shifted my weight to a position of equilibrium, ready to move in any direction. “I need a gun,” I said.
He slid past me on quiet feet and leaned over the shaky banister to peer down the stairs to the next landing. “Why come to me?” he asked me over his shoulder. “They got guns for sale in stores.”
“I’m hot. A couple of years ago—” I paused, waiting for his mind to add one and one.
He straightened up and faced me. He was almost as tall as I was, and his shoulders were very good. I readjusted my weight in relation to his new position.
He said in a tone of gentle reminiscence: “You were saying: ‘A couple of years ago.’ ”
“You helped out a friend of mine.”
“Who is this friend of yours?” He stood back and watched my face impassively, with both hands in his pockets.
“He wouldn’t want his name used. You know that.”
“How did I help this friend of yours a couple of years ago that wouldn’t want his name used?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I helped a lot of people. I’m a very helpful guy.”
“You got him a Smith and Wesson revolver—”
The muscles moved in his right arm, all the way up to the shoulder and across to the pectoral. He said very quietly: “What did you say your name was?”
“Your memory is bad.” I was as tense as he was. “John Weather.”
The knife flew open as it came out of the pocket. My left hand was ready and caught his right wrist. My right arm put a lock on it. He twisted quickly and pulled hard, but not out of my grasp. He was hard to bend, but he bent slowly as I raised my hands locked over his wrist. Slowly his head went down. He sighed almost inaudibly and the knife fell free just before I tore his shoulder loose in its socket.
Suddenly I let go, stepped in close to him, and brought my right fist up from the knee. The point of his chin bruised my knuckles, his head went back and rapped on the wall. For a moment he stood there on weak knees, both hands outspread flat against the wall, his head sagging. A voice from the doorway stopped my left in the middle of the concluding punch:
“Don’t hit Joey again. It could spoil our party if you did.”
Garland stepped through the door and closed it behind him. His sensitive little mouth was quivering, but his right hand was in his coat pocket holding something solid and steady.
I took a step backwards so that I could watch both of them, and in the same movement I stooped and had the knife. “I’ll keep this. I make a collection of knives that try to cut me.” I pressed the catch and forced the four-inch blade back to its place in the handle, then dropped it in my pocket.
“You want me to call some of the fellows, Joey?” Garland said.
Sault was smoothing his hair, rubbing his jaw, massaging his dented personality. “We handle this hard boy ourselves. Tell him to give me back my knife.”
“Give him back his knife.”
“I wouldn’t want him to cut himself.”
He jerked his heavy pocket. “Give it back.”
“It’s for my collection,” I said. “My friend who sent me here wouldn’t like it if you shot me. And most wounds would give me time to throw you downstairs.”
“He thinks I couldn’t give him a head wound from the hip,” Garland said to Sault. He giggled like a mischievous little girl. “Tell him about me, Joey.”
“He’s fast,” Joey said sullenly. “And his name’s Weather, he says. We wouldn’t want to kill him here and spoil the party, like you said.”
“Sault doesn’t sound gay,” I said to Garland. I was getting tired of watching both of them, shifting my weightwith every heartbeat. “Maybe what he needs is for you to get him another reefer.”
“Say the word, Joey. It would be nice to shoot him.”
Sault’s face was working with thought. Finally he said: “Lay off him, Garland. Maybe we better take it to Kerch.”
“Who is Kerch?” I said.
“You don’t want to know,” Sault said. “You may think you do, but you don’t want to
He slid past me on quiet feet and leaned over the shaky banister to peer down the stairs to the next landing. “Why come to me?” he asked me over his shoulder. “They got guns for sale in stores.”
“I’m hot. A couple of years ago—” I paused, waiting for his mind to add one and one.
He straightened up and faced me. He was almost as tall as I was, and his shoulders were very good. I readjusted my weight in relation to his new position.
He said in a tone of gentle reminiscence: “You were saying: ‘A couple of years ago.’ ”
“You helped out a friend of mine.”
“Who is this friend of yours?” He stood back and watched my face impassively, with both hands in his pockets.
“He wouldn’t want his name used. You know that.”
“How did I help this friend of yours a couple of years ago that wouldn’t want his name used?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I helped a lot of people. I’m a very helpful guy.”
“You got him a Smith and Wesson revolver—”
The muscles moved in his right arm, all the way up to the shoulder and across to the pectoral. He said very quietly: “What did you say your name was?”
“Your memory is bad.” I was as tense as he was. “John Weather.”
The knife flew open as it came out of the pocket. My left hand was ready and caught his right wrist. My right arm put a lock on it. He twisted quickly and pulled hard, but not out of my grasp. He was hard to bend, but he bent slowly as I raised my hands locked over his wrist. Slowly his head went down. He sighed almost inaudibly and the knife fell free just before I tore his shoulder loose in its socket.
Suddenly I let go, stepped in close to him, and brought my right fist up from the knee. The point of his chin bruised my knuckles, his head went back and rapped on the wall. For a moment he stood there on weak knees, both hands outspread flat against the wall, his head sagging. A voice from the doorway stopped my left in the middle of the concluding punch:
“Don’t hit Joey again. It could spoil our party if you did.”
Garland stepped through the door and closed it behind him. His sensitive little mouth was quivering, but his right hand was in his coat pocket holding something solid and steady.
I took a step backwards so that I could watch both of them, and in the same movement I stooped and had the knife. “I’ll keep this. I make a collection of knives that try to cut me.” I pressed the catch and forced the four-inch blade back to its place in the handle, then dropped it in my pocket.
“You want me to call some of the fellows, Joey?” Garland said.
Sault was smoothing his hair, rubbing his jaw, massaging his dented personality. “We handle this hard boy ourselves. Tell him to give me back my knife.”
“Give him back his knife.”
“I wouldn’t want him to cut himself.”
He jerked his heavy pocket. “Give it back.”
“It’s for my collection,” I said. “My friend who sent me here wouldn’t like it if you shot me. And most wounds would give me time to throw you downstairs.”
“He thinks I couldn’t give him a head wound from the hip,” Garland said to Sault. He giggled like a mischievous little girl. “Tell him about me, Joey.”
“He’s fast,” Joey said sullenly. “And his name’s Weather, he says. We wouldn’t want to kill him here and spoil the party, like you said.”
“Sault doesn’t sound gay,” I said to Garland. I was getting tired of watching both of them, shifting my weightwith every heartbeat. “Maybe what he needs is for you to get him another reefer.”
“Say the word, Joey. It would be nice to shoot him.”
Sault’s face was working with thought. Finally he said: “Lay off him, Garland. Maybe we better take it to Kerch.”
“Who is Kerch?” I said.
“You don’t want to know,” Sault said. “You may think you do, but you don’t want to
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