“You should have left town this morning,” said Servi. “You don’t get two chances.” Servi went back through the door behind the bar.
“Hey, wait-” I yelled. “Let’s talk. I’ve-”
He was gone.
My best hope was that the quartet had not been told to kill me, just have a little fun and send me on my way in my underwear with an hour to get out of town. I could either take what they were planning for me or try to get out. With both doors covered, my chances for escape were less than that of Mamkos against Zale.
“O.K.,” I said, putting up my palms and chuckling. “You win. I’m going. Give me time to get my suitcase and I’ll be gone. A man should know when he’s beaten.”
At one level of consciousness, I told whatever gods may be that I would get out of town if I had the chance. At another level, I knew that if I got out of here I wasn’t leaving town. But there really wasn’t any issue or debate. The four horsemen weren’t having any.
“I travel light,” I said.
“You don’t travel anymore,” said Costello, stepping forward. “You get a long rest.”
Chaney started to move toward me from the left, a phantom in the shadows. The juke box man and the guy from the pillar just watched. They were back-up men and probably wouldn’t be needed against the likes of me.
“I’ve had too much rest recently,” I said, backing away. Costello was coming at me slowly. I said a few more things, but I don’t remember what they were. What I wanted was for Costello to keep coming forward while I backed away, to get him off balance and somehow get past him and make a run for the door behind the bar. There wasn’t much chance I’d make it, but no one had a better idea. I backed into a card table, babbled something, and put everything I had into a right to Costello’s face. He staggered with the punch, but didn’t give me room to get by on his right. Chaney was blocking the left. Costello’s face came into a patch of light. He was smiling in a way I did not like, and a thin line of blood trickled from his left nostril to his mouth. I pulled back for another swing, but Chaney caught me with an underhand right to my gut. I flew back, gasping for air, and bounced over the black-jack table behind me. The table went over, sending cards, ash trays, and an unfinished drink flying into the dark.
I was on my back when they reached me. Somebody pulled me to my knees. Somebody else got a good grip on my hair and held my head up. The next move would be a fist in my face. Nausea hit me first, and I tried to see if the leveling fist held a glint of metal.
The knock at the door was sharp and hard. It broke through shadows and split the smoke-filled shafts of light in the hidden corners of the room and my mind. The five of us froze, staring at the door. The knock came again, followed by a cheery English voice.
“Hello in there. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something rather important in there. Mind opening up for a moment?”
A thick palm smelling like garlic, urine, and tobacco covered my mouth.
“Come now,” said English. “I hear you in there and I simply must have what I left. It’s quite valuable. I’d dislike my alternative, but if I do not get in I’ll have to solicit the aid of the police.”
“Let him in,” croaked Costello.
The juke box man turned, slid the bolt and opened the door. English walked in, carrying his coat. He squinted into the darkness. When his eyes adjusted, he saw me.
“Ah, there you are. Heard the noise and thought you might be in some need of aid.”
I managed a
“Sorry,” English said to Costello. “I really can’t make out what he’s saying. Could you remove your hand from his face?”
“Get out of here,” grunted Costello. “And forget what you see. That’s good advice.”
English scratched his head.
“Sorry, again, but that just wouldn’t be possible.”
The juke box man had moved behind English and had his arms out waiting for the signal from Costello. I couldn’t warn him, but he didn’t need my warning. English’s left elbow shot back blind, catching the juke box just below the rib cage. While he bellowed in pain, English spun around, pulled the man’s glasses off and threw his coat over the guy in the sweaty white shirt. He punched at the covered head and the coat and man went down.
Costello let go of me and made a rush at English, while Chaney reached in his jacket. I caught Chaney around the knees, and he went down with me on top of him, aiming a fist in the general direction of his face. Costello moved low with his arms out like a wrestler. English met him straight up with his right hand out. He moved out of the path of the rush and grabbed for Costello’s hair, but there wasn’t any. Costello caught English in the stomach with his head, but English was backing away from the awkward turn and used the heavier man’s move forward to pull him off balance by grabbing his collar. Costello went sailing in a midair somersault and hit the tile floor with a thud that shook the room. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. My wind was back and I was still on top of Chaney, who was hitting me in the side and head with wide punches that must have been hell on his knuckles and were doing my head no good at all.
White Shirt had the coat off his head and was going for his holster. I saw him. English saw him too, but we weren’t close enough to do anything about it, and neither of us had a gun. A rush would bring a bullet through the top of one of our skulls. English pulled out his fountain pen. Maybe he knew it was the end and was going to write a quick will or down a small supply of Bourbon and branch water hidden in the pen’s bladder.
I was on my feet ready for a heroic rush at White Shirt, whose gun was just coming out, when-something popped in the Englishman’s fountain pen and a thin blast of what looked like steam and liquid hit White Shirt in the face. By the time I had taken two steps, White Shirt was choking in pain with his hands covering his face. I was near enough so some of the gas made me feel clammy and a little sick. Unable to see, White Shirt let loose with a couple of wild shots in our direction. One of them hit Costello, who was in a sitting position a dozen feet away. His right hand went to his shoulder and he yowled.
With his neat handkerchief over his mouth, the Englishman walked up to White Shirt and hit his gun hand with an open palm. The gun skidded across the floor and let out another protest shot on its own. The shot cracked the metal hide of a slot machine, sending it berserk.
“Think that’s about it, don’t you?” said English, putting his handkershief back in his pocket and picking up his coat. He seemed in no hurry, but I was. Somewhere in the dark, Chaney was probably on his hands and knees reaching for his gun.
We stepped over the juke box man’s groaning body, went through the two doors and into the night. I was sweating. The cold air hit me like dry ice. English pointed to a small foreign car right at the door, and I hurried in. My coat was on the seat.
When he had gotten in his side slowly and straightened his coat, he lit a cigarette, placed it in his pearl holder, and explained, “Only coat left. I assumed it must be yours.”
“It is,” I said, throwing a look at the door of the Fireside. Chaney staggered out into the cold, looked our way and lifted his gun. English glanced at him casually and pulled away, kicking up gravel as a bullet spat through the side window a foot from his head. He didn’t seem to notice. We were out of range when the second shot came.
“Now,” he said with a smile. “Where am I to take you?”
“LaSalle Hotel on LaSalle as fast as you can get there. I’d better check out and find someplace safer. Thanks for what you did back there.”
“My pleasure,” he grinned, raising an eyebrow.
“You were pretty cool.”
“Was I?” he said happily. “I was petrified. Never did anything like that before, but it doesn’t do to let the enemy know, and it was damned exhilarating, wasn’t it?”
The way back was through Cicero and the South Side of Chicago, with the sun just thinking about coming up. We sped past low wooden homes with early morning smoke coming from their brick chimneys and heavy-faced men with lunch pails waiting for streetcars. I watched and told English my tale of Hollywood, Capone, the Marx Brothers, and the Nitti acting society.
I said it had all been great fun and told him some of my other fun in the private detective business. We exchanged further tales. My tale was something out of Dime Detective. The story he told sounded like
He was the second of three brothers from a rich banking family. His father had been a member of Parliament
