I'll Get You For This

  Green gaberdine trousers came into the room. I threw myself sideways, but I was too late.

  Something that felt like the Empire State Building descended on my head.

6

I opened my eyes. Bat grinned at me. "Hullo, bub," he said. "How you feel?" I fingered a tender lump on the back of my head, grimaced. "Lousy," I said. He nodded, looked pleased. "I guessed it," he said. "But it ain't nothing to what's coming to you."

  I grunted, and looked around the room. It was fair sized, windowless and contained a bed on which I was lying, and a chair on which Bat was sitting. High up in the ceiling was a naked electric light bulb. The room wasn't clean.

  "How long have I been out?" I asked.

  Bat grinned again. "Three-four hours," he said, leaning back in his chair. He seemed to regard the whole business as the best joke in the world. "You ain't so tough," he added as an afterthought. His short, greasy hair was matted with blood where I had hit him, but he didn't seem to worry about it.

"Where's Brodey?" I asked.

  "Him? They put him somewhere. That guy's nuts. He don't know what's good for him," Bat returned, fishing out a package of cigarettes and lighting one. He tossed the package and a box of matches to me. "Have a smoke, bub, you ain't got so long to live."

  I lit a cigarette. "What's cooking?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "They'll be along to see you when they're through with Brodey," he told me. "You'll know soon enough."

  I wondered what had become of Jed Davis. I hoped he'd ducked out in time.

  "Well, well," I said, trying to blow a smoke ring. It didn't come off. "I'm not curious. I'll wait."

  He grinned some more. "Don't start anything smart," he said. "I'm as fast with a rod as you are—faster."

  I laughed at him. "You've kept it quiet then," I said.

  A tiny spark of rage burnt in his pig eyes. "Whatja mean?" he demanded, leaning forward.

  "Bat Thompson doesn't mean anything to me," I said. But Chester Cain means plenty to you. Work it out for yourself."

  "Yeah?" he said, his face a dusty red. "Listen, I could take you any time with a rod, see?" That's what you say."

  "Watch, punk," he said, getting to his feet.

  He crouched. There was a blur of white as his hand moved; a .38 sprang into sight. It was a fast, smooth draw. It surprised me.

  "How's that?" he asked, twiddling the gun around on his thick finger.

  "Do that standing in front of me when I'm heeled, and you'd be a dead pigeon," I said.

  "You're a liar," he said, putting the gun away, but there was a look of doubt in his eyes.

  "All right, I'm a liar, but I can beat you to the draw easy. I'll tell you why. You waste time. You don't co-ordinate your movements."

  "Don't what?" His eyes opened a trifle.

  "You're all wrong. Show me again."

  He stared at me, his curiosity battling with his rage. Then he set himself, the gun jumped into his hand. It was fast and smooth. I knew I'd have to be extra good to beat him.

  "Yeah," I said, "the holster's in the wrong position. I thought that was the trouble. It's too high. You want to sling it lower. You waste time catching at the butt. When you get the rod out you have to lower the barrel before you fire. See ? Wastes time."

  "Got it all worked out, ain't you?" he said, staring at the gun. I could see he was impressed. He put the gun back into the holster, adjusted the strap to bring the gun in a slightly lower position. "That right?" he asked.

  "I'd make it lower," I said, "but then you're not as tall as I am."

  He hesitated, then let the strap out another knotch. The way he had it now was the way I wanted him to have it if I could lay my hands on a gun. The holster was now loose enough to go with the gun when he pulled it, and that'd mean a time lag before he could free the gun.

  "Yeah," he said, looking at the way the gun was hanging. "That's okay." He grinned at me. "You ain't so smart, are you, bub?"

  "What the hell?" I said, shrugging. "I still got confidence. I don't murder guys. I give 'em a chance."

  He stared at me. "You ain't murdering me," he said, showing his teeth. "I know I'm good."

  "To me you're just a tough egg from Detroit, but not tough enough to stay in Detroit."

  He was sliding across the room, his great fist set to belt me, when the door opened and Killeano and Flaggerty came in.

  Bat paused, dropped his hand to his side.

  "Hi. boss," he said to Killeano.

Killeano ignored him. He stood at the foot of the bed, looked at me.

"Hullo," I said, stubbing out my cigarette.

Flaggerty stood by the door. His face was set.

"Where's the Wonderly girl?" Killeano snapped.

"How do I know?" I said. "Think I carry her around in my pocket?"

"You'd better talk, Cain," he said. "We want that girl, and we're going to get her."

  "You don't expect me to help, do you?" I said, lighting another cigarette. "I wouldn't tell you if I knew. We parted company last night after I'd given her enough dough to get out of town."

  "She hasn't left town," Killeano said, stroking the bedrail with his small white hands. "There wasn't time before we closed the roads."