"Your whole country only produces that much in a year. Say about thirty million dollars? So come down out of your clouds, Wilson, and talk business with the peasants."
"Well bless my soul and body! A blinking gold expert! Where did you get your figures, Yank?"
Nick noted Wilson's interest with satisfaction. The man was no fool, he believed in listening and learning although he pretended to be impetuous.
"When I'm in a business I like to know all about it," Nick said. "You're small beer when it comes to gold, Wilson. South Africa alone produces fifty-five times as much per year as Rhodesia does. Figuring at thirty-five dollars a fine troy ounce the world produces about two billion dollars worth annually, I'd say."
"You're way high," Wilson disagreed.
"No, the official figures are low. They don't figure in the U. S. S.R., big China, North Korea, Eastern Europe — and the amounts that are stolen or not reported."
Wilson studied Nick in silence. Gus could not hold his tongue. He spoiled it by saying, "You see, Alan? Andy really knows his way around. He has operated..."
One mittlike hand silenced him with a stop gesture. "How long have you known Grant?"
"Uh? Well — not long. But in our business we learn..."
"You learn how to pick old ladies' pocketbooks. Shut up. Grant — tell me about your channels to India, How solid? What arrangements..."
Nick interrupted him. "Ill tell you nothing, Wilson. I just decided you're not in line with my policies."
"What policies?"
"I don't do business with loudmouths, show-offs, bullies, or Mercs. I prefer a black gentleman to a white shitheel any day. C'mon, Gus — now we're leaving."
Wilson stood up slowly to his full height He looked gigantic, as if a display maker had taken a fine linen suit and stuffed it with muscles — size 52. Nick didn't like that When they moved quickly after a needle or their faces flushed you could figure their minds were getting out of control. Wilson moved deliberately, his wrath glowing primarily from his hot eyes and in the dour rigidity of his mouth. "You're a big man. Grant," he said softly.
"Not piled as high as you."
"Sense of humor. Too bad you're not bigger — and with some stomach. I like a bit of exercise."
Nick grinned and appeared to stretch comfortably in his chair while actually getting a foot well under himself. "Don't let that stop you. Do they call you Windy Wilson?"
The big man must have pressed a button with his foot — his hands had been in sight all along. A wiry man — tall but not broad — put his head into the big office. "Yes, Mr. Wilson?"
"Come in and close the door, Maurice. After I throw out this big monkey you make sure Boyd leaves — one way or another."
Maurice leaned against a wall. From the corner of an eye Nick noted that he folded his arms as if he didn't expect to be called on soon. A sports spectator. Wilson came around the big desk, moving smoothly, and reached for Nick's forearm with a swift grab. The arm departed — with Nick as he leaped sideways out of the leather armchair and twisted under Wilson's groping hands. Nick bounded past Maurice to the far wall. He said, "Gus — come over here."
Boyd proved he could move. He skipped across the room so fast Wilson halted in surprise.
Nick pushed the younger man into a niche between two ceiling-height bookcases and shoved Wilhelmina into his hand, snicking off the safety with a flick of a finger. "She's ready to bark. Be careful."
He saw Maurice produce a small automatic, holding it pointed at the floor, looking doubtful but watchful. Wilson stood in the center of the office — a colossus in linen, "No shooting, Yank. You'll hang if you pop anyone in this country."
Nick took four steps away from Gus. "That'll be up to you, bucko. What's Maurice holding — a squirt gun?"
"No shooting, boys " Wilson repeated, and leaped at Nick.
There was plenty of room. Nick back-pedaled and sidestepped, watched Wilson follow him efficiently and in balance, and then tapped the big man on the nose with a lightning left that was strictly experimental.
The left jab he got back was fast, accurate, and if he hadn't slipped it would have shaken his teeth. It scraped skin off his left ear as he hooked another left to the big man's ribs and danced away. His fist felt as if he had pounded it on a leather vaulting horse, but he thought he saw Wilson wince. He did see the big man's right start — then the punch was pulled as the other decided to keep his balance and keep coming. Wilson had been around. Nick circled backwards, said, "Queensberry Rules?"
"Sure, Yank. Unless you cheat. Better not. I know all the games."
Wilson proved it by switching over to boxing, jabbing and looping lefts, some bouncing off Nick's arms and fists, others pulled as Nick countered or blocked. They circled like fighting cocks. The lefts that did get through brought grimaces to Gus Boyd's astonished face. Maurice' brown features were expressionless, but his left hand — the one not holding the gun — clenched in empathy with every blow that landed.
Nick thought he had his chance when a left came low, bounced off his armpit. He put steam from his right heel into a hard right counter aimed perfectly for the giant's jaw point — and lost his balance as Wilson fell into him, inside, taking the right on the side of his head. Lefts and rights pounded into Nick's ribs like mule kicks. He didn't dare go back and he couldn't get his arms inside to shield himself from the brutal punches. He clinched, wrestled, twisted, and turned, pushing into his opponent until he tied up those punishing arms. He got leverage, pushed, broke away fast.
He knew he had done wrong before his left landed. His excellent vision caught the right in clear sight as it crossed over the outgoing punch and came at his face like a ram. He pulled the left and tried to fade but the fist was far faster than the retreat of his face. He went backward, caught his heel in the carpet, got another foot under himself, and hit the bookcase with a crash that shook the room. He went down in a welter of broken shelves and falling books. Even as he rolled over and bounced forward and up in a wrestler's recovery, volumes were still thumping onto the floor.
Now! Nick commanded his aching arms. He went forward, got a long left in near the eyes, took a short right to the ribs, and felt jubilation as his own half-hooked right surprised Wilson as it skidded up his shoulder and smashed solidly into his cheek. Wilson couldn't get his right foot out in time to catch himself. He tilted sideways like a bombed statue, took one stumbling step, and crashed down on a table between two windows. The table's legs broke, a big squat vase of gorgeous flowers flew ten feet and shattered against the big desk. Magazines, ashtrays, and a tray and water carafe clattered under the big man's thrashing body.
He rolled, got his hands under him, and bobbed up.
Then the fight started.
Chapter Three
If you've never seen two good big men slug it out, "fighting fairly," you hold a lot of misconceptions about fistfighting. The staged mockeries on TV fool you. Those unguarded-against blows would break a man's jaw — but in real scraps they rarely land. TV fights are sucker-punch ballets.
The old bareknuckle boys would go fifty rounds, fight for four hours, because you learn first to take care of yourself. It becomes automatic. And if you can survive for a few minutes, your opponent is shaken up and you're both swinging a shade wild. It becomes a case of two battering rams bearing each other down. The unofficial record is held by unknowns, an English and an American sailor who fought in a Chinese cafe in St. Johns, Newfoundland, for seven hours. No time out. A draw.