“We got a problem,” I said as calmly s I could. “Nance is on his way with two cars.”
An S&W .38 appeared in Graves? fist. There was a lot of movement around us. The gun was a beauty,
a Model 19 with a four-inch barrel, Pachmar grip, the cocking spur shaved off. Not fancy, all pro.
“What the fuck?s goin? down here?” he hissed.
“That was our partner. One of our people spotted Nance and his bunch heading this way. Police cars
are coming. Just stay inside, keep your heads down. Let us handle it.”
“You ain?t goin? nowhere till this gets unwound, dog lover.”
An explosion ended the conversation. The front door erupted and yellow flames lashed up the
stairwell, followed by bits and pieces of wood and glass that seemed to float lazily in the updraft.
The place shook like an earthquake had hit us.
The Kid dove sideways, out of Graves? line of fire, and pulled me with him. Graves couldn?t have
cared less about us, though. He dashed toward the door.
Handguns started popping down on the street. Then a shotgun bellowed and somebody screamed.
The Kid turned a service table on its side, smacked a leg off with his elbow, grabbed it like a club, and
motioned me to follow him to a side door.
Another explosion. I looked back and saw a gaping hole in the side of the room. Light slashed through
smoke and fire, showing me several men with guns, heading toward the front stairs, fire be damned.
More gunfire. Another scream. Handguns were popping off all over the place. I could hear several
sirens shrieking out on the street.
Heavy artillery boomed behind the door lust as we got to it. The Kid kicked it open and came face to
face with one of Turk Nance?s goons. His Remington twelve-gauge had lust blown a hole through one
of Graves? men, who was tumbling down the stairs behind him. The Kid jumped back inside as the
hoodlum swung the shotgun up. Mufalatta pulled the door shut, and dragged me to my knees beside
him as the riot gun blew a six-inch plug out of the centre of the door. The Kid counted to three and
then slammed the door open again, right into the gunman?s face. The shotgun barrel slid through the
hole it had just made in the door. The Kid grabbed the barrel with one hand, pulled the door shut
again, and wrenched the weapon from the gunman?s hands. He reached through the hole, grabbed a
handful of the hoodlum?s shirt, pulled him against the shattered door, and slammed the butt end of the
table leg into his chest. The gangster fell away from the front door, gagging, and the Kid charged out,
swinging the table leg like Lou Gehrig, and almost took off the goon?s head. The gunman hit the stairs
halfway down, bounced once, and piled up in the doorway.
We followed him down the stairs. The shotgun was an 870P police riot gun loaded with pellets, an
awesome weapon. At the foot of the stairs we peered cautiously around the corner of the door. One of
