Mathematically a triangle is a useful form. Domestically it is abhorrent and can be eliminated by the squeezing of a trigger.

Death walked with the three through the scattered but thick patches of scrub oak and manzanita; the sun would soon set in the hills that surrounded San Jose Valley, ending a particularly hot summer day.

The feast-or-famine vegetation was typical of the California coast ranges. The clothes of the two men and one woman were typical hunting outfits. The dominant thoughts were atypical: one would die.

They seemed two of a kind, Frank Morriss and Jim Thomason. Two — but only one Pat. She’d married Frank.

At the mouth of a small valley, Frank halted. Nervously, he gulped from a canteen. “We’ll find some up there.” He lifted his chin in gesture at the head of the dry stream.

Pat and Jim followed his line of sight, up the steep hill. Dense brush thirstily sought what little moisture remained close to the ground surface.

“What do you think?” Frank asked.

“Your party, Frank. You always were better at hunting than I,” Jim Thomason said, with a quick, side-wise glance at Pat.

Frank, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve, grinned. “Yeah, but that was when I was in condition—”

“When we both were in condition.” Jim patted a very slight bulge at his waistline. “Fifteen years is a long time ago, measured against hunting men.”

“But today you’re hunting deer, remember?” Pat asked impatiently. “And they won’t bring up any 88’s or SS reserves.” She softened then. “The hearth grows cold, men, and despite your talk, the wheelchair isn’t waiting. Believe me, 34 is not ancient.”

“I’m 35 today!” Frank objected. “Have you forgotten so soon?” Pat hadn’t, of course; the new Winchester Special in his hands was a reminder.

“She was complimenting you, dope!” Jim said. “Anyway, this practical female wants us to shoot the deer instead of waiting for them to die of old age. What is your Estimate of the Situation, Sergeant Morriss?”

The tall man smiled appreciation at the old standard joke. It had begun on a snowy night in France when Jim, a new replacement scared green on his first patrol, had asked the tough, experienced sergeant the question. Jim didn’t know the sergeant’s experience was all of two months and that Morriss was equally scared. His reply — “The Situation calls for us to run like hell!” — drew the men together afterwards, when they could laugh about it.

“If we go around the hill on either side, swing down and take ’em from behind, they’ll move in this direction,” Frank said, “Pat, hold the spot. We’ll flush ’em, and they’ll come right at you. Just shoot the males, though— What’s wrong? Why the strange look?”

“I can shoot only one more male,” she said levelly, “The game warden—”

“All right, all right! Shoot only one more, then.” Frank turned to Jim, who was mopping his brow. “The troops are falling apart! What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. Too much sun, maybe.”

“When didn’t you have this reaction, Jim? Always scared before and after — but I’d have no one else beside me during a fight. Forget the flip-flops in your stomach, and take the west side. I’ll go east.”

“Like Hannibal at Cannae!” Jim was suddenly enthusiastic. “Double envelopment; you always were a good tactician—”

“And you always did read too much,” Pat interjected dryly. “We haven’t an awful lot of time left.”

Frank nodded. “True, we haven’t much time left at all. Let’s move out.”

The “Organization” had it’s big eye on Johnny Quill. Johnny knew he had to make this kill by the rule book... but he hadn’t counted on the woman.

Three hours out of New York International Airport, Johnny Quill rose from his seat to learn which of his fellow passengers he had to kill.

He walked down the aisle of the Viscount, carrying his shaving kit in his left rand. The empty space below his armpit made him itchy and nervous; he’d hated to leave his gun behind when he went through customs.

But he’d have to get used to the emptiness; this would be his last job.

At the spigot, he drew a cup of water and looked back through the cabin. The passengers seemed half-alive, sunk in midflight lethargy. In the nearest seat, a fat man in a flowered shirt cleaned his camera lens with a camel-hair brush. Johnny wondered, was he the man the Organization had sentenced to death? Or was it the black-haired girl with the purple eyelids, whose fingers made typing motions while she slept? Or one of sixty others...?

Johnny tightened his jaw and drew another cup of water. If he looked long enough, he’d begin to think of them as people. He had to think of them as machines, one of which he’d be assigned to turn off. It had helped before...

He crushed the cup in his bony fist and pushed open the door of the lavatory. It was empty; his contact hadn’t yet arrived.

Plugging in his electric shaver, he stooped to the mirror and began shaving his lean face. His light blond beard was not yet visible, but the shaver’s hum would cover the sound of conversation.

He wondered if he looked like the businessman he’d claimed to be in his passport. The gray suit was conservative enough; the maroon tie sufficiently bland. The white scars bunched along his jaw could have been trophies of college football; the thin nose could have been broken in a gentlemanly brawl. Yes, he’d pass...

The door opened and a bald, sticky man squeezed in. He looked like he’d just boarded a rush hour subway. His cheap suit was rumpled, his tie twisted.

“Quill?” he asked.

Johnny nodded, wrinkling his nose at the odor of sweat which had filled the cubicle. “Make it short, huh?”

The stocky man scowled at Johnny’s image. “I oughta see some identification.”

“You saw the signal. I don’t drink two cups of water because I like the stuff.”

The man’s scowl dissolved into a thick smile. “You must be Quill. They said you were a big, independent bastard.” He sobered abruptly. “Okay. She’s in the second seat from the rear, left side. Dark blonde, wearing a brown wool suit and a white blouse.”

Johnny’s hand tightened on the shaver. He’d never had to kill a woman before. “What did she do?”

“I’ll get to that, Quill. She’s only half the package. Her husband is the other half.”

“Oh?” The back of his neck prickled. This was beginning to sound like a nasty one. “Isn’t he sitting with her?”

“He’s sitting in hell for all we know. He pulled out of our operation in Montana three years ago. We’ve been watching the woman ever since, waiting for him to get in touch. Last week she bought a ticket to Trinidad.”

Johnny turned. “Trinidad’s a jump-off. He could be in Central or South America.”

“I doubt it. She can’t go far past Trinidad without making contact. He cleaned out their bank account when he left, and she sold her old car to buy the ticket.”

“Considerate husband. Is he dangerous?”

“To the organization he’s poison. Knows too many names. To you...” The stocky man shrugged. “He hasn’t played in your league. Spent all his time on the gambling end. Started in Montana, was working in Havana when that caved in on us. They moved him back to Montana and he finally joined the bottle a day club. About the time we decided he wasn’t a good risk, he disappeared.”

“What about his wife? Didn’t he have enough sense to keep her out of it?”

“Until he left, yeah. But he must’ve got a message to her telling her where he is, and he might’ve told her some other things. I think you’d better hit her, too.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “I don’t give a damn what you think. What’re the orders?”

The stocky man scowled. “Just make sure she isn’t dangerous.”

Wonderful, thought Johnny. Ten more years and they’ll let me wipe my own nose. How do you make sure of someone unless they’re dead? “They have names, these two?”

“Howard and Norma McLain. But they’d probably change them. Here’s a photo.”

Johnny took the two-by-three studio portrait. The man had curly black hair and big moist eyes. Lush-type, thought Johnny, the kind who marries a woman because he wants a mother.

The woman took his breath for a second. Her pale eyes jumped from the photo and pierced him with sharp intelligence. The forward set of her jaw told Johnny she probably wore the pants in the family; the smooth, wide slope of her shoulders hinted that she’d fill them beautifully.

What a waste, he thought. What a helluva waste.

He shredded the photo and flushed it into the Atlantic. “You say you watched her for three years?”

“I helped.”

“She have a lot of friends?”

“Hell! She never even smiled at the butcher.”

Thoughtfully, Johnny unplugged his razor and returned it to the shaving kit. The job might be slightly interesting, after all. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I get off in Burmuda and you’ll be the only one watching her. Don’t lean on her. If she gets scared, she won’t make contact.”

“Don’t be elementary.” He zipped up the shaving kit. “You better go now, before they start thinking we’re a pair of queens.”

The stocky man started out, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh. Cantino’s your contact in Trinidad. He’ll send a man to help you.”

Johnny frowned. “Everybody knows I work alone. What’s Cantino in for?”

“Orders.” The man’s thick smile appeared again as he backed out the door. “Somebody up there doesn’t trust you, Quill.”

The door closed, and a chill climbed Johnny’s spine. He thought of the money he’d been stuffing into the bank in Zurich for nearly two years. Tough, if they found that. The organization looked at secret bank accounts the way wardens look at hacksaws.

He was sure of one thing; he had to do this job by the book.

He left the lavatory and walked to the magazine rack at the rear of the plane. Norma McLain sat with her knees pressed together, small hands folded in her lap, staring out the window. As Johnny passed her seat, she rubbed her palms against her cheeks in a tired gesture, revealing the red crescents of her lower lids.

He took a copy of Country Life and returned to his seat. Norma McLain didn’t look like a wife bound for a joyous reunion with her husband. She reminded him of a rabbit with its foot in a trap.

And that’s two of us, doll, he thought.

January 21st, my room.

Two things. First, Papa is not back yet and the snow is still coming down! It was just like night all day long. Jack says it will be over the roof soon if it does not let up soon. I hope he is right because we have a three story house and I love snow. The second thing is that Mama fired Mrs. Wagner and will have to do the cooking herself now. Henry says the prospect does not appeal, and Jack laughed and told him to be nice. This is one of Jack’s good days, which is not so unusual as Henry claims. Henry also claims that’s why Mama fired Mrs. Wagner, because she was talking about Jack and said he is dumb like a fox on his bad days. Henry even says Mrs. Wagner said Jack chopped Scooper up but Papa said poor Scooper got hit by a car when he was chasing a cat and Papa ought to know. Jack keeps pestering Papa and Mama for another dog, but they are not agreeing to anything. Even if I thought it was true about Jack and Scooper, Jack would still be my favorite brother, because I’m his favorite sister. And a diary is my favorite present. I hope Papa isn’t going to have Jack sent away. He’s so nice, on his good days.

The fight took place some time ago in a small mining town in Australia. It was a grudge fight and a blood bath, A toe to toe, bare knuckled slug jest. Or, as the towns folk might refer to it, “a fair dinkum bit of stoush.”

“I’m as good as ever I was!” Darky said, tapping his chest.

He laughed, throwing his head back and thumping his empty beer pot on the counter — but there was something forced about that laugh; it didn’t come from the belly or the heart.

“Here, fill ’em up again!” he ordered the barman.

Darky and Ernie Lyle always dropped into the Royal Hotel on their way home. Lately, they’d been working at the open-cut coal mine on the outskirts of the town. They’d washed before leaving the mine but coal dust still persisted around their ears, eyes and finger nails and was caked on their eye lashes.

These two were mates now — at least Ernie would have claimed they were. Darky would express no view on that subject; he’d had a lot of mates in his time and acknowledged none of them. It wasn’t in Darky to call a man his mate; his feelings were buried deep somewhere so you just had to guess at them,

Their pots replenished, Ernie ventured to comment: “I’m not say-in’ you’re not as good as ever you were, Darky — but Younger’s as big as you are and, well, he’s younger. He’s only twenty two and you’re, well, you’re over forty, Darky.”

The expression, that clouded Darky’s face intimidated Ernie, who added with a hollow laugh: “He’s younger by name and younger by nature...”

“Listen, Ernie! Younger’s a bludger and a scab,” Darky said. “Yes, he’s a scab all right. The Trade Union fella from the city went out to the timber mill and Younger wouldn’t join. Anyhow, I got to fight him now. It’s been coming a long time and now it’s here.”

Darky drank his beer without taking the pot from his lips. Beer trickled down his chin into the hair on his chest. “Here, drink up, Ernie, we’ll have one for the road.”

“Not for me, Darky. Three’s enough for me. You’ve had six pots already — you generally only have three yerself.”

“Ah, that coal dust needs washin’ down... Have a pony to keep me company.”

“All right, I’ll have a pony.”

“Here, Dan, fill my pot, and a pony for Ernie.”

The drinks served, Ernie poured the beer from the small glass into his half-empty pot and gazed reflectively at the linoleum on the bar counter: “I still think you shouldn’t fight him, Darky. It’s what he wants. He’s beat every one in the town...”

“Every one in the town,” Darky interrupted, “except this Darky here!” He tapped his chest with his right forefinger, making a deep sound like a distant drum.

“Yeh,” Ernie persisted. “But that’s his ambition. He’s been itch-in’ to have a go at you for years — and he can fight, Darky. He beat the pro’ pug in Sharman’s troupe last year, you know that...”

At that moment Younger plunged through the old-fashioned swinging doors, scattering a group of drinkers, beer splashing their clothes. He stood arms stretched sideways holding the doors open, his feet placed wide apart.

The talk in the long bar ceased as if it had been coming through a radio speaker and been switched off. A hundred men in various stages of intoxication turned towards the door, beer glasses neglected in their hands and on the soggy counter top. The publican, Danny O’Connell, stood suspended, four empty glasses balanced in his left hand. His blonde wife sat on a high stool grasping the cash register in front of her, eyes wide with fear. The two employed barmen also ceased work and watched. A group of men playing hookey in a far corner of the bar ceased their sport. One of them stood, right arm outstretched with a rubber hook held between his thumb and forefinger as if posing for a camera.

Jimmy Younger went up to the bar and ordered his beer then turned to face Darky and stood with his right heel resting on the bar rail, his right elbow on the bar itself. His left fist clenched instinctively. The nostrils of his wide nose dilated. The small glass of beer stood on the bar at his elbow, golden bubbles rising in it. Younger blinked his eyes and shook his head once, as though he was a little the worse for alcohol.

Darky stood as if his legs, like steel bands under his grey trousers, were flexed to catapult him onto his opponent. It was a magnificent gesture, worthy of the occasion. But Darky’s inner feelings belied his manner. His heart seemed to be beating unevenly and his knees felt weak. Good as ever I was? These words formed a question mark to beat at his temples. Well, we’ll soon find out. Anyway, they won’t let us fight for long in here — and we can’t fight in the dark outside...

Suddenly, Darky dropped his hands to his sides and walked deliberately towards Younger. Drinkers moved aside to clear a path. He swaggered, his fists held wide apart from his thighs as if the great muscles at his armpits would not allow his arms to hang by his sides.

As Darky came within a few feet of Younger, a shrill scream, emanating from Mrs. O’Connell, ripped the air. She leapt from her stool by the till and ran from the bar yelling: “I’ll ring the police!”

Her husband followed her calling: “Don’t ring the police, Margo. It’s no use, anyway. They’re all at the Dillingley Carnival.” In the back of his mind were thoughts of several convictions against his licence for illegal betting and after hours trading, which had been chalked up in spite of largesse. He wanted to avoid calling the police.

O’Connell returned to the bar. Finding Darky standing beside Younger, he took up a position opposite them behind the counter.

Jimmy Younger did not move except to relax his muscles a little.

Darky threw a two shilling piece on the counter. “Give us a pot of beer,” he demanded in a husky voice.

O’Connell looked at the clock above the door. It showed three minutes past six o’clock, closing time; “Sorry, Darky,” he said, “the beers orf.”

Darky looked at the clock in his turn. “It’s only six o’clock,” he said, “Your clock’s always fast. Yer never stop serving till harf past six, as a rule.”

The argument over time and beer; the tension heightened by the very incongruousness of the debate; the menacing air of impending violence; the nervous onlookers at the same time repulsed and attracted by the scene.

Younger’s cronies gathered close round him. Quickly assessing the situation Ernie Lyle moved close behind Darky.

“Break it up, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said, hoarsely and without conviction.

The elements existed for an all in brawl. But it wasn’t the kind of fight that would start with a direct challenge. It would arise somehow out of the situation.

The more timorous souls amongst the drinkers took the opportunity to beat a retreat out onto the footpath.

“I’m thirsty!” Darky shouted foolishly, but he was findin confidence in the not unfamiliar air of impending fisticuffs. Good as ever I was! Younger has his right elbow on the counter. If he hits, he must throw a left lead. If I can slip it, I might end the fight in one punch — my only hope! His eyes met those of Younger. Each knew this moment had to come. Each welcomed yet feared it. Neither dared flinch from it now.

Acting on a strange impulse, Darky said: “This beer’ll do me!” He picked up Younger’s glass of beer and drank it down in one gulp. His fears and doubts were gone. His eyes didn’t leave Younger’s face. And his thoughts ran clear: if I can get him to lead, I might end it in one punch.

Before Younger could react, Darky replaced the glass on the counter. Intimidated mentally by Darky’s reputation and apparent confidence, Younger merely snorted and said: “Yer’ll buy me another beer!”

“Not me!” Darky replied quietly.

“Well, yer’ll give me fivepence.”

“I’ll give yer nothin’.”

Because it was a real life fight in the making, it was developing unlike a fight in a book or a film. But a fight it would be and those nearest the antagonists stepped away a little.

“Yer’ll give me fivepence, I said,” Younger repeated.

“I’ll give you nothin’!” Darky insisted. And he raised himself slightly into the balls of his feet as he found the words that would provoke Younger to punch. “I got no money to give a bludger and a scab.”

Quick as the eye could see, Younger propelled himself off the bar rail on his right heel and swung a slightly rounded left lead at Darky’s face. Darky slipped inside the punch but not quickly enough to avoid a stinging, glancing blow on the right ear. Younger was wide open to Darky’s right cross, a murderous punch in his heyday. Darky threw it now with all his strength. But his reflexes were too slow and Younger managed to take the blow on his upraised left wrist.

Younger closed on Darky wrestling with him until they fell to the floor locked together, Darky on top. Younger’s cronies clamoured, pulling Darky off violently. A crowd milled round separating the fighters, Kevin, Ernie, one of the barmen, Younger’s cronies and a few of those good souls who always take the thankless task of trying to stop a bar brawl.

O’Connell roared: “All out! The bar’s closed!”

The crowd, now that violence had broken out, needed no third bidding. Soon, only Darky and Younger, their closest cronies and the hotel staff remained. The biggest of the two barmen ran from Darky to Younger shouting: “Break it up, for crissake! If yer want to fight, get outside!”

“Come on, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said and Darky allowed himself to be led out. As he passed, Younger tried to drag himself clear of restraining hands.

In the street, the crowd gathered in three groups.

Darky, surrounded by half a dozen cronies stood near the corner of the street. “I’ll have him any time he likes,” he was saying, but his hands were trembling a little from the tension.

Younger stood near the side door of the hotel. His drinking companions gathered round him offering encouragement. The color had drained from Younger’s face but Darky’s relative ineffectiveness in the encounter had given him confidence. He snorted and pranced about savoring the promise of violence and bloodshed.

He was saying: “I can do him, if there’s somewhere to fight.”

The third group was the largest; those hundred or so men from the bar who determined to be onlookers and not combatants in any fighting that would ensue. These gathered on the roadside at a safe distance.

Soon small clusters of people, including women and children, began to gather at vantage points on the opposite footpath of the side street, and on the corner where it intersected with the Main Street.

“You can fight under the street light there near the dunny,” one of Younger’s cronies suggested. Falling in love with the idea, he shouted for all to hear: “They can fight under the street light. Just like the ring in the Melbourne Stadium.”

He pointed to where a street light shed its strong beams near a tree at the entrance to the back yard and lavatories of the Royal Hotel, forming a half circle of bright light on the edge of the roadway. He ran and stood in the centre of the lighted spot “Come on,” he yelled. “Ring out and give ’em a fair go!”

Ring out and give them a fair go! The traditional announcement of an Australian grudge fight. At least on this occasion the antagonists seemed evenly matched, so far as size was concerned.

Younger walked purposefully into the light and proceeded to peel off his shirt and singlet.

Ernie Lyle shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

Darky stepped across the gutter and stood in the glow at the edge of the circle of light. Some of the most involved spectators came forward and formed an uneven half circle. Others moved closer but not too close.

The man who had discovered the “stadium” apparently felt this automatically made him referee, for he stood in the centre of the light with the exaggerated ceremony of the semi-drunk. He was stockily built. He wore a hat with a wide brim, and an ill fitting dark blue suit. His coat was unbuttoned and he struck a stance with his hands on his hips, his coat flapping behind him.

“Gents!” he called out. “Ladies and gents. There’s a question of a bit of stoush and I’m here to see its fair dinkum bit of stoush. I want yer to ring out and give ’em a fair go.” Espying the publican, Danny O’Connell, hovering with his wife at the window of the hotel kitchen clearly visible in the light behind them, the referee added: “And I don’t want no one sendin’ over to Dillingley for the coppers, neither.” Signalling Darky and Younger to come closer he lowered his voice and told them: “There’ll be no kickin’; there’ll be no wrestlin’; and there’ll be no bell, no rounds, and no ten counts; the fight ends when one of you turns it up.”

With those words he stepped back and the fighters shaped up.

Younger’s skin was burned dark brown from long days in the sun. His muscles rippled and bulged where the light picked them up; muscles made strong as steel from wielding the axe. Stripped to the waist, he had the torso of a powerful athlete.

Darky had not removed his shirt or singlet. By comparison to Younger, he seemed awkward and subdued, but there was a quiet air of power about him.

Younger was the taller by a good three inches and his reach was the longer; but Darky was the heavier man, perhaps a stone heavier. Younger was twenty two years of age; Darky forty five.

Darky had moved onto the rise of the roadside near the outer fringe of the light obliging Jimmy Younger to stand on slightly lower ground. Darky took up a flat-footed stance, legs wide apart, his fists low in front of his chest. He weaved a little and moved his fists forward and back like short pistons to the roll of his body in the unorthodox Jack Dempsey manner. He was essentially a counter-puncher. He’d made his reputation as unbeatable on only a few fights. He’d never struck the first blow in his life, and now he waited for his opponent to lead.

Jimmy Younger carried his right fist under his chin, his left cocked forward in an orthodox stance. He’d hung around a gymnasium or two and had done some fighting in and out of the roped square.

Younger jogged about, feinting and weaving, while Darky waited, alert and ready to throw the counter punch.

The crowd had moved closer, in awed silence except for the scraping feet.

Younger led with his left but it was a tentative thrust and Darky weaved back outside it. Younger threw a hard left lead. Darky slipped inside it and crashed a short right hand under the heart; then he closed with Younger, claiming his arms, throwing his weight against him. Before the self-appointed referee could intervene, Darky pushed Younger clear and again waited for him to lead.

Sap his strength then go for an early knockout, Darky kept telling himself. The calm of battle had descended on him, but he knew he must win quickly or be cut to pieces in ignominious defeat.

Ruffled, Younger came in again throwing his left hand wildly. Darky ducked; the blow slewed off the top of his head; he threw a savage right uppercut sending Younger down on his heels and hands. Younger fell near the wide trunk of the elm tree near the light post. Darky crowded in leaving Younger little room to rise. Younger managed to scramble to his feet and hang on, throwing short rights to Darky’s head in the clinch. He was fighting mad, stung but rendered confident by the fact he had taken Darky’s right to the jaw and come back clear-headed and strong. As the boxers scuffled and punched at close quarters, a murmur rising to a near roar came from the crowd. They expressed excitement, awe, near horror all mixed up.

Darky pushed Younger off and again took up his stance. He was beginning to pant already. I couldn’t have landed that one square on his jaw, he tired to reassure himself. I’ll try one more, then go downstairs.

Younger came in and poked out another left lead. Darky moved his head aside evasively, but before he could throw his right fist, Younger came up with his right and their punches jumbled, neither landing cleanly.

A man’s gettin’ slow, Darky admitted to himself, as he smothered close, pinioning Younger’s arms. The referee ordered a break and again they shaped up to each other. Younger was growing more confident. Again he threw a left lead and again he nullified Darky’s counter blow and they clinched.

Darky noticed that his strength was ebbing a little though he hadn’t taken a heavy blow; yet Younger seemed as strong as at the beginning. I’ll try to bore in under him, Darky schemed.

Throwing aside the discretion of the left lead, Younger rushed in throwing round arm blows with both hands. Darky ducked low and shot a short right to the body. Younger grunted and smothered up. Darky ripped a left uppercut which caught Younger on the nose and set it bleeding. Sensing he had this time hurt Younger, Darky made to follow up his advantage, but Younger stopped him in his tracks with a savage right cross. The punch cut Darky’s left eyebrow deeply, sending blood pouring onto his shirt front. Younger piled in punching wildly but Darky succeeded in clinching with him and pushing him away.

Younger came in again. Darky failed to evade a left hand punch and it struck his nose setting it bleeding from both nostrils.

The crowd circling the fighters swayed to the rhythm of the battle. A female voice screamed: “Finish him orf, Jimmy boy!”

Younger reigned blows on Darky. Darky clinched, desperately seeking respite. He leaned in on Younger, pushed him off. He threw a desperate right cross which landed flush on Younger’s jaw, steadying him. Darky levelled another right, then a left. Younger retaliated, They stood toe to toe, slugging it out.

“Take it easy, Darky,” Ernie Lyle yelled. “You won’t beat him that way.”

Darky got the worst of the latest encounter and clung on, wrestling Younger back against the tree until the referee came between them, vainly trying to pull Darky away. The referee grabbed Darky’s right arm, tugging at it. With Darky thus handicapped, Younger sent a left hook to the jaw. Darky staggered back. Younger followed him, raining blows. Darky crouched low, desperately trying to land an effective punch to the body. A grunt from Younger indicated he had succeeded. But Younger kept attacking like a ferocious animal; his strength seemed to have no limit. He punched Darky at will aiming his blows at the cut eye. The blood streaming from Darky’s eye and nose had dyed the front of his shirt and trousers red, and spattered over Younger. Younger’s own nose had stopped bleeding but his face was red and barked from the effect of Darky’s punches.

The thud of bone against bone; the crunch of flesh against flesh.

The feeling in the crowd had changed to horror and revulsion; only those few who loved violence for its own sake and Younger’s cronies held any affinity with the battle now.

Darky slumped to the ground as much from exhaustion as the effect of Younger’s punches. Younger stood above him, breathing heavily through the nose, sensing victory.

Darky sat on the roadside wiping the blood from his eye with the back of his hand. His nose bleeding had ceased but he looked a sorry sight, his eyes puffed, his face bruised and swollen, his chest heaving, his clothes red with blood.

“Barley, a minute,” he gasped to the referee. “I want to take me shoes off. I keep slippin’!”

He began to untie his shoe laces. Younger weaved above him impatiently.

Ernie Lyle stepped between them. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Darky,” he pleaded.

“Don’t be bloody silly. I’m just gettin’ warmed up,” Darky replied.

Get me wind back and I’ll get the old one two in yet, he was thinking; anyway, he’s got to knock me cold to win it.

In his stockinged feet, Darky arose slowly.

One of Younger’s cronies said: “Take him, Jimmy. He’s had it.”

Younger rushed in for the kill but Darky closed with him, pinioning his arms.

Darky felt some of his strength coming back. If I can coast for a while, I might win it yet.

He kept pushing Younger off, trying to relax and rest in the midst of the bloody fray. No one in the crowd gave Darky any chance now; Younger’s supporters hoped for a quick end to the slaughter; the rest watched Darky’s desperate courage with a mixture of admiration, pity and horror.

Younger was giving Darky no respite. Victory was within his grasp. He bored in punching wildly. Darky kept parrying and clinching. He pushed Younger away and staggered back, his arms at his sides, a picture of abject exhaustion.

It was an old trick and Younger fell for it. He rushed in for the kill. Darky came suddenly to life and raised his fists, halting Younger in his tracks with a left to the face, then a savage right cross and another left as Younger went down. This time Younger was dazed and his right eye began to swell.

The crowd gasped in unbelief.

Younger raised himself on an elbow, shaking his head. Darky stood above him panting like a grampus. He’d hardly the strength left to punch if his opponent regained his feet. Hurt and dazed, Younger climbed to his feet slowly, edging away from Darky as he did so. He seemed to realize that Darky was near the end of his tether.

Now Younger sought respite to regain his youthful strength. As Darky moved in punching without much power, Younger clinched. The referee made no attempt to part them. Younger leant on Darky while the older man wasted his waning strength trying to free his fists to punch.

“Break, yer bastard!” Darky grunted but Younger clung onto him, his strength returning, his head clearing with every second.

“Break ’em!” Ernie Lyle yelled, but the referee paid no heed.

When at last Younger released his grip, his vigor had obviously returned and he began picking Darky off with well placed punches. He was more calm and purposeful than before faced, as he was, by a tired man.

Each man’s knuckles were skinned. Younger’s right eye was closed, his face skinned in places, his body bruised. Darky’s right eyebrow still bled profusely, adding to a puffy black bag under his left eye to impair his vision. His right nostril was split, his face bruised and swelled up, his shirt and trousers red-fronted. He was desperately tired out, to add to his discomfort, his feet were bleeding.

Darky managed to keep his guard up and ward off some blows but he was being ruthlessly punished.

It has been said that youth will triumph over age in physical combat and now the crowd was witnessing a dreadful example of this truism.

Sensing his waning strength Darky seemed to become demented.

He rushed at Younger punching wildly to the head. He set Younger’s nose bleeding again, but the main result of his effort was to so enrage his opponent as to invite the most ruthless reprisals. Younger went over to the offensive again thumping blow after blow to Darky’s undefended face. He backed Darky towards the tree.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Bone on flesh! And Darky against the tree now, his hands by his side. His heart seemed to have swelled up fit to burst and his legs would not hold his body erect. Only the support of the tree kept him on his feet.

Still Younger punched mercilessly.

A woman with a baby in her arms screamed from the edge of the crowd. “Stop him, someone! In the name of the Mother of God, stop him!”

“Stop it, for crissake,” Ernie Lyle said.

Darky could no longer sec his tormentor.

Darky’s face was swollen beyond recognition, a mass of battered, bleeding flesh like a raw steak.

Younger kept punching Darky’s face, sandwiching his head between the pounding fists and the trunk of the tree.

Slowly Darky slid down the tree trunk. Younger rained punches on him until he lay inert against the base of the tree. A dreadful gasp ran through the crowd, like a sigh of relief after torture.

With his fists still upraised Younger stood above Darky and half turned to the crowd.

“Look at him!” he shouted with exultant savagery. “There’s yer famous Darky! He’s stood over the town for twenty years — and look at him now.”

People moved closer, craning with horror to see the sight of a man battered to pulp.

Darky’s bloody body stirred. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. Now he could just make out the figure of Younger.

“Look at him. Look at him now!” Younger continued.

Mobilizing some reserve of courage from deep in his soul, Darky began to rise to his feet.

Younger, himself near to exhaustion, still stood half turned away, haranguing the crowd. “Now we know whose boss. Mister Darky won’t do any more standing over in this town...”

“Look out, Jimmy!” one of Younger’s supporters called — but too late.

Darky had reached his feet and, catapulting himself off the tree trunk, he sank his left fist low into Younger’s groin. Younger doubled up in pain and Darky brought a right upper cut to the jaw, then a left, then another right.

Younger slumped down. The whites of his eyes were showing before he hit the ground. His head crashed onto the edge of the metal road. He lay stiff, unconscious.

Darky swayed above him for a moment then collapsed across his opponent’s feet. With a tremendous effort of will, Darky rose on hands and knees then stood up uncertainly. He turned and staggered through the awestruck spectators. Reaching the gutter he groped for his shoes. Ernie Lyle rushed across, found the shoes and handed them to Darky. Darky sat on the edge of the footpath and put on his shoes.

Younger still lay inert, two of his cronies were trying to bring him round.

Without waiting to lace his shoes, Darky stood up. He placed a bloody left arm around Ernie Lyle’s shoulders and they hobbled away.

At the point where the glow of the street light faded into the black night, Darky turned to the crowd. His left hand was still round his friend. He made a savage grimace driving his tongue against a tooth loosened by Younger’s punches. The tooth fell from its socket.

The silent crowd watched open-mouthed, transfixed.

Presently, Darky spat the tooth from his mouth with a splutter of blood. He tapped his chest with his right fore-finger. From somewhere in the battered flesh of his face, his voice came: “Listen! Some of these young fellas are goin’ ter learn it the hard way — but I’m as good as ever I was!”

In the living room of his apartment, Johnny stood in his bathrobe trying to open a bottle of cognac, when he decided he needed his knife. He went to the closet and searched the pockets of his suit. Finding nothing, he got his topcoat and went through it. The knife wasn’t there.

An alarm swept over him that seemed unreasonable. He had no need for weapons. He hated them. Yet Dom’s stiletto was something else.

He went slowly back to the living room and poured a drink of bourbon while he thought of the fine bone and tempered steel. He had never been without the little knife since he’d owned it.

Johnny emptied his glass and walked restlessly to the window. Looking out over the smudged and throbbing city, he wondered how Cole planned to give it to Mahoney. Would it be like it had been with Dom?

A little dog wormed his way through the traffic below and Johnny thought of the pup Mahoney had once given him for Christmas. A hundred years ago! Johnny sneered and turned abruptly from the window.

Cole’s good with a shiv — equally good with a rod. Pop’s old — not very quick anymore — he won’t be expecting it. Suddenly Johnny saw the Irish Cop’s face lying in the pool of blood where he’d last seen Dominick Donato.

His hand shook as he poured another drink and tried to remember all the times Pop had hauled him in or fouled up a job for him. But all he could think of were the hundreds of times Mahoney had tried to steer him away from the rackets.

“Get out of it while you can, son,” the old man had said once. And the memory of the still-unconquered brogue was a strange ache somewhere in Johnny. “You’ve not got the stomach for it, boy.” Pop’s mouth had-curved in gentle irony. “You wouldn’t even make a good cop. I know — I’ve watched you.”

“Sure, Pop. I know!” Johnny had snapped impatiently. “So I’m no good with rods and shives. I don’t need ’em — I do it the easy way. So lay off, will you!”

There had been a mixture of disappointment and contempt on Mahoney’s face when he’d answered.

“Kid, you’re nothin’ but a punk right now, who can’t sec past his nose. How long do you think you can stick to your private little ways?” The gray eyes had grown wet with frustration. “One of these days, Johnny, you’re going to have a dissatisfied client. And it’s going to take some of Nick’s or Charlie’s men to keep you out of a real jam. If they don’t get you in a worse one.”

Then Pop’s voice had softened. “Nobody can stay just half-hood, Johnny. There always comes a time when he’s got to go all the way — or else!”

Johnny lit a cigarette and went back to the window. The old man should have played the ponies, he thought. He could sure call the shots. Johnny Manse hadn’t made many mistakes, he remembered with professional pride. But there had been a time or so when a couple of Charlie’s boys had called on one of his clients, as Mahoney called them. Nothing rough — just a little reminder that worse things could happen to them than dropping a few grand. And, in return, Johnny had done a thing or two he hadn’t liked for Charlie. But... oh, the hell with it!

Pop had never seemed to understand that a kid who lives on Lacy Street grows up wanting just one thing — to get off of it. And he does it the quickest way he can — the rackets.

Johnny returned irritably to his chair by the table. Refilling his glass, he caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. What the devil! He smoothed his rumpled hair and stared at the tense lines in the usually inscrutable face of the con man.

“Harry’s right,” he told the reflection, and he put the drink down. “You’re hitting it too hard. One lousy flatfoot is set-up and all of a sudden you’re a lush!”

Then it hit him. Harry’s place. That’s where he’d left the stiletto. He began to dress hurriedly. Lucky or not, Johnny wanted that knife.

He was struck by the beauty of the knife, a switch-blade, simple and deadly effective. He bought it for six dollars. He bought with it a sense of power... and the need to prove it.

Paul Talent was cold and miserable. The weather had closed in over the city, shutting out even the false glamor of Times Square and leaving only the dirt to be seen. The wind came sharp down Broadway and little swirls of dirt and papers pyramided at intersections. The sky was grey and low, hanging below the tops of buildings.

The day depressed him. He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and bent his head as he walked. The wind reddened his face and made his lungs hurt. He was trembling with cold, trying not to think, trying to pull in on himself like an animal.

He came to a corner and stopped, waiting for the signal. Standing still, he was hurt even more by the wind. The light turned green and he hurried across the street with the crowd. On the sidewalk again, he walked close to the building, huddled in his coat. A man bumped against him and hurried on without looking at him or speaking to him. Talent looked after him, resenting him. A girl skittered by him, her hair whipped loose. He watched her, trying to think of anything except the cold.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to be sheltered. It was a long way yet back to his office and he could not make it without being warmed first.

Without looking in the window to see what kind of store it was, he stepped off the sidewalk and into a small shop. Two clerks were standing in the rear. There were no customers. One of the men came to the front. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

Talent shuddered, breathing in the warmth. “I’m only looking,” he answered. “No. Just looking.”

The man seemed to understand. He looked past Talent, out the window at the street. “Cold out there,” he said.

“I’ll say it is.” Talent rubbed his hands together and blew on them.

“Paper says snow.”

“That right?” He wished the man would leave him alone. All he wanted was warmth.

“Yeah. That’s what it says.” He looked toward the other clerk in the back. “You see anything you want, let me know.” He walked away.

Talent looked down into a showcase, pretending to be interested. It was filled with watches. A small, hand-lettered sign on top said, FAMOUS MAKES $15 UP. He looked out the window. The sky was darker. He crossed the store and looked in another showcase. The top shelf was for leather change purses and key cases which were marked with pictures of the Empire State Building. The bottom shelf was filled with knives.

Talent bent to look at them. There was a hunting knife, he couldn’t see the blade, but the handle was carved wood. The top was made in the shape of a skull. There were some folding knives. One had the Boy Scout crest on it. Next to that one was a thin, black knife.

The salesman came back and said, “See anything you like?”

Talent looked up, startled. “No,” he said. “I was only looking at them. What’s that one though?”

The salesman walked around back of the case and slid the door open, “Which one?”

“That black one.”

The salesman lifted it out and laid it on top of the glass case. “That’s quite a knife,” he said.

Talent picked it up. “How’s it work?”

“Push that button.”

The blade came out, thin and shiney. Talent flinched, surprised, and grinned. “Really comes out of there, doesn’t it?”

The salesman looked at him and then out at the street.

“What’s a knife like this used for?”

“Cleaning fish,” the salesman said. “Something like that.”

“I thought a fish knife had a serrated edge.”

“This one’s good, too. It’s good for a guy who has to work with packages or something and only has one arm free. You know, you don’t have to open it like you do a regular knife.”

“How much is it?”

The man shrugged. “We can’t sell it,” he said. “It’s only for display.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kids. Kids buy them for fighting. Cops won’t let us sell them now.”

“It just sort of fascinates me. I’m not going to fight with it.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, how much is it?”

“I told you. It ain’t for sale.”

“Sell him the knife,” the other man said, walking closer. “He’s all right.”

“It’s six dollars,” the first man said.

“Six dollars?”

“It’s a good knife,” the second man added. “Feel the spring in that blade. It’ll take a lot of shock.”

Talent closed his hand over the knife. The plastic handle had been cool, now it was warming to his hand. The blade was narrow, sharp all along one side, sharp halfway up the other edge. He closed it and opened it.

“Well,” the salesman said. “You want it or not?”

“Yes,” Talent said. “I’ll take it.”

In his office, later, he sat, staring at the half finished page of copy in his typewriter, thinking about the knife in his pocket. He was not used to carrying anything in his pocket but change and keys and he could feel the knife against his leg. He knew he had done a stupid thing, buying the knife. It was stupid to have paid six dollars for the thing and it was even worse to carry it in his pocket. At the top of the whole thing, he thought, it’s even illegal to carry such a knife.

It’s only a knife, he thought. Many men carry pocket knives. Only this knife wasn’t simply a pocket knife. It made him feel silly, melodramatic, but this knife was a weapon. For cleaning fish.

Paul Talent was a young man with sandy hair, brown eyes, and a nervous habit of biting his lips. He was of average size and, by standards, moderately good looking. That is, he was neat, even featured, his shoes were polished, and his clothes were inconspicuous. He had been married for four years and he and his wife, whose name was Helen, had no children. He was a copywriter for an advertising agency. Two weeks ago, he had been given a ten dollar a week raise. He had been faithful to his wife through his marriage although, only a week ago, he had asked Laura Singleton to have dinner and see a show with him. She had refused. He thought perhaps she had refused because she had not realized he was serious, but he hadn’t been able to ask her again. He had been born in Youngstown, Ohio. He had graduated from Kent State University. He lived in a four room apartment in Bronxville.

And now he had a knife.

He took it from his pocket and looked at it. He pressed the button on the side and it opened. Someone came into his office and he looked over his shoulder and saw Laura Singleton, standing in the doorway. She had the afternoon mail delivery. She was looking at the knife.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Come on in.”

“What’s that?”

“A knife.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s not for anything. It’s just a knife.” He closed the blade. “Do you have the mail?”

She put an envelope on his desk. “It’s only an advertisement,” she said. “Why do you carry that thing?”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it illegal?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I think that’s silly,” she said uncertainly. “What do you need a thing like that for?”

He put the knife on the desk, not looking at her. He was angry. “What do you care?” he said.

She hurried out of the office. He looked after her and then picked up the knife and put it back in his pocket.

He didn’t much want to go out with her now. He didn’t need to.

That night, after dinner, he went into the living room of his apartment and sat down in front of the television set. Helen came to the doorway and looked in at him. “Will you clear off the table for me?” she asked.

“I’m tired tonight.”

“You always clear off the table for me.”

“Tonight I don’t want to.”

She looked at him for a few seconds more and then went back into the kitchen.

I wonder what she’d do if I showed her the knife, he thought. I wonder whether she’d be frightened.

He smiled to himself. Oddly, he liked the idea. He wanted to show her the knife, but not yet. He watched television and waited.

After a while, after she had finished washing the dishes, she came into the living room. She sat on the couch and watched the television, too, not speaking to him.

When the program ended, he stretched and lit a cigarette.

“Was everything all right today?” she asked.

“Fine. How was your day?”

She ignored his question. “You just seemed so moody tonight, I thought maybe you’d had a bad day at work.”

“I’m just tired.”

He started to tell her about the knife then, but he didn’t. He looked back at the television set.

After the news, they went to bed. While she was in the bathroom, he hid the knife in his drawer, under a stack of underwear. He undressed and took a shower. When he finished, she was in bed, almost asleep.

In the morning, he took the knife with him when he left home.

Harry Adams, his copy chief, came into his office at ten-thirty. He brought two cups of coffee in paper containers. “How about a break?” he said. He sat down and crossed his legs. “Nasty weather again today.”

“It’s cold.”

“February always seems like the longest month to me,” Adams said, “not the shortest.”

“I’m almost finished with the Alterace copy,” Talent said.

“We have plenty of time on that.”

“It’s almost finished.”

Adams lit a cigarette. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” he said. He smiled. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

“Take what the wrong way?”

“It’s about Laura Singleton.”

“I asked her to go out with me.”

“Not that. That’s none of my business. I mean yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“She was pretty upset.”

“What about?”

“Well.” Adams laughed. “You know how women are. She said you were waving a big knife around and she said you got awful nasty about it when she asked you what it was for.”

“I didn’t get nasty. I just said it wasn’t any of her business why I carried the knife. It wasn’t a big knife anyway.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Adams finished his coffee. “I didn’t mean to bring up anything about the knife. I only wanted to say that there’s no use in upsetting any of the girls. They’re hard enough to handle.” He laughed again.

“I didn’t upset her,” Talent said. “I only said for her to mind her own business.”

Adams stood up, nodding. “Well, take it easy,” he said. He dropped the coffee cup into the waste basket, starting to leave the room.

“Harry,” Talent said.

“What?”

“Would you like to see the knife?”

“I didn’t mean anything about the knife.”

Talent took it from his pocket, snapped open the blade, and put it on the desk. “There,” he said. “Sec. It’s not a very big knife.”

Adams stared at it. “No. No, it’s not very big.” He looked at it for a few more seconds and then walked out.

Talent picked up the knife and fingered the blade, wanting to laugh. With a sudden, violent gesture, he drove it into the top of his desk. It hung there, stuck three-quarters of an inch in the wood.

He told his wife that night. He stood in the kitchen, watching her prepare dinner. He took the knife from his pocket and laid it on the sink in front of her. “Look at what I bought,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A knife.” With one finger, he pressed the release and the blade flicked out. The spring made the knife quiver on the white porcelain. She made a noise in her throat and he laughed at her.

“Whatever possessed you to buy that?” she said.

He picked it up and closed it. “I wanted it,” he said. “I just wanted it so I bought it.”

She looked at it in his hand. “It’s ugly.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It is. It’s ugly.”

He opened the blade again and held the knife up, away from him, liking the way the light from the ceiling globe flashed on the steel.

“Why did you buy it?”

“I said I wanted it.”

“How much was it?”

“Not much.” He laughed. “I practically got a bargain.”

“How much?”

“I earned the money. I don’t have to make an accounting of it.”

She flushed and started to answer, but then turned back to the sink. “I still think it’s stupid,” she muttered.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Money always matters. We don’t have that much.”

He laughed again. “I wasn’t talking about the money.”

She looked up at him uncomprehendingly and flushed again, but it was not a flush of anger. Her expression was uneasy, her lips were moving, making silent little formations, and she said nothing. He leaned against the refrigerator, cleaning his fingernails with the knife. He was amused. No, not amused. He was exultant. It was not that his thoughts were triumphant. That would imply an enemy defeated. It was his emotions that were triumphant. It was a strange feeling, one that he could not remember having had ever before. He wanted to laugh, but not at Helen. He wanted to laugh because, suddenly, for the first time since adolescence, there was something else to do besides wait for tomorrow.

He threw back his head and laughed.

“What’s the matter with you?” Helen asked.

He closed the knife and put it in his pocket. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

“What?”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s dinner time.”

“Now.”

“The dinner will burn.”

“We’ll go to a restaurant.”

“No. Don’t be silly.”

He stepped toward her and, putting one arm behind her knees, scooped her into his arms.

“Don’t be silly,” she repeated.

He kissed her and laughed again.

Later, in the Italian restaurant around the corner from their apartment, they ate spaghetti and drank chianti with it, and he talked while she listened, holding her head Dropped in her hands. Her hair was hanging loose around her face and she had put on a sweater to replace the blouse he tore in the bedroom. He wore a white shirt that was rumpled and open at the collar.

They drank chianti and he talked. He told her about how it was to work at an advertising agency. He told her that it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He said he wanted to write, really write, the way it could be done.

She listened silently. Her eyes were darker than usual and sleepy and she looked bedraggled, but she listened.

He told her about how he felt when he read good writing. He explained how he felt when he read a novel by a man younger than he. He said there were so many things he wanted to do.

After he had talked and after the chianti was gone, they went home and slept.

The next night he came home excited. They had dinner and then he said he wanted to go out.

“Why?” she asked.

“I just need to get out.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Just out. Someplace wild.”

She looked down at her plate and didn’t answer.

“I want you to come with me,” he said.

“Where will we go?”

“Someplace wild. Someplace where people are.”

They went out together. They went on the subway and they didn’t dress well. He didn’t want to be watched, he wanted to watch.

They wandered. Finally there was a place, a bar, he liked. There was a name above the door, but he could not pronounce it. The windows were too dirty to see through. Inside, a juke box with broken glass was singing in Spanish. There were tables, to the left of the door, but no one sat there. They sat on stools at the bar, both men and women, and those who could not find stools, stood, leaning against the counter, drinking, talking to someone, or maybe just looking in the mirror that faced them.

When they went in, there was an almost imperceptible pause. They were seen, but Talent could not have pointed to anyone and said, “Why are you looking at me?”

The hum of conversation solidified and they were not being watched. They walked the length of the room and found one stool at the end. Helen sat on it and he stood beside her. The bartender drew two beers when they ordered, and cut the tops off with a spatula and slid them across. He stood there until Talent put a dollar on the bar and then he made change and went away.

“I’m afraid in here,” Helen whispered.

“Don’t be.” He sipped at his beer. “Just mind your own business and they’ll mind their’s. They just don’t like people who come slumming.” He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

There was a girl. She wore a blue rayon cocktail dress and plastic shoes that were meant to look like glass slippers. He thought about her, about the story of her. There were three men with her. He wondered whether they would fight for her, share her, or simply drift away because it was too much trouble.

He put down his glass and said he had to make a trip to the mens’ room. When he returned, a dark man who was handsome was talking to Helen. He was leaning with one elbow on the bar, talking quickly, smiling. Talent heard him say, “Come on. It won’t hurt you.”

“Please go away,” Helen said.

“You heard her,” Talent said.

The dark man leaned back flat against the bar and smiled. “Who are you?”

“I said to go away,” Talent said.

“Tell me who you are and we will talk about it.” The man spoke perfect English, but with a lilting accent.

“I’m with the lady.”

“She didn’t say so. She was alone.”

“I’m saying so. You heard me.”

The bartender pretended not to see them. People close to them began edging away, not looking at them directly.

“He’s my husband,” Helen said.

The dark man looked at her and then smiled. He seemed to bow even though he did not. “I’m sorry,” he said to Talent.

“Go on away,” Talent said.

“I said I am sorry. I did not know you were her husband.” He smiled again at Helen. “I did not know she was married.”

“I know what you said. Now get the hell away from us.”

The dark man smiled again, but he did not move.

“It’s all right, Paul,” Helen said.

“It’s not all right,” Talent said, looking at her. “I came back and found this punk trying to pick you up.”

“Punk,” the dark man said.

“You heard me,” Talent said.

The dark man stepped toward him. Talent took out the knife. The blade made a popping sound when it opened.

“Ah, no,” the bartender said.

“Now what?” the dark man said.

“Now you go,” Talent said.

The dark man smiled. “I don’t think so. I think you will go.”

“That’s what you think.”

“You have a knife.”

“Yes.”

The dark man had not moved after that first step. Now he reached into his back pocket and brought out a.gun. He smiled again. “Now compadre,” he said. “Now who will go?”

The knife blade was steady for another few seconds before it wavered and dropped. “Come on,” Talent said to Helen.

They walked the length of the room. Someone giggled quietly. Someone laughed out loud. By the time they reached the door, everyone was laughing. He turned, wanting to say something, but Helen took his hand. “Come on.”

They took a cab to the subway station at Times Square. While he was in the cab, Talent slipped the

knife from his pocket and stuffed it into the crack of the seat. He tried to hide what he was doing from Helen, but he thought she noticed it. She looked away and did not say anything.

When they got out of the cab, the wind was cold down Broadway and it burned his skin.

She was a gorgeous long-legged blonde. She stood in distress beside her crippled car. I didn’t feel at all like a “patsy” when I stopped to lend her a hand.

There was nothing sudden or jarring about the trouble. It was administered slowly, in small pleasant doses by experts in such matters; injected into my life and routine so skillfully that I didn’t know the size of the dose until twenty-four hours later; nor its lethal content even then.

The first sugary spoonful was a gorgeous, long-legged blonde; a girl in distress on a fine sunny morning around ten o’clock. She was standing beside a crippled car she’d pulled off the highway and I didn’t feel at all like a patsy for stopping to lend a hand.

In fact I was pretty smug about the whole thing because she let the two cars ahead of me go right by, waving a frantic handkerchief only after they’d passed.

Maybe this should have made me suspicious, but it didn’t. And don’t grin so knowingly because I think you’d have reacted the same way I did — with a glow of satisfaction at having been selected.

Anyhow, I pulled off the road behind her, happy that my car was a snappy new cream convertible — the kind that’s supposed to impress beautiful blondes. Glad too, that I’d worn my hand-painted necktie and put a new blade in my razor that morning.

These aren’t necessarily important points, though. I mention them only to bolster my earlier statement; to show how pleasant trouble can be when you have experts on the job.

But other small details were very important so watch close and maybe you won’t miss them the way I did.

The flat left front tire on the girl’s little black job made getting acquainted easy. All I had to say was, “I see you’ve got a flat,” and she smiled right back and said, “Yes, it certainly is flat all right,” and the ice had been broken.

“Nothing too serious, though,” I assured her. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll unlock your spare and—”

Her voice turned to a wail. “But I haven’t got one! Isn’t that ridiculous?”

For an ordinary run-of-the-mill female it would no doubt have been ridiculous indeed but in this case it seemed more like a daring gamble meriting admiration.

I smiled brilliantly and said, “No cause for alarm. I’ll stop off at the next gas station and send a man back.”

“But I’m so dreadfully late. I’m supposed to meet a friend at the hotel in Danvers. It’s so very important to me!”

“I can drive you on in,” I suggested hopefully. “Then you can come back later with a repairman.”

“That would be just wonderful. But you’re sure I wouldn’t be putting you out?”

“Not in the least. I stop off in Danvers every morning for breakfast.”

Which was true. So she got into the car beside me and as we rolled back into our lane she laughed and took a fetching red band off her hair and let it blow in the wind. A truly beautiful, girl; so arresting that when we passed a house around the next bend a woman working in the front yard stood up and stared; a prim-looking woman who was either critical or envious, I couldn’t tell which.

My blonde turned out to be Trudy Miller, a dancer. She didn’t say exactly what kind of a dancer but I got the impression soft light, exotic settings, and high cover charges would be involved.

Nor was I bashful with my own personal background; Larry Bowman, 32, single; a coin machine operator in that I owned a string of a hundred-odd juke boxes in the clubs and taverns north of Central City.

This appeared to thrill Trudy; a glamorous business. But I think I would have gotten the same effect by telling her I hemmed doilies for a living. She was obviously a girl who’d learned that making men feel important is good business.

And she was so good at it that the five-mile run into Danvers was over before I had time to suggest a broadening of our acquaintance; before she said I was a living doll and thanks and was rushing into the Danvers Hotel.

I rolled on around the corner, parked in my usual spot beside my usual restaurant and went in to my usual breakfast. This had been a part of my routine for a year now; since I’d bought a small house out on Crystal Lake; where — being no specialist in the kitchen — I didn’t even bother with coffee except on weekends. That made the restaurant in Danvers a real convenience — the first civilized spot on the fifteen-mile run between Crystal Lake and Central City.

Red-headed Connie Higgins was waiting with my orange juice and as I sat down at the counter, she glanced at her watch. “You’re two and a half minutes late.”

“Couldn’t be helped. A lady had a flat tire.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll bet she didn’t have a flat chest, though.”

Connie was no slouch in the figure department herself. She slapped a napkin down in front of me and turned to the coffee urn as I said, “Quite the contrary, but let’s talk about you. On our next date, we’ll take a ride and you can let your hair blow in the wind. You’ll probably look very gay and reckless.”

She snorted attractively. “I’ll probably be bald by that time. Some women lose their hair late in life.”

“Then we’ll make it tomorrow night. I’ll knock off early.”

“I wouldn’t hear of you neglecting duty. I’ll just run along behind and hold the spare wrench while you fix juke boxes.”

“That’s a heap but a girl’s place is in the suicide seat of a cream convertible.”

Connie sighed. “I wish you’d get that tub painted black. It stands out like a bonfire in a coal mine.”

I said, “The better to find you in the dark, sweet Wear something girlish,” and left her a dollar tip to start her day off right.

I passed the hotel again on the way out of Danvers toward Central City and my office-warehouse but Trudy Miller was not in sight, nothing of her remaining except a faint aura of the perfume she’d worn and an empty match cover labeled Palermo Club that she’d dropped on the floor of the car.

So, with the victim having experienced no pain whatever from the first injection of trouble, he went about his day’s affairs; a routine somewhat heavier than usual because my one and only employee, Jim Palos was on a hunting trip in Canada.

Not that I minded having Jim on vacation. A dependable worker, he still had annoying traits that could probably have been bunched under one word — impatience. He wanted to get up there fast and we’d never been able to agree on how often he rated a raise or how much his pay check ought to be fattened.

I’d been tempted more than once to let him go but it’s hard to tell a man he’s through when you can’t explain exactly why, so I’d ridden along.

My place was still there; nobody had blown it into the street, so I unlocked the door and went to work on a machine that had been an innocent bystander in a fight at the 52 Club and had gotten its nice shiny front all scratched up.

There were a few phone calls but none of any importance until I found Mack Carson on the other end. Mack was one of the nine local operators in the resort lake area around Central City. We hadn’t formed an organization exactly but we got together once in a while to keep the territory fairly divided and to discuss mutual problems.

And the big mutual problem of the moment was Gus Largo and his protection racket.

Mack Carson lost no time in bringing him up. “My box at the Kenton Lake Spa was wrecked last night.”

“Largo?”

“Who can prove it? A drunk. He beat it. Nobody stopped him.”

“Have Largo’s boys been pushing you harder lately?”

“That’s a silly question, Larry. You know the guy and what he’s capable of.”

“I don’t quite agree with the rest of you on that. He wants us in that so-called union of his but so far it’s been mostly threats.”

“Well, he sure threatened the hell out of my box at Kenton Lake.”

“That might not have been Largo.”

“Maybe not,” Mack said, “but the rest of us can’t help being scared. We’ve got more to worry about than you. We’ve got wives and kids.”

That was true. I had only myself and my boxes and not being vulnerable to the dirtier tactics of Largo’s kind I’d become a sort of rallying point for the others. I was in a position to match dirty looks with the big thug so the boys had used me for a buffer — the get-Larry-Bowman-in-and-I’ll-join-too type of thing.

So far it had worked and I thought I knew why. I tried to explain it to Mack. “Largo can’t afford to push his neck out very far right now. You know that. He’s going before the racket committee in Washington.”

“Uh-huh. He’ll go down there and take the Fifth all over the place and then come back here and beat our brains out.”

“I don’t think so. There’s that secretary of his you’re forgetting about. It’s not generally known and I want you to keep it under your hat, but she’s ready to turn on him. She’s not open to prosecution and there’s nothing to keep her from talking her head off.”

“Nothing except maybe she won’t have a head by the time she gets there.”

“You’re misjudging Largo, Mack. He’s clever and devious and he’s scared. Sure he threatens — nobody can get him on that. But he’s not going to do anything to Gloria Dane or have anything done to her because the finger would point straight at him. You’ve got to remember it’s not just local law on his neck. He’s been careless with his income tax and the Federal boys are keeping him awake nights.”

Mack wanted to be convinced but he was having a tough time selling himself on how safe we really were. “Okay, Larry. I hope it’s like you say. I’ll hold out a while longer and I know the rest of the boys will too. But if the rough stuff starts — the real rough stuff—”

“It won’t. All we have to do is keep a solid front.”

“Sure, Larry. It’s solid as a rock. But I’d hate to see Largo try to throw a cream puff through it. The rock might melt.”

“Everything will work out fine. Wait and see.”

With Mack reassurred, at least for time being, I went back to work; finished the mussed-up box, loaded a rack of records into the car, and went out on the route to make changes.

Things went smoothly with everything quiet on the juke box front and the customers dumping in dimes and quarters at brisk rate.

In fact things were so peaceful that I cut back through Central City proper, undisputed Largo territory, and tried a little salesmanship on a couple of his customers. But I didn’t get very far.

Not that the owners wouldn’t have liked to throw Largo’s boxes out. They were both moaning over inferior merchandise — counterfeit discs — another of Largo’s little rackets.

Not content with a big end of the take, he’d been transposing records onto his own wax and distributing stolen music to save the cost of buying from legitimate companies. The result was scratchy unsatisfactory rendition and the outlet owners were getting the complaints from their public.

There wasn’t much they could do, though, with Largo’s goons handling the objections.

I listened to some myself, offered sympathy, and went on home and so ended the first day...

Forty minutes later, Thomas walked into the City Room of the Demmlertown Herald and over to Joe Bailey’s desk. Joe was the City Editor. He wore the expression of exasperated gloom typical of his kind. He looked at Thomas. “Well?” he asked.

“The works,” Thomas said and made a grimace of distaste. “The whole stinking mess, right from the horse’s mouth!”

“No kidding!” Bailey brightened and put down his pencil.

“No kidding. He’s our guy, just as you guessed. Mr. Vergil Paoli. The Syndicate’s top dog in Demmlertown. By his own admission, he’s got us right in the palm of his hand. Give him another couple of months and he’ll have Riverton there, too. Dope, prostitution, everything.” Thomas rubbed a hand over his crewcut. He leaned over Bailey’s desk. “Joe, I’ve got names, even! Heroin pushers here in Demmlertown. It’s enough to make you puke.”

“How did you get it out of him?” Bailey asked interestedly. “Was it my first published fairy story that did the trick? The piece about the gang killing by a certain Eyetooth Dubrowski?”

“That set it up,” Thomas replied. “But beautifully. Your phony item was right there on his desk when I went in. All I had to do was show my teeth.”

Bailey grinned. “Tessie, on the switchboard, said somebody called asking about you. She told them you were here in your office.”

“I heard her. She was great. I made the play for Olga Castle, Joe. And gave out with the sinister remarks about Paoli to her. And they didn’t hurt us any, for I’m sure she told him. But what really started him running off at the mouth was the telegram you had Bud send him from Chicago. He made me read it. I could hardly keep from breaking up!” Thomas looked at his chief with admiration. “How did you know about Schirmer?” he asked. “Enough to needle Paoli with the disgruntled neighbor Sit in the wire?”

“Just an educated guess. You work on a paper for twenty years and you learn a lot of little things that finally point in a certain direction.” Bailey looked at the big clock on the wall. “It’s getting late,” he said. “You say you got the names of some pushers?”

“Sure. I’ve got it all right here, Joe.” Thomas took the newest miracle of miniaturization from his jacket pocket — a tape recorder no more than four inches square and an inch thick. He grinned at his City Editor. “Paoli thought it was a gun.”

Bailey grinned back. “More like dynamite,” he said.

The man was screaming now and struggling violently, his handsome face distorted with fear. The doctor pressed down on the plunger and smiled soothingly. “Don’t be silly. It’s only a pain filler... to keep you from hurting.”

“Got a couple more for you, doc,” said one of the ambulance attendants, wheeling the woman in. “This one looks like a shock case. The guy, though, he’s banged up a bit. But not real bad.” The two attendants went back out to the ambulance after the man.

Dr. Edward A. Keyes glanced up from the desk where he was filling out accident reports. The woman looked small on the stretcher: everybody looks smaller on a stretcher, he thought.

She had nice hair. That was all he could see of her. He always noticed women’s hair; it was the first thing he noticed about them. Then he thought what he always thought when they brought someone in: Why do people insist on getting out on the highway and messing themselves up? — so I can make a living, I suppose.

He went to the woman, turning her head toward him. She had such nice hair and he was hoping her face wasn’t marked up.

“Doc.”

He just stood there staring at her face.

“Hey, doc,” the attendant repeated impatiently. “Where do you want this guy?”

Dr. Keyes pointed to one of the five beds along the wall; that was all the Briscoe Emergency Center had — five beds. “Put him over there,” he said. “Put her down at the other end.”

They lifted the man onto one of the beds. “Same old story every night,” the talkative attendant said. It was ritual with him — he said it every time they brought someone in. “They plaster themselves all over the highway and we scrape ’em up.”

“They were together, were they?” the doctor asked. “In the same car?”

“Yeah. This guy must have been dreaming. Either that or putting the grab on his wife there. Can’t say as I blame him, though. Real good-looking dame. Anyway, they were coming down from Barnsdahl Crossing — what folks up there call Motel Row. You know the place.”

The doctor nodded.

“Ran off the road and smack into a telegraph pole. Take ’em a week to put that car back together.”

They lifted the woman off the stretcher and onto the bed at the far end of the room. “The cops said they’ll be in after your report soon as they get the car pulled off the pole.”

The attendants wheeled the empty stretchers back to the door. “They gonna be okay, you think, doc?”

“Huh?” Dr. Keyes had to force his attention to keep listening to the ambulance man. “Yes, I guess so, It’s a little early to tell.”

“Sure hope so,” the attendant said. “Sure is too bad. Such a nice looking dame.” He pushed his stretcher through the door. “Well, back to wait for more carnage.”

After they had gone, Dr. Keyes, went over to look at the man. He was out cold, but the doctor could tell he’d be coming around soon. He was dark and he had a face that women would think of as romantic.

The doctor made his usual quick preliminary check for injuries. Several ribs were broken — painful, but not serious. The man had evidently been thrown hard against the steering wheel. There was a dark, spreading bruise on his forehead where he’d hit the windshield. That accounted for unconsciousness. Of course, it was impossible to tell about internal injuries, but the doctor wasn’t worried about that right now.

From the inside pocket of the man’s coat, the doctor pulled out a wallet. He dug around in the wallet until he found a driver’s license. He wrote the man’s name on a tag and hung it on the foot of the bed. Under the name he wrote, SUSTAINING INTERNAL INJURIES. CONDITION-FATAL.

As he moved away to attend to the woman, the man moaned softly.

Taking a medical bag with him, Dr. Keyes checked the woman over quickly. Except for unconsciousness and general shock, she had nothing more serious than a few minor contusions.

The doctor took a hypodermic needle from the bag and injected her with a pain-killing sedative. He waited a moment for the sedative to take effect. Then with a small, sharp scalpel, in imitation of the careless artistry of accidental occurrence, he cut a long scar down one side of her face. Not quite such a good-looking dame now, he thought, remembering the words of the ambulance attendant. He wiped the blood expertly from her face, mopping gently to stem the flow.

Across the room, the man was moaning loudly now, returning to consciousness.

Dr. Keyes went to his desk and made out a bed tag for the woman. He squirted the residue of the sedative from the hypodermic needle into the wastebasket. He didn’t bother to sterilize the needle.

The man was saying, “Oh God, what happened? It hurts... it hurts so. What happened?” He tried to sit up.

The doctor hurried to him, pushing him back down on the bed. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

“It hurts... through here,” the man groaned, drawing his hand carefully across his ribs. “My God, it hurts. What happened? I remember the car... the car, oh my God, where’s Jean?... Jean—”

“She’s all right,” the doctor said with calming reassurance. “Hardly hurt at all. She’s fine, just fine.” He drew the plunger back on the hypodermic needle. “This’ll take the pain away. Make you feel a lot better.” He pushed the man’s coat sleeve up.

At the sight of the needle, the man struggled up. “What’s that? What’s in there?” he demanded clearly and sharply.

Dr. Keyes pressed down on his shoulder. “This will stop the pain. It’ll keep it from hurting so much.”

“There’s nothing in there!” the man shouted, fighting to sit up. “There’s nothing... that’s air!”

The doctor drove the needle with deadly accuracy into the man’s arm and rammed the plunger down. “Don’t be silly,” he said soothingly. “It’s only a pain killer. To keep you from hurting.”

The man was screaming now and struggling violently, his romantically handsome face distorted with pain and fear. The doctor threw a strap across the bed over him and cinched it down tightly.

“You’re killing me — you’re trying to kill me!” he screamed. “I saw it, I saw it — nothing in there... nothing but air! Why?... why?... why are you trying to kill me. Please — why...?”

His struggling subsided. And with it, his screaming. Slowly his body relaxed, his pleading voice sank through a whisper into silence.

The doctor stood impassively over him until he was completely still — in the stillness of death.

Dr. Keyes went back to his desk and put the hypodermic needle underneath all the other equipment in the bottom of his medical bag. He took the woman’s tag and hung it on the foot of her bed.

FACIAL LACERATION AND SHOCK, it read. INJURIES SUPERFICIAL. NAME: Mrs. Edward A. Keyes.