smack with a paper bag.
I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real
punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and
knees, coughed, shook his head.
“Tough guy,” I sneered.
He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees
in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into
chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I’d been
through that stuff at school. I twisted him around and heaved him a
little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and
turned my right hip-bone into him.
I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of
both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went
blue in the face.
I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth,
put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.
He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face
the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It
must have been the toughest two minutes he’d ever experienced.
Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a
soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.
I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.
“Come on, Dillinger,” I said, “let’s see Bradley, and don’t give me
any more of that gangster spiel; you can’t live up to it.”
He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief
to his nose. He didn’t look back, but I could see by the set of his
shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I’d keep an eye
on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the
next time we met.
He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went
in.
I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room.
There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-
and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a
small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual
high-padded leather chair behind it.
Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He
had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and
his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey,
unfriendly.
I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him
twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot
since last I saw him.
“Hello, Harmas,” he said, then caught sight of Frankie. His face
set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled at Frankie.
“You’re bleeding over my goddamned carpet.”
“My fault,” I said, taking out my cigarettes, selecting one. “Your
boy made me nervous. I thought he was a tough egg. We fooled
around together just to see how strong we were. It turned out he
wasn’t strong at all.”
Frankie’s lips twitched. He said three words; one of them
obscene. His voice was not loud, but it was bitter.
Bradley took a step forward, snapped, “Get the hell out of here,”
to Frankie, who went.
I lit my cigarette, hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat
down.
“You’d better watch that boy,” I said. “He’s in need of a mother’s
care.”
“Never mind him,” Bradley said, frost in his eyes. “It’s you I want
to talk about.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I like talking about myself. Where shall we
begin? Would you like to hear how I snitched the scripture prize when
I was a little lad?”
Bradley leaned forward. “Frankie may not be tough,” he said, “but
I am. You’d better not forget it.”
“That’s scared me right through to my jaegers,” I said. “May I go in
a corner and cry?”
“I’ve warned you,” Bradley said, sitting at his desk. “You’re getting
too inquisitive, my friend. I sent for you because I thought a little chat
off the record might clear the air, I advise you not to pass this on to
your friend Corridan. It wouldn’t be healthy.”
“You needn’t worry about Corridan,” I said. “He and I aren’t pals
any more. What’s biting you?”
He took a cigar from a silver box on his desk, pierced it, lit it,
threw the match away, puffed it once or twice before he spoke again.
He took his time. He didn’t rattle me. I was in no hurry myself.
I don’t like American newspaper men who are inquisitive,” he
said. “They annoy me.”
“Are you suggesting I should relay that item of news to the U.S.
Press Association?” I kidded him. “I doubt if they’d lose much sleep,
but, of course, they might. You never know.”
“You’re sticking your nose into something that has nothing to do
with you,” Bradley went on smoothly. “I suggest you stop it.”
“No harm in making suggestions,” I returned lightly. “What exactly
do you mean by that sinister ‘something’?”
“We needn’t go into that,” Bradley said, a cold, angry gleam in his
eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m serious about this. I’d advise you to
return to your own country. There’s a plane leaving to-morrow. It
wouldn’t be a bad idea if you were on it.”
I shook my head. “I have a lot of work to do in this country,” I said.
“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you. Is that all you wanted to see me about?”
He studied his cigar for a moment, said, “I’m warning you,
Harmas. If you don’t keep your nose out of this, you’re going to be
taught a sharp lesson. I know what you newspaper men are like. You
get keen on a story and you need a lot of persuasion to give it up. I
have all the necessary persuasion but I’m not anxious to use it. I
thought if I gave you the hint, you’d be a smart fellow and mind your
own business in the future.”
I stubbed out my cigarette in the copper ash-tray on his desk,
