The Peddler by Richard S Prather Page A

like you want some trouble with me.”
    Alterie dropped his voice and said softly, with no pretense of humor, “You’re goddamn right, you sonofabitch. You keep your nose out of my business, or you’ll get more trouble than you ever heard of. I know what you’re working on, you bastard—”
    Tony waved a hand, smiling pleasantly. “Wait a minute, Frank. No sense us talkin’ like this. I don’t want no trouble with you.”

    “I didn’t figure you did.”
    “Hell, no, Frank. No reason we can’t get along.” Tony looked around the room, at the sober faces, then back at Alterie. “I … don’t like talkin’ about it in here, all these characters. Come on, let’s go out to the car. We can work this out, Frank.”
    There was a thin, contemptuous smile on Alterie’s Ups. Tony threw his arm around the other’s shoulders and steered him toward the hall and to the front door, saying, softly, “Hell, Frank, you don’t want to get so riled up. I’m a easy guy to get along with. I never even met you before and you start right in on me. Couldn’t you tell right off I didn’t want no trouble with you? A couple guys can talk, can’t they? Like sensible people? What got you so riled up anyway?”
    They reached the front door and stepped outside. Leo came out and shut the door behind them. Tony could feel the muscles in Alterie’s shoulder bunched and tight, and his head was turned to the right, looking at Tony’s face, his expression unsure and thoughtful.
    Tony said, “You shouldn’t talk the way you did, Frank. That gets nobody nowhere.” He stopped on the porch and tightened his grip on Alterie’s shoulder and arm, grinning into the other face inches from his own.
    Alterie frowned and started to pull away, but Tony squeezed him harder, his strong fingers biting into the other’s arm just beneath the shoulder. “Sure gets you nowhere, Frank,” he said pleasantly. Tony squeezed Alterie’s arm tight and jerked the other toward him as he swung his own body to the left and whipped his right fist into Alterie’s stomach. Alterie gasped and tried to lift his hand, held in Tony’s grip at the bicep, and Tony released him, then swung as hard as he could into the other’s stomach again. Alterie bent over, gasping and Tony planted his feet firmly and smashed his big right fist into the man’s face.
    Alterie staggered back against the wall of the house, arms down at his sides, and Tony stepped quickly toward him, reached under his coat and took out the gun that was there.
    He tossed the automatic to Leo, then turned back to Alterie. “You had no call to talk that way,” he said softly. He stepped toward Alterie just as Leo said sharply, “Watch it, watch the knife.”
    As Alterie lifted his hands he’d pulled from his back pocket a shiny, spring-blade knife. The six inches of steel snapped forward as Tony stopped suddenly, his eyes on the gleaming blade. Alterie held the knife down at his side, the point a few inches in front of his body weaving back and forth slowly like a snake’s head. Blood trickled from the corner of Alterie’s mouth; he crouched slightly, eyes on Tony’s face.
    When he moved, it was quick. He stepped a little to the side, then sprang forward, the keen blade ripping upward in a blurred arc toward Tony’s stomach. Tony held his ground, big hands splayed out in front of him, past the knife’s arc, above the man’s wrist. The wrists jarred into Tony’s hands as he felt the point of the knife flick at his coat and then felt the small, sharp pain over his stomach.
    He clamped his fingers down on Alterie’s wrist, felt his greater strength beginning to force the other man’s hand back and up. He strained his muscles, lifting that hand and knife, then drove his body forward and slammed the lighter man against the wall. He twisted the arm roughly and watched Alterie’s face contort with the pain, then he slowly slid his right hand down and closed it around Alterie’s fist, trapping