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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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shakes.
“I ain’t Nolan,” the guy said. “Where is Nolan?”
The guy’s suitcoat was open, and Jon looked in and saw that one of the reasons the suit was too big for the guy was that the guy didn’t want the bulge of the gun under his arm showing. It was a revolver—a long-barrel .38, like Nolan always carried—and it was in a brown leather shoulder holster that was hand-tooled, Western-style.
“Wake up, kid. I said, where’s Nolan?”
Jon hit tie guy in the nose. He hit the guy in the nose with his forehead. That was a trick Nolan had taught him. Nolan had said that one thing people don’t expect to get hit with is a head. Nolan had pointed out that your head—your forehead, anyway—is hard as hell, a great natural weapon, and it doesn’t hurt you much to use it as a bludgeon, and if you strike your opponent’s weak spots, like the bridge of the nose or one of the temples, you can mess him up bad before he knows what hit him.
The guy toppled backward, one hand clutching his nose, the other grabbing for the holstered gun. Jon was still only half awake, but he lurched at the guy and fumbled toward that holstered gun himself, still not entirely convinced he wasn’t dreaming all this.
The sleepiness beat him. Jon was still fumbling after the gun when he felt something cold and round and hard jam into his Adam’s apple. His hand was down in the empty holster before he realized the guy was jamming the gun barrel in his throat.
“Get offa me, you little fucker,” the guy said. “Get the fuck off!”
Jon got off.
“I got a fuckin’ nose bleed, thanks to you, you little cocksucker. Get me some fuckin’ Kleenex, for Christ’s sake.”
Jon was scared, but he knew enough not to let it show, thanks again to Nolan. He said, not without some difficulty as the gun barrel was still prodding his throat. “Try not to bleed on my carpet, will you? Try not to make a mess.”
The guy shoved Jon away and stepped back. “Fuck you, you little brat. Get me a Kleenex before I blow your fuckin’ balls off.”
“The Kleenex is in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll be following you, you fuckin’ little shit.”
Jon led the guy into the bathroom, withdrew some Kleenex from the box on the john and handed them over. The guy held them to his nose and, with an orgasmic sigh of pleasure, of relief, lowered his guard just enough to give Jon an opening, which he used to do two things in quick succession. First, he reached up and latched onto the shower curtain rod and brought the whole works down around the little guy. Second, he brought a knee up and smashed the guy in the balls.
That was something else Nolan had advised him to do. When you fight somebody, Nolan had said more than once, you can’t beat hitting ’em in the balls—assuming, of course, they aren’t women.
This guy was no woman. He was on the floor tangled up with the shower curtain and rod doing an agonized dance, screaming to beat the band. The gun was loose and mixed up in the curtain somewhere, and Jon found it and retreated to the stool, where he sat and waited for the guy to get over it. It took a while.
The guy’s nose was still bleeding, blood getting all over everything, the curtain, floor, the expensive blue suit. Jon tossed him some Kleenex, but the guy thought Jon was trying to be a smart-ass and grabbed for Jon’s leg. Jon kicked him in the head. Not hard. Just enough.
When he woke up, the guy put hand on forehead as if checking for a fever and said, “Jesus shit. What makes a fuckin’ little punk like you such a hard-ass, is what I wanna know?”
Jon shrugged, enjoying the tough-guy role to an extent, but not completely past being scared.
The guy sat up, rearranged himself, got the shower curtain pushed off to one side and said, “Look, kid. I didn’t come lookin’ for no fuckin’ trouble.”
And Jon laughed. “Oh, you didn’t come looking for trouble. Well, I didn’t understand that before. Could you explain one
“I ain’t Nolan,” the guy said. “Where is Nolan?”
The guy’s suitcoat was open, and Jon looked in and saw that one of the reasons the suit was too big for the guy was that the guy didn’t want the bulge of the gun under his arm showing. It was a revolver—a long-barrel .38, like Nolan always carried—and it was in a brown leather shoulder holster that was hand-tooled, Western-style.
“Wake up, kid. I said, where’s Nolan?”
Jon hit tie guy in the nose. He hit the guy in the nose with his forehead. That was a trick Nolan had taught him. Nolan had said that one thing people don’t expect to get hit with is a head. Nolan had pointed out that your head—your forehead, anyway—is hard as hell, a great natural weapon, and it doesn’t hurt you much to use it as a bludgeon, and if you strike your opponent’s weak spots, like the bridge of the nose or one of the temples, you can mess him up bad before he knows what hit him.
The guy toppled backward, one hand clutching his nose, the other grabbing for the holstered gun. Jon was still only half awake, but he lurched at the guy and fumbled toward that holstered gun himself, still not entirely convinced he wasn’t dreaming all this.
The sleepiness beat him. Jon was still fumbling after the gun when he felt something cold and round and hard jam into his Adam’s apple. His hand was down in the empty holster before he realized the guy was jamming the gun barrel in his throat.
“Get offa me, you little fucker,” the guy said. “Get the fuck off!”
Jon got off.
“I got a fuckin’ nose bleed, thanks to you, you little cocksucker. Get me some fuckin’ Kleenex, for Christ’s sake.”
Jon was scared, but he knew enough not to let it show, thanks again to Nolan. He said, not without some difficulty as the gun barrel was still prodding his throat. “Try not to bleed on my carpet, will you? Try not to make a mess.”
The guy shoved Jon away and stepped back. “Fuck you, you little brat. Get me a Kleenex before I blow your fuckin’ balls off.”
“The Kleenex is in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll be following you, you fuckin’ little shit.”
Jon led the guy into the bathroom, withdrew some Kleenex from the box on the john and handed them over. The guy held them to his nose and, with an orgasmic sigh of pleasure, of relief, lowered his guard just enough to give Jon an opening, which he used to do two things in quick succession. First, he reached up and latched onto the shower curtain rod and brought the whole works down around the little guy. Second, he brought a knee up and smashed the guy in the balls.
That was something else Nolan had advised him to do. When you fight somebody, Nolan had said more than once, you can’t beat hitting ’em in the balls—assuming, of course, they aren’t women.
This guy was no woman. He was on the floor tangled up with the shower curtain and rod doing an agonized dance, screaming to beat the band. The gun was loose and mixed up in the curtain somewhere, and Jon found it and retreated to the stool, where he sat and waited for the guy to get over it. It took a while.
The guy’s nose was still bleeding, blood getting all over everything, the curtain, floor, the expensive blue suit. Jon tossed him some Kleenex, but the guy thought Jon was trying to be a smart-ass and grabbed for Jon’s leg. Jon kicked him in the head. Not hard. Just enough.
When he woke up, the guy put hand on forehead as if checking for a fever and said, “Jesus shit. What makes a fuckin’ little punk like you such a hard-ass, is what I wanna know?”
Jon shrugged, enjoying the tough-guy role to an extent, but not completely past being scared.
The guy sat up, rearranged himself, got the shower curtain pushed off to one side and said, “Look, kid. I didn’t come lookin’ for no fuckin’ trouble.”
And Jon laughed. “Oh, you didn’t come looking for trouble. Well, I didn’t understand that before. Could you explain one
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