Castaways in Time by Adams Robert

She shook her head. “Just go home, Harley, please. What we had is over and .. . and I have—”

At that moment, her father called, “Who is it, honey? What do they want?”

Harley took a half-step back and lunged. Krystal barely had time to get out of the way of the wood splinters and brass screws as the chain was ripped from the jamb and the door crashed open.

Harley stalked into the room, snarling, “You gawdam sheenie bitch, you! Couldn’t wait till I was gone, ‘fore you was slidin’ your slimy, fuckin’ cooze onta a cock old enough to be your friggin’ father. Well, IH just fix his fuckin’ apples, and ‘fore I’m done with the two of you, tonight, you gone need a fuckin’ doctor … or a friggin’ undertaker!”

Recognizing the clear signs of his killer rage, Krystal grasped his arm, placing herself between him and his intended prey. “Harley, Harley, this is my father! Harley, listen to me! This is my father”

Mr. Kent had stood up. Frowning disapproval, he took the telephone from atop a sealed crate. “Krystal, the young man is obviously drunk. Don’t try to argue with him. Tell him to leave. If he won’t, call the police. That’s the only way to handle people in his condition.”

He held the set out. Harley grabbed it, ripped the cord from the wall, and heaved everything through the window above the air conditioner. Followed by a shower of glass and pieces of sash frame, the telephone fell three stories to narrowly miss an open convertible parked in front of the building, and the indignant shouts of the five young men occupying it could be clearly heard through the shattered window.

In his day, Joseph Kent had been a fair boxer, and though his YMHA boxing days were twenty-five years behind him, he still had no fear of the bigger, younger man. Tucking his double chin, he advanced in a weaving crouch, fists cocked and ready.

“No!” screamed Krystal, frantically. “No, he’ll kin your Harley dealt Krystal a leisurely, backhand cuff that sent her reeling and stumbling, her mouth suddenly flooded with blood from a split lip. Then he turned his attention to her father.

“Cmon, you broadhoppin’ old cocksucker. Tm gonna tear your fuckin’ head off and jam it up your fuckin’ ass!”

But Harley’s first roundhouse swing entirely missed its target and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. While he was doing so, Joseph Kent—five-five, paunchy, and balding—danced in and drove one fist into the big man’s belly, bringing a wheezing grunt, followed with a hard jab just below the heart.

But before the little man could retreat out of range, Harley had him. Gripping both of Joseph Kent’s meaty biceps, he slammed his knee up into the older man’s crotch, then threw the helpless, agonized man at Krystal and moved after them, screaming, “GAWDAM NO-GOOD HEBES! YOU KILLED JESUS AND GAWDAM IF I AINT GONNA KILL YOU!”

It all had happened in a split second, just as long as it took for Esther Kent to cast about for a weapon . . . and find one. Harley was not even aware that a third person was in the apartment until, as he neared the kitchenette, a saucepan of boiling water was thrown into his face.

Harley Fist screamed in agony. As he staggered about, blindly, Esther dragged both her husband and daughter into the narrow kitchenette and slammed the door, wedging one end of the ironing board under the knob and the other against the baseboard, then taking her place in defense of her battered, bleeding family with a bone-handled carving knife.

A reflexive blink had saved Harley’s eyes, but the killer had other problems. The three topmost buttons of his shirt were unfastened and a brace of the eggs had found their way under the shirt to sear his upper abdomen. Instinctively slapping one big hand to the place that hurt, he managed to mash one of the eggs, causing the runny, boiling-hot food to spread the pain over a wider area of sensitive belly skin.

Roaring and stamping with the pain, Harley shredded off his shirt, using the rags of it to wipe the sticky, burning mess from his hairy epidermis. Then he threw himself against the kitchen door. It groaned mightily, but held. Harley screamed again, but this time in frustration. He crashed his bony knuckles into a panel, once, twice. The wood splintered, and he thrust his bare arm through the opening, feeling down-ward for the lock.

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