I'll Get You For This

  I worked my way to the end of the counter, cautiously peer round. The dance floor was deserted. I could make out the four members of the band sheltering under the piano. The nigger's face was grey; his eyes were closed; he held his drum sticks tightly clenched in his right hand. He was more expose than the other three, and he kept trying to wriggle further under cover, but they wouldn't let him.

  Two of the girls had overturned a table and were crouching behind it. I could see their silk clad legs, no more. Over the other side of the room, a man and girl sat against the wall. The girl looked terrified. The man was smoking. His red, mottled face was slack. He kept saying in a loud voice, "Aw, the hell with it."

  All the other men and girls had gone. They were probably hiding in the rooms at the back of the building.

  Desultory gunfire kept the night alive. Apart from the automatic rifle, there seemed no organized opposition from within.

"These lads are slow off the mark," I said to Hoskiss.

  "Well, we have lots of time," he returned, giving himself another drink. "Do you expect me to join in or something?"

  "Not just yet," I said. 'You better case off on the Scotch. When you do go into action, you'll need calm and courage."

  "I'm always calm," he returned, grinning, "and I'm stocking up in courage."

  I wanted to locate the automatic rifle. It kept banging off near by, but from where I lay, I couldn't see who was using it. I lay flat, wriggled further out, until my head and shoulders were clear of the protecting counter.

  "That's how guys won the Purple Heart," Hoskiss said to the red-head. "It's also a good way to qualify for a funeral."

  I looked around, spotted the sportsman with the rifle. He was kneeling against the front of the counter, and every so often he'd fire blindly at the shuttered windows. He was middle-aged, going bald. Thick glasses sat uneasily on his short fat nose.

  "How are you making out, bud?" I asked him. "Think you're hitting anyone?"

  He jumped round with a snarl of fright, swung the gun in my direction. I didn't wait, but pulled back so fast the red-head squealed with terror.

  "Someone say 'Boo!' to you?" Hoskiss asked, grinning.

  I sat up, wiped my face, shook my head.

  "There's a middle-aged sportsman out there on his own," I explained. "He's banging away without even sighting. Maybe I'd better go out and get things organized. This is no way to wage war."

  "Don't be so bloodthirsty," Hoskiss said, frowning. "Me and the girl friend find it exciting, don't we, Tutz?"

  The red-head said it was too exciting. The language in which she expressed this opinion startled us.

  "I can't imagine where you girls pick up such talk," Hoskiss said, pained. "When I was your age–—"

  The red-head told him to go boil his head, and she added a couple of other suggestions in case the first one didn't appeal to him.

  It was funny to see a tough guy like Hoskiss turn pink.

  Without warning a machine-gun began firing. Bullets smashed through the wooden shutters. A row of bottles above our heads flew into pieces. Liquor and glass showered down on us. The red-head was soused with gin. Whisky poured over Hoskiss's trouser ends. A piece of flying glass cut my cheek, but I kept dry.

  "She'll taste interesting now if you kiss her," I said to Hoskiss.

  "I can't stomach gin," he said, regarding the girl crossly. "Why couldn't it've been Scotch?"

  "Well, you can always chew your trousers. You might start a new craze."

  The red-head had collapsed into Hoskiss's arms, wailing with fright. He shoved her off.

  "I don't love you any more. You smell like hell."

  The sportsman with the automatic rifle began blazing away again. I peeped out.

  The nigger drummer rolled his eyes at me. The two pairs of silk clad legs behind the table were still as death. The red-faced man over the other side of the room was glaring angrily at the torn shutters. He suddenly got to his feet, lurched across the room. He was very drunk. As he reached the shutters, the machine-gun started up. He was swept backwards by the hail of bullets. Everyone in the room heard the slugs socking into his body. He landed up on his back, blood ran out of him on to the polished dance floor.

  "Real bullets," I said, wriggling back under cover. "They've just killed a drunk."

  "Shocking waste of good liquor," Hoskiss said, unmoved. He joined me at the end of the counter, looked at the dead man, shook his head. "I feel like letting off my gun now. Childish, isn't it?"

  The door to the dance hall suddenly pushed open and three men came in on their hands and knees. They all carried automatic rifles, all looked business-like.

"Shock troops," Hoskiss said, beaming. "Now something ought to happen."

  I pulled back as I spotted Don Speratza in the doorway. He didn't come into the room, but directed the men to take up positions by the window. He was careful not to expose himself more than necessary. I was glad to see him.