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He was grinning because he knew he had me cold, a wild-eyed maniac with bad skin and cartoon
eyebrows. I released my hold on his friend. They were moving slowly now, but only because I was
moving that much faster. His mouth dropped open in sluggish shock when I plucked the knife out of his
hand and snapped the blade and handle in two like a dry twig. By the time he started to recover, Adrian
grabbed both his shoulders and spun him around to pay his own respects.
The big one tried hitting me again. He was a solid piece of muscle and had had some sparring
experience. His punches were short and controlled but I wouldn't let him get close enough to connect.
This put him into a bad temper, but I wasn't feeling too kindly about things, either. I stepped into his right,
trapped his arm under my own, and much to his surprise wrestled him against a handy wall, thumping his
head for good measure. When we locked eyes I went in there as well, feeling righteous satisfaction when
his expression went blank.
"Fall on the floor and stay there," I told him, and stepped back out of the way. He landed hard, like a
tree trunk, without putting his arms out to cushion the impact.
Adrian was too busy to notice. I'd gotten peripheral glimpses of his fight, but nothing really clear. Now it
was obvious he had one hell of a temper and had just lost it. He held the man up by his loud necktie and
was systematically hitting his face and gut with hard, vicious punches. His teeth were bared in a parody of
a smile, and breath hissed between them each time he connected. He backed the man up to a wall, then
caught his throat and started squeezing to kill.
I had to step in then or end up with a pop-eyed corpse. Adrian ignored hearing his name, but I managed
to work his hands loose without breaking anything and pulled him away. The suit, considerably rumpled,
sank to the floor, too battered to even moan.
Adrian suddenly became aware of things and shook me off with a muted growl. He glared at the man,
puffing from the exertion, his lips peeled back wolflike, as if he'd welcome an excuse to start over again.
He glanced at me, his eyes bright. The barriers were down for a moment and I wasn't sure I liked what
they'd been hiding.
"Who are they?" I asked.
He checked both faces carefully, contemptuously. "Damned if I know. Probably more of Evan's friends."
"Dreyer again?"
"Perhaps."
I stooped and felt around for Cheap Suit's wallet. The Illinois license identified him as Francis Roller. He
was carrying nearly eight hundred dollars, which I showed to Adrian in passing. Adrian searched the
pockets of the other man.
"His name's Toumey. What's the matter with him? He looks like he's in a trance."
"Glass jaw," I said, and shoved Roller's wallet back in his pocket. He didn't look in any condition to
remember his own name, much less answer questions, so I left him and knelt over Toumey, tapping his
mug a few times for effect. "Hey, come out of it."
It worked faster than I expected. His eyes lost their fixed stare and got wider. He made an abortive
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attempt to get up, except I got a grip on one shoulder and leaned a knee into his stomach. My fingers
were very strong; he winced and tried to writhe away, but Adrian was on his other side and held him
down as well.
"Okay, Toumey, you tell us all about it," I instructed.
He went slack and staring again.
"Why did you come here?"
"Shake 'im up."
 Who?
"Robley."
"Why?"
"Owes money."
"Give me a name."
"Dimmy Wallace."
I looked at Adrian. He shook his head. "Who's Dimmy Wallace?"
"Shut up. Tourney." This from Roller, who was still flat on his back and trying to talk through battered
lips.
"He must be the brains of the outfit," I commented to Adrian. "Tourney, you stay right where you are
until I say otherwise, got it?" Tourney nodded, his eyes glazed. Adrian had begun to notice something
odd going on, but if necessary I could fix that, too. We switched to Roller. He was just starting to roll
over to get to his feet so we each slammed him flat again, and none too gently.
"Dimmy Wallace," said Adrian. "Talk."
He told Adrian to go somewhere and do something. I grabbed Roller's chin and forced him to look up at
me. "Think about it, Francis, it's two to one now and you're already bleeding on the canvas. You want I
should let my friend here finish the job he started on you?"
"Don't call me Francis," he muttered, but contact was established and he was under my influence for the
moment.
"Who's Wallace?"
"My boss, best in the city."
"What does he do?"
"Big man, does it all."
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"Gambling?"
"The works."
"A mob?"
"The biggest, the best there is."
"One can't fault him for his loyalty," Adrian remarked. "So Evan owes money to Dimmy Wallace, the
one mobster in Chicago who hasn't made the papers yet."
"To judge from his hired help, I doubt he ever will. My guess is these saps don't even know what Evan
looks like."
"You mean they mistook me for& ?" his lips thinned with disgust. "Nowthat is adding insult to injury.
What do we do with them?"
"Kick 'em down the stairs?" I suggested.
He considered it. "What about informing the police?"
It was a little surprising that he would want to drag them in, especially if he still had a cloud over him
because of his wife's death. To me, the cops meant charges, arrests, court appearances. Daytime stuff.
"Hardly seems worth the trouble," I said, hoping I wouldn't have to talk him into it.
"Perhaps you're right. Let's throw them out." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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