Page 30 of Dodge

In fact, the answer was that fists were simply more satisfying than guns, knives ... and, if she were being honest, handcuffs and Miranda warnings.

In this particular instance it was because she intended to beat Cynthia Hooper’s killer to death. In the motel she would have been content to shoot him. Now she had the chance to make him feel what her friend had.

Her fists balled, her center of gravity low, she swayed back and forth, ready to meet an attack.

Offenbach was calm—eerily calm. He slipped into a martial arts stance. A real one, not like Rudy’s weird mock-up. Marlowe had never had the patience to learn any such skills. The training took forever and sparring was, for her, more like dancing. To be a boxer, you did jump rope and calisthenics and punching bags; you ran. Then you got in the ring and you hit and hit and hit.

Coming in fast, keeping his fists centered and head down, he drove her back with a series of carefully aimed blows. She blocked most, though took a stinging connect in the chest. Breastbone at least, not solar plexus. But he didn’t withdraw fast enough and she landed an uppercut on his chin.

His head snapped back and he barked a faint cry and his eyes instantly teared. A hand went to his mouth.

Maybe martial artssenseisdon’t teach one of the first rules in street fighting: keep your tongue from between your teeth.

Offenbach’s face returned to calm and he spat blood.

Her serene eyes matched his. Hatred abounded in both quarters but there was not a breath of distracting anger between them.

They collided once, twice, three times, forearms deflecting forearms, some blows landing. He was strong and had speed behind his lunges.

Unlike Lumberjack Rudy, he didn’t try to grab her shirt. His choice probably was not a playing-fair issue. She guessed he believed that trying the maneuver would tie up one of his hands for the grip, which meant losing a defense barrier, exposing his face to a chain of vicious, lightning-strike blows.

His aim was good—and he nailed her chin once—but she knew how to roll to trick the energy, and the blow did little damage.

Boxing was about learning, and she was seeing that he had a limited number of punches in his repertoire. Marlowe soon memorized them all and lined up several defensive responses.

Again and again she danced in, deflected or took a sloppy blow and delivered her signature triplet left-right-left, which had earned her hundreds of points and a number of knockouts. Some of these were technical, some were wholesale unconsciousness—no more satisfying moment exists in the world of prizefighting.

More blood eased from his mouth. More moisture from eyes and nose. His breath came in gasps as he grew winded. She had stepped back often, making him charge her, which used far more effort. For the first time in the battle his eyes were uncertain.

He eased back, gathered himself and spit more blood on the floor. He held up a hand.

Ignoring it, she charged in fast and landed a solid right on his chin once more.

He glared angrily.

Did he really think she’d give him a moment’s rest?

This was not a refereed match.

No rules, except for the guns.

He began, flailing, to force her back. Fine with Marlowe. She avoided his fists and watched his energy evaporate.

“You know I’m a very rich man.” The words were spaced out by hard inhaling and exhaling. “How’d you like to be a rich woman?”

Constant Marlowe rarely said a single word during a fight. And never listened to any, except those like “Enough” and “You win.”

As he paused, waiting perhaps for a response, she struck like a hungry rattlesnake: leaping in low and when he lifted his left to block the blow, he realized too late it was a feint as she drove her left fist into his jaw hard. Spit and blood flew.

The slug would have resulted in a bad bruise—had he survived the fight. Which Marlowe was determined he would not.

A flash of fury in his eyes. Then, snap, calm was back.

They pummeled some.

They backed away, they circled.

They attacked.

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