my card in her purse, then extended her arms to encircle me in a hug. “Thanks, Bob. Thank you for rescuing me.”

I patted her back. “It's what I do. I can't help it.”

She looked up at me. “I thought I was a goner.”

“You're home now.” I pointed at the entry doors to her apartment building. “Get yourself some sleep.”

Her right hand rose touch my cheek, the bruised spot where her boyfriend had hit me. “Thank you.”

I waved at her. “Good night.”

She inserted her key and opened the door. “Good night, and thank you for your help.”