face.
Then I heard Sombrero coming pounding down the stairs. I snatched up Goatskin's knife and backed away as Sombrero rounded the bend of the stairs and came onto the landing.
His pal was still making mewing noises. Sombrero paused to gape at him, then he saw me.
I showed him the knife.
"Come on, black boy," I said. "I bet I'm better with a sticker than you."
It is never wise to challenge a punk floating high on heroin. He came at me like a charging bull. His knife stabbed at me, but I was already on the move. My Army combat training had taught me all the tricks of knife fighting. His knife missed me by inches and slammed into the concrete wall. The blade snapped off. Dropping the knife I was holding, I hit him with all my weight behind the punch to the side of his jaw. He went down and out like a blown candle-flame.
Goatskin was beginning to show signs of life. I went over to him and kicked him very hard on the side of his head. He stopped making mewing noises and gave a reasonable impersonation of a dead duck.
I picked up his knife, got into the elevator and rode up to the 6th floor. I entered my apartment and bolted the door.
Their awful smell hung in the room and I went over to the window and threw it open.
I stood there, breathing in the hot, clean humid air. I couldn't let those two thugs get away. I had to call the police but I hesitated, remembering I was on a job and wanted to be in Searle early tomorrow morning. I knew I would be held up by police questions and making a charge, but it had to be done.
As I was turning away from the open window, I paused.
A black car had just pulled up outside my apartment highrise. A man slid out. As he passed under the street lamp, I saw it was the huge black who had spoken to me when I was leaving Hank Smith's villa.
There was no mistaking the vast shoulders, the small head and the black clothes.
I turned and ran into my bedroom, snatched open my closet door, found my .38 police special, checked to see it was loaded, then ran back into the living-room and to the window.
The car was still there, but there was no sign of the gorilla. Was he coming up to my apartment? Was he working with those two thugs?
As I watched, I sweated, knowing I could call the cops, but still hesitating. The gun in my hand gave me a lot of confidence. Without the gun, I would already be yelling for patrol car.
Then I saw him, coming out onto the street. He was dragging the two thugs, one by his arm, the other by his hand. He tossed them into the back seat of his car as if they had been kittens, then he slid into the car arid took off.
I walked a little unsteadily to the liquor-cabinet poured Scotch into a glass and drank it, then I sat down abruptly. I had never been so scared in my life and it took some five minutes for the shock to wear off. With an unsteady hand I a cigarette, smoked it, got to my feet, then walked into my bedroom. I opened the window, letting out the foul smell then returned to the living-room and checked to see if any of my things were missing or had been disturbed. Nothing was missing: nothing disturbed. I went into the now ventilated bedroom and checked: nothing missing; nothing disturbed.
That set my nerves jumping.
I would have been much more relaxed to have found that these two thugs were junkies in search of something to sell, but it was unpleasantly clear to me that they had come either A to cut me up or even to kill me.
My nerves began now to jump like Mexican beans.
But why?
Was it because I had talked to Hank Smith? I couldn't think of any reason. The gorilla had been waiting to scare me. While he waited, he could have got my address from the licence-tag on my car. As I didn't scare, he could have a telephoned these two thugs to wait at my apartment and fix me.
Sitting on my bed, I thought back on what Hank Smith had told me: that Mitch Jackson was a drug-pusher. Then I thought of Hank Smith. Was he in danger? I thought of his fat, disapproving wife and
Then I heard Sombrero coming pounding down the stairs. I snatched up Goatskin's knife and backed away as Sombrero rounded the bend of the stairs and came onto the landing.
His pal was still making mewing noises. Sombrero paused to gape at him, then he saw me.
I showed him the knife.
"Come on, black boy," I said. "I bet I'm better with a sticker than you."
It is never wise to challenge a punk floating high on heroin. He came at me like a charging bull. His knife stabbed at me, but I was already on the move. My Army combat training had taught me all the tricks of knife fighting. His knife missed me by inches and slammed into the concrete wall. The blade snapped off. Dropping the knife I was holding, I hit him with all my weight behind the punch to the side of his jaw. He went down and out like a blown candle-flame.
Goatskin was beginning to show signs of life. I went over to him and kicked him very hard on the side of his head. He stopped making mewing noises and gave a reasonable impersonation of a dead duck.
I picked up his knife, got into the elevator and rode up to the 6th floor. I entered my apartment and bolted the door.
Their awful smell hung in the room and I went over to the window and threw it open.
I stood there, breathing in the hot, clean humid air. I couldn't let those two thugs get away. I had to call the police but I hesitated, remembering I was on a job and wanted to be in Searle early tomorrow morning. I knew I would be held up by police questions and making a charge, but it had to be done.
As I was turning away from the open window, I paused.
A black car had just pulled up outside my apartment highrise. A man slid out. As he passed under the street lamp, I saw it was the huge black who had spoken to me when I was leaving Hank Smith's villa.
There was no mistaking the vast shoulders, the small head and the black clothes.
I turned and ran into my bedroom, snatched open my closet door, found my .38 police special, checked to see it was loaded, then ran back into the living-room and to the window.
The car was still there, but there was no sign of the gorilla. Was he coming up to my apartment? Was he working with those two thugs?
As I watched, I sweated, knowing I could call the cops, but still hesitating. The gun in my hand gave me a lot of confidence. Without the gun, I would already be yelling for patrol car.
Then I saw him, coming out onto the street. He was dragging the two thugs, one by his arm, the other by his hand. He tossed them into the back seat of his car as if they had been kittens, then he slid into the car arid took off.
I walked a little unsteadily to the liquor-cabinet poured Scotch into a glass and drank it, then I sat down abruptly. I had never been so scared in my life and it took some five minutes for the shock to wear off. With an unsteady hand I a cigarette, smoked it, got to my feet, then walked into my bedroom. I opened the window, letting out the foul smell then returned to the living-room and checked to see if any of my things were missing or had been disturbed. Nothing was missing: nothing disturbed. I went into the now ventilated bedroom and checked: nothing missing; nothing disturbed.
That set my nerves jumping.
I would have been much more relaxed to have found that these two thugs were junkies in search of something to sell, but it was unpleasantly clear to me that they had come either A to cut me up or even to kill me.
My nerves began now to jump like Mexican beans.
But why?
Was it because I had talked to Hank Smith? I couldn't think of any reason. The gorilla had been waiting to scare me. While he waited, he could have got my address from the licence-tag on my car. As I didn't scare, he could have a telephoned these two thugs to wait at my apartment and fix me.
Sitting on my bed, I thought back on what Hank Smith had told me: that Mitch Jackson was a drug-pusher. Then I thought of Hank Smith. Was he in danger? I thought of his fat, disapproving wife and
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