“Obviously, I should have done it before. Will you be around for a few days?”
“I've got to get back to New York,” Johnny began, and turned as a small, warm hand slipped into his. He looked down at Micheline Thompson's dark hair and the shadows beneath her luminous eyes. “Well, maybe for a few days,” he amended. “Till I get the stitches out.”
“How can I ever thank you, Johnny?” she asked quietly. “If you hadn't thrown that stone-”
“Ash tray,” he corrected her. He transferred from his own hand to hers the remaining half of Jack Riley's torn badge. “You can tell your grandchildren about it some day.”
He glanced once more about the room illuminated only by the single droplight at the gambling table. He looked at the canvas-covered roulette wheels, at the bodies on the floor, at the white-flaked bits of fluorescent tubing underfoot. He turned and caught Micheline Thompson's eye.
Arm-in-arm he walked with her out to the street.
Here's Killain, smooth as a ripsaw and gentle as a jackhammer, the happiest avalanche you'll ever meet, who spends his quiet moments riding herd on the hoods and hopheads, the hard guys and devilish dolls of New York's night side, just a knife's throw from Times Square.
Trouble's no stranger to Killain; when an out-of-town mob started making corpses in Johnny's room, he began to get annoyed.
Then the boys tagged him for the big fall, and there was only one thing to do-find the brain and shake his molars loose!
So Killain came to racket-ruled Jefferson, and the boys were there to welcome him-with clubs, knives, guns, and enough hired muscle to carry off Grant's Tomb.
When Killain kept coming, the boys turned mean.
They finally forced Killain to run… but they forgot to get out of his way!
