The Mugger by Ed McBain Page B

sighed.
    “Bet the two hundred,” Turtleneck said.
    “This is getting kind of steep, ain’t it?” Hook Nose asked.
    “If it’s too steep for you, go home to bed,” Randolph answered.
    “Who’s taking the two hundred?” Turtleneck asked.
    “I’ll take fifty of it,” Hook Nose said, sighing.
    “That leaves a C and a half,” Turtleneck said. “Am I covered?”
    “Here’s a century,” Willis said. He dropped a bill onto the blanket.
    “I’ll take the last fifty,” Randolph said, throwing his money down with Willis’s. “Roll, hotshot.”
    “These are big-timers,” a round-faced man standing on Willis’s right said. “Big gamblers.”
    Turtleneck rolled. The cubes bounced across the blanket. One die stopped, showing a deuce. The second die clicked against it and abruptly stopped with a five face up.
    “Seven,” Turtleneck said, smiling.
    “He’s hot,” Round Face said.
    “Too damn hot,” Hook Nose mumbled.
    “Bet,” Gravel put in.
    “Bet the four hundred.”
    “Come on,” Hook Nose said. “You trying to drive us home?”
    Willis looked across the circle. Hook Nose was carrying a gun, its outline plainly etched against his jacket. And, if he was not mistaken, both Turtleneck and Gravel were heeled, too.
    “I’ll take two bills of it,” Willis said.
    “Anybody covering the other two?” Turtleneck asked.
    “You got to cool off sometime,” Randolph said. “You got a bet.” He dropped two hundred onto the blanket.
    “Roll’em,” Willis said. “Shake ‘em first.”
    “Papa’s shoes got holes, dice,” Turtleneck said, and he rolled an eleven.
    “Man, I’m hot tonight. Bet it all,” he said. “Am I covered?”
    “Slow down a little, cousin,” Willis said suddenly.
    “I’m betting the eight,” Turtleneck answered.
    “Let’s see the ivories,” Willis said.
    “What!”
    “I said let me see the cubes. They act talented.”
    “The talent’s in the fist, friend,” Turtleneck said. “You covering me or not?”
    “Not until I see the dice.”
    “Then you ain’t covering me,” Turtleneck answered dryly. “Who’s betting?”
    “Show him the dice,” Randolph said. Willis watched him. The ex-Marine had lost two bills on that last roll. Willis had intimated that the dice were crooked, and now Randolph wanted to see for himself.
    “These dice are straight,” Turtleneck said.
    Gravel stared at Willis peculiarly. “They’re Honest Johns, stranger,” he put in. “We run a square game.”
    “They act drunk,” Willis said. “Prove it to me.”
    “You don’t like the game, you can cut out,” Hook Nose said.
    “I’ve dropped half a G since I walked in,” Willis snapped. “I practically own those dice. Do I get a look or don’t I?”
    “You bring this guy in, Fats?” Gravel asked.
    “Yeah,” Donner said. He was beginning to sweat.
    “Where’d you dig him up?”
    “We met in a bar,” Willis said, automatically clearing Donner. “I told him I was looking for action. I didn’t expect educated dice.”
    “We told you the dice are square,” Gravel said.
    “Then give me a look.”
    “You can study them when they’re passed to you,” Turtleneck said. “It’s still my roll.”
    “Nobody rolls till I see them dice,” Willis snapped.
    “For a small man, you talk a big game,” Gravel said.
    “Try me,” Willis said softly.
    Gravel looked him over, apparently trying to determine whether or not Willis was heeled. Deciding that he wasn’t, he said, “Get out of here, you scrawny punk. I’d snap you in two.”
    “Try me, you big tub!” Willis shouted.
    Gravel stared hotly at Willis for an instant and then made the same mistake countless men before him had made. There was, you see, no way of telling from Willis’s appearance what his training had been. There was no way of knowing that he was expert in the ways of judo or that he could practically break your back by snapping his fingers. Gravel simply assumed he was a scrawny punk, and he rushed