across the circle, ready to squash Willis like a bug.
He was, to indulge in complete understatement, somewhat surprised by what happened to him next.
Willis didn’t watch Gravel’s face or Gravel’s hands. He watched his feet, timing himself to rush forward when Gravel’s right foot was in a forward position. He did that suddenly and then dropped to his right knee and grabbed Gravel’s left ankle.
“Hey, what the hell—” Gravel started, but that was all he ever said. Willis pulled the ankle toward him and upward off theground. In the same instant, he shoved out at Gravel’s gut with the heel of his right hand. Gravel, seeing his opponent drop to his knees, feeling the fingers tight around his ankles, feeling the sharp thrust at his mid-section, didn’t know he was experiencing an ankle throw. He only knew that he was suddenly falling backward, and then he felt the wind rush out of him as his back collided with the concrete floor. He shook his head, bellowed, and jumped to his feet.
Willis was standing opposite him, grinning.
“Okay, smart guy,” Gravel said. “Okay, you smart little bastard,” and he rushed forward again.
Willis didn’t move a muscle. He stood balanced evenly, smiling, waiting, and then he struck suddenly.
He grabbed Gravel’s left arm at the elbow bend, cupping it with his right hand. Without hesitation, he snapped Gravel’s left arm upward and forced his left hand into Gravel’s armpit. His hand was opened flat, but the fingers were not spread. They lay close together, the thumb tucked under them, out of the way. Willis wheeled to the right, swinging Gravel’s arm over his left shoulder and forcing it downward by pressing on the elbow grip.
He bent forward suddenly, and Gravel’s feet left the ground, and then Willis gave a sharp jerk and Gravel found himself spinning upward in a shoulder overthrow, the concrete coming up to meet him.
Considerately, and because he didn’t want to break Gravel’s arm, Willis released his grip on the elbow before Gravel smashed into the concrete. Gravel shook his head, dazed. He tried to get up, and then he sat down again, still shaking his head. Across the circle, Hook Nose’s hand snaked toward the opening of his jacket.
“Hold it right there!” a voice said.
Willis turned. Randolph was holding a .45 in his fist, covering the others. “Thanks,” Willis said.
“Scoop up that eight hundred,” Randolph answered. “I don’t like crooked games.”
“Hey, that’s my dough!” Turtleneck shouted.
“It used to be ours,” Randolph replied.
Willis picked up the money and put it in his pocket.
“Come on,” Randolph said.
They started for the side door, Randolph backing away from the circle, still holding the .45. The skinny man who’d passed Willis in looked confused, but he didn’t say anything. Most men don’t when a .45 is in the picture. Willis and Randolph ran down the street.
Randolph pocketed the gun and hailed a cab on the corner. “You like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” Willis said.
Randolph extended his hand. “My name’s Skippy Randolph.”
Willis took it. “Mine’s Willy Harris.”
“Where’d you learn judo?” Randolph asked.
“In the Marines,” Willis said.
“It figured. I was in the corps, too.”
“No kidding?” Willis said, feigning surprise.
“Sixth Division,” Randolph said proudly.
“I was in the Third,” Willis said.
“Iwo?”
“Yes,” Willis said.
“I was in Iwo and Okinawa both. My company was attached with the Fifth when we hit Iwo.”
“That was a goddamn mess,” Willis said.
“You said it. Still, I had some good times with the corps. Caught a slug at Okinawa, though.”
“I was lucky,” Willis said. He looked around for wood to knock and then rapped his knuckles on his head.
“You think we’re far enough away from those creeps?” Randolph asked.
“I think so.”
“Any place here,” Randolph told the cabbie. The driver pulled up to the curb, and
He was, to indulge in complete understatement, somewhat surprised by what happened to him next.
Willis didn’t watch Gravel’s face or Gravel’s hands. He watched his feet, timing himself to rush forward when Gravel’s right foot was in a forward position. He did that suddenly and then dropped to his right knee and grabbed Gravel’s left ankle.
“Hey, what the hell—” Gravel started, but that was all he ever said. Willis pulled the ankle toward him and upward off theground. In the same instant, he shoved out at Gravel’s gut with the heel of his right hand. Gravel, seeing his opponent drop to his knees, feeling the fingers tight around his ankles, feeling the sharp thrust at his mid-section, didn’t know he was experiencing an ankle throw. He only knew that he was suddenly falling backward, and then he felt the wind rush out of him as his back collided with the concrete floor. He shook his head, bellowed, and jumped to his feet.
Willis was standing opposite him, grinning.
“Okay, smart guy,” Gravel said. “Okay, you smart little bastard,” and he rushed forward again.
Willis didn’t move a muscle. He stood balanced evenly, smiling, waiting, and then he struck suddenly.
He grabbed Gravel’s left arm at the elbow bend, cupping it with his right hand. Without hesitation, he snapped Gravel’s left arm upward and forced his left hand into Gravel’s armpit. His hand was opened flat, but the fingers were not spread. They lay close together, the thumb tucked under them, out of the way. Willis wheeled to the right, swinging Gravel’s arm over his left shoulder and forcing it downward by pressing on the elbow grip.
He bent forward suddenly, and Gravel’s feet left the ground, and then Willis gave a sharp jerk and Gravel found himself spinning upward in a shoulder overthrow, the concrete coming up to meet him.
Considerately, and because he didn’t want to break Gravel’s arm, Willis released his grip on the elbow before Gravel smashed into the concrete. Gravel shook his head, dazed. He tried to get up, and then he sat down again, still shaking his head. Across the circle, Hook Nose’s hand snaked toward the opening of his jacket.
“Hold it right there!” a voice said.
Willis turned. Randolph was holding a .45 in his fist, covering the others. “Thanks,” Willis said.
“Scoop up that eight hundred,” Randolph answered. “I don’t like crooked games.”
“Hey, that’s my dough!” Turtleneck shouted.
“It used to be ours,” Randolph replied.
Willis picked up the money and put it in his pocket.
“Come on,” Randolph said.
They started for the side door, Randolph backing away from the circle, still holding the .45. The skinny man who’d passed Willis in looked confused, but he didn’t say anything. Most men don’t when a .45 is in the picture. Willis and Randolph ran down the street.
Randolph pocketed the gun and hailed a cab on the corner. “You like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” Willis said.
Randolph extended his hand. “My name’s Skippy Randolph.”
Willis took it. “Mine’s Willy Harris.”
“Where’d you learn judo?” Randolph asked.
“In the Marines,” Willis said.
“It figured. I was in the corps, too.”
“No kidding?” Willis said, feigning surprise.
“Sixth Division,” Randolph said proudly.
“I was in the Third,” Willis said.
“Iwo?”
“Yes,” Willis said.
“I was in Iwo and Okinawa both. My company was attached with the Fifth when we hit Iwo.”
“That was a goddamn mess,” Willis said.
“You said it. Still, I had some good times with the corps. Caught a slug at Okinawa, though.”
“I was lucky,” Willis said. He looked around for wood to knock and then rapped his knuckles on his head.
“You think we’re far enough away from those creeps?” Randolph asked.
“I think so.”
“Any place here,” Randolph told the cabbie. The driver pulled up to the curb, and
Similar Books
