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Becker revived enough from my gentle tap to sneeze too.
Dorothy paused, throwing him a Medusa's stare, and he did go still. "Where's Jerome?"
"He's not right for you, Dot."
"And you are?"
"I'm a better man than him."
"I can almost see why you'd think that. But brass tacks—I get the final say, and that's what matters. I love him, not you. Now where is he?"
"Cooley, you tell her that I—"
"Leave me out of it!" Cooley snarled. "I told you to stay clear of her. You're an idiot, ask anyone." He sank to the floor, his back to some junk, and took a swig from his flask. He seemed content to watch but not interfere. That was a reasonable course to me. I remained standing, using my bat for a cane to keep me steady.
Dorothy leaned in close. "Becker. Look at me. Tell me where Jerome is, and we'll keep this between ourselves. Even Daddy won't know."
"I don't care if the boss finds out!"
If that was her trump card, she didn't seem disappointed by his reaction. "You should."
"He can do what he likes, I'm saving you from—"
She picked up his baseball bat and gave it an experimental swing.
Becker went white, but kept the stubborn face. "You wouldn't."
"If Daddy was here, probably not. He'd do it himself, and probably kill you before you talked. But this is your lucky night. I'm here instead."
"Aw, Dot," said Cooley, "you don't wa
"Yes, I do."
"You could really hurt him."
"Exactly." Her gaze never left Becker.
"I mean you could kill him. Accidental-like."
"If I kill him it will be entirely on purpose. But that won't happen. He'll wish he was dead, though."
She dropped the bat and began throwing folded tarps across Becker's tied-up body. He tried to roll around to get out from under, but their combined weight got to be too much. In a very short time he was nearly gone from view except for his head. Must have been hot, I thought, watching his face go red from either heat or rising fury.
"Dot…" he said. "You need to—"
"Where's Jerome?" she asked, picking up the bat and tapping the fat end against the cement floor.
When he didn't reply, she raised it high and brought it down hard across his tarp-insulated midsection.
Cooley yelled something, but it was drowned out by Becker's much louder, outraged bellow. Despite the thick layers of canvas he'd obviously felt the force of it. Never underestimate the determination of a woman being deprived of her honeymoon.
Dorothy took a few more swings, full power, then paused to sneeze. Each time she co
I didn't know what to say to that and stepped out of range as she wound up for another i
"Dorothy!"
We all froze—except for Becker, of course—as Mrs. Huffman stepped into the improvised arena. With her was Mrs. Schubert. Both ladies were wide of eye.
"What are you doing?" demanded the mother of the bride.
Dorothy lifted her chin, resting the bat on her shoulder. "He knows where Jerome is. I'm persuading him to cooperate." She gave a brief meant-to-be-reassuring nod at her shocked mother-in-law.
"Oh, Sylvia," said Mrs. Schubert.
"You're right, Gerty." Mrs. Huffman stepped forward. "This isn't the way to do it." She pulled a four-inch-thick layer of tarp from Becker and glanced at her daughter. "Too much padding, dear. He won't feel anything with that much in the way. Try it now."
"Sylvia! We're in church!" Mrs. Schubert pointed out.
"Just the basement. It doesn't count. If this was the sanctuary it would be completely different."
"Well, if you're sure…"
She put an arm around other woman's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. "Your Jerome is family now. We look after our own." Mrs. Huffman offered suggestions on where best to strike to get a faster result.
Dorothy slammed the bat down, clearly in a take-no-prisoners mood.
Cooley and I winced.
Becker howled. I didn't think he could get louder at it, but he managed. At one point he tried to babble to Mrs. Huffman that he was in love with Dorothy, but it cut no ice with her.
"Sweetheart," she addressed her daughter, who'd paused again. "Make him fall out of love with you."
Dorothy made that ominous back-of-the-throat sound and obliged, having gained her second wind.
Mrs. Huffman glanced at Cooley. "You will see to it that this fellow leaves town?"
"Yes, ma'am," he humbly replied.
"If there's anything left of him," I added.
I got a hard, haughty look from the lady. "Young man, he won't even show a bruise."
That set me wondering if she was the source of Big Louie Huffman's reputation for swift persuasion. Maybe behind every successful man stands a woman—holding a baseball bat.
Wham, thump, wham. I winced again, sympathetic, but not about to get in the middle of the proceedings.
It seemed to take longer, but a couple minutes later Becker cracked. His color had gone from white fear to red anger and finally bilious green as he blurted out where he'd hidden Jerome. Now I stepped in quick, threw off the tarps, and rolled him on his side. The pounding had a predictable effect on his digestive tract, and I didn't think it a good thing for him to choke to death in front of the ladies. They withdrew from the immediate area, hands over their noses, and went after Dorothy as she darted off to find her husband.
Moving more slowly, I followed the women back to the old table where I'd been dragged. There was a door in the shadows I'd not noticed earlier, distracted as I was by the skull-busting. Dorothy was trying to pry it open with a crowbar.
"Jack! I'm not strong enough—could you—?"
No problem. I didn't need the crowbar, but used it anyway. No point in impressing them by ripping the doorknob from the thick panel; I might have to pay for it. A minimum amount of elbow grease popped the door wide. Dorothy rushed in, crying Jerome's name, kneeling and covering him with kisses.
He was tied, gagged, and groggy, with blood down the front of his once-pristine white shirt—from a punch in the nose, it turned out.
And dammit, he did look like Ralph Bellamy.
Once free and able to catch his breath Schubert filled in the blanks while the women fussed over him.
At the cake-cutting Becker had threatened to ventilate him unless he came along quietly at gunpoint. Schubert was too surprised even to think to fight until they were in the hall broom closet. Becker had been itching to punch him for weeks. One smack in the kisser did the trick. That satisfaction taken, he'd forced Schubert to write the good-bye note, which he'd done with one hand holding the pencil, the other pressing the blue cravat to his bloody nose. For all that, he'd tried to put in a few clues that would make the note read wrong. Smart guy.
Then Becker coshed him solid and dragged the unconscious groom down to the basement. With Schubert safely stowed, Becker was free to resume goon duties for his boss until such time as he could return and permanently remove his rival. The bride's violent reaction and bringing in outside help must have been a shock.
Dorothy enthusiastically gave credit where it was due, and Schubert shook my hand. I don't think one word in ten was getting through to him, but he was willing to agree with his wife. If he continued doing that I figured they'd have a long and happy partnership.
As it seemed only right, I asked and was allowed to kiss the bride. My chaste peck on the cheek made her blush. Then the mothers stepped in and insisted everyone go back upstairs. They'd already decided to tell their guests the whole thing was an elaborate wedding prank that had gotten out of hand.