Cornered! (9 page)

“Okay,” Hugh Stewart said, “let’s check it.”

Billy Quirter, his arm in Hugh Stewart’s practiced hands, watched the doctor’s eyes with steady, catlike tenacity. Pain flickered through his nervous system; but his eyes showed nothing except a slight tightening of the rims.

“Lucky,” Hugh Stewart said. “You could have had it worse than a simple fracture. But I told you. It’s going to hurt.”

“Fix it. Talk don’t get it fixed, does it?”

Hugh Stewart’s hands expertly snapped the bone into place. He counted on the shock of pain to take Billy off his guard. He made his try.

He swept his left hand sideways, striking for the gun in Billy’s right hand. He brought up his own right hand in a short, but powerful chop at Billy’s chin. It was a co-ordinated movement, mind blanking only to the attempt to destroy this man in front of him, the kind of emotion he’d known all his life in times of stress. To those watching, it was a swift, capable movement: left hand sweeping sideways, right hand chopping up…

Half the attempt was successful. The left hand barely missed, because Billy had been waiting for that attempt. Despite the shot of pain as the bone was locked into natural junction, Billy’s reflexes reacted. He shifted his right hand out, getting the gun out of line of Hugh Stewart’s sweep toward it.

But Billy could not move his head in time to escape the chopping right hand driven up at his chin. The blow grazed along his left cheek, catching his cheekbone hard enough to drive him slightly off balance.

But Billy had already made up his mind about his defense.

He did not attempt to bring the gun back into position to fire at Hugh Stewart. Instead he twisted back and away from the doctor, left arm instinctively loose at his side. He took his eyes completely away from Hugh Stewart, momentarily off balance. He bent over a little toward the counter, swinging the hand with the gun around. He looked straight at Gloria Dickens and brought his gun over the counter and pressed the muzzle against her left breast.

He looked at her with dark glittering eyes. Gloria blinked once, when the barrel touched her, but she didn’t move a fraction. Billy remained locked in this position. He didn’t look to see if the doctor were moving again. He knew quite certainly he wasn’t. Billy was right. In a half crouch, hands preparing for other blows, Hugh Stewart froze, stopped by the lightning action of Billy Quirter.

“Wasn’t smart, Doc,” Billy breathed. “Wasn’t smart at all.”

Gloria took a breath, the breath forcing her left breast against the gun barrel more tightly. “It was a nice try anyway, Doctor,” she said. “Real beautiful. I thought you’d made it for a second.”

Hugh Stewart let his breath out slowly. “Take the gun off her. You have my word. I won’t try it again.”

“Words,” Billy smiled. “I’d never have lived this long on words, Doc.” He twisted his head slightly. “Come on, baby—off the stool and start moving around the counter.”

Sam Dickens came alive. He straightened and put his palms against the edge of the counter. “Now, see here—”

“Cut it off, Dickens,” Billy snapped. “You can’t do a thing about it!”

Gloria stood up and came around the counter. Bob Saywell stood staring, transfixed by the action.

Billy stepped back so he could view both Hugh Stewart and the far end of the counter with safety. He said to Bob Saywell, “Okay, Farouk—I told you to get the doc his breakfast!”

Bob Saywell, once again, scurried.

Gloria came down the back side of the counter. Billy allowed her to pass, then said, “Far enough. Now turn and face me.”

Billy, lifting his gun, resumed his chair in front of Hugh Stewart. He kept his eyes constantly on Gloria, standing now just beside him.

“Side vision,” Billy said. “I’ve got real good side vision, Doc. Took an eye test once, and they told me that. See, I’m looking at Gloria here, only I can see you too.” Then again he put the muzzle of the gun directly against the left breast of Gloria. “See, Doc, you go for me again, I just squeeze the trigger. Bang. End of Gloria. You don’t want that to happen. Old Sam over there don’t want that to happen. I don’t want that to happen.” Billy grinned. “You know, baby, you’re the prettiest target I ever had in my life?”

Gloria met his look unwaveringly. “Where do you find pretty things in sewers?”

Sam Dickens choked. “Gloria—!”

Billy’s grin disappeared, the eyes flashed. Then the grin appeared again. “Gloria, you are the end. You are way out there.” He pushed the gun very slightly. “Okay, Doc. Finish the arm, huh? I’m going to sit here and look at Gloria. I’ll never feel a thing. Do you know Gloria, Doc?” This, as Hugh Stewart resumed his work on Billy’s arm. “You know the reverend and his wife over there, I guess. And fatso back in the kitchen. Do you know Gloria? She’s Sam’s wife, see? Sam Dickens. He makes movies. How about that? Sam’s real smart. He makes movies and he’s got Gloria. Sam’s the smartest man in the world. Is that why you married Sam, Gloria? Because Sam’s so smart?”

“No,” Gloria said crisply. “I married him because of his rare courage. I call him Ivanhoe.”

“No kidding,” Billy said, his eyes barely flickering with the pain as Hugh Stewart worked on his arm. “How come?”

“You’d have to know about Ivanhoe,” Gloria said. “Maybe they skipped that where you got your education, Billy-boy.”

“Maybe they did, at that,” Billy grinned. “You tell me. I’m willing to let you educate me, Gloria.”

Gloria’s eyes, for the first time, flickered down to the gun pointing at her; but it was only a flashing indication that she realized the proximity of that weapon. “Ivanhoe was a knight. He rode a white horse and carried a spear. He rescued damsels when they got in distress.”

“Like how?” Billy asked.

“Like when they were captured by dragons.”

“Oh,” Billy said, nodding. “I got it now. That’s Sam, huh?”

“That’s Sam. See, all the girls wait around and hope they can get their own Ivanhoe. It’s kind of—symbolic, do you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean,” Billy said. “But I don’t grab Sam here for that.”

“Maybe you don’t. Maybe a lot of girls wouldn’t either. But I do. I knew Sam was Ivanhoe the minute I set eyes on him. There’s my knight, I said. There’s my lover in shining armor. If a dragon ever gets me, I knew Sam would come on his white horse and slay the dragon with his spear and I’d be safe again.”

“The minute you laid eyes on him,” Billy said. “That was old Sam here.”

“Right,” Gloria said. “Sam Dickens. Ivanhoe himself.”

“Then how come,” Billy asked, “he didn’t pick up his spear and get on his white horse and come around the counter? I’m like a dragon, huh? Sam’s Ivanhoe. What’s holding him up?”

“Maybe,” Gloria said, switching her eyes coolly to Sam Dickens, “his horse broke a leg.”

“Maybe,” Billy said, delighted, “it did, at that. Or maybe his spear got bent. Or maybe his armor’s wearing out.”

“Maybe all three,” Gloria said, eyes flashing. “Or maybe—”

“Don’t Glory,” Sam Dickens said tightly, looking down at his clenched hands. “Don’t, or so help me I’ll do it. I’ll come over this counter and try for him and we’ll both wind up dead.”

He looked back at Gloria suddenly, with equally flashing eyes. She met his gaze all at once curious. “If you meant that, Sam, maybe I wouldn’t mind dying that way. Maybe I’d die happy that way.”

Sam raised his brows, as though he were surprised that, in this instance, she cared at all about him anymore. He licked his lips, carefully separated his hands.

Gloria examined him for a moment, then said, “Don’t do it, lover. It’s like Billy-boy says. Your spear’s bent. You don’t want to fool around with Billyboy with a bent spear. The doctor here just tried it with a good horse and fresh armor and a brand new spear. He didn’t make it.”

Billy laughed good-humoredly. “And the doc’s fast. Did you notice?”

“I noticed,” Gloria said. “So relax, Mr. Dickens. Maybe I gave up believing in Ivanhoes.”

Sam looked at her hopefully to see what, exactly, she meant. Whatever it was, he was certain she did not mean what she said. Gloria, he was positive, had not given up believing in Ivanhoes by a long shot…

“Okay,” Hugh Stewart said, “it’s fixed.”

Billy nodded. “Right. That’s fine, Doc.” He looked at Hugh Stewart, eyes bright and appraising. Hugh Stewart knew he had been accurately categorized by Billy. The attempt on Billy had been so nearly successful that Billy had made up his mind: of those in this room, Hugh Stewart was the one Billy would watch most carefully. Oddly, in this man’s scale of values, Hugh Stewart would also be the one Billy would treat best.

But Hugh Stewart felt a cold clutching within his stomach. The attempt to overpower Billy done, the job of fixing his arm finished, the instinctive flaming within Hugh Stewart settled to a steady glow of coals. Once more he had acted impulsively. And the impulse might have driven this man into wanton killing. There were five other people in this room besides Billy Quirter and himself. He could have gotten them all killed. Mouth dry, he tried to steel himself to absolute control now.

Billy slid off the stool, drawing the gun away from Gloria. “All right, Gloria,” he said brightly. “Go back and sit down with old Sam, all right? Doc, you go along with her. That’s right. Right around the counter and back up here. Have a seat, Doc. Right there beside Gloria where I can keep my eyes on you. I always respect a man who’s fast. Now Sam there, he’d like to be fast, see? But he just ain’t got it. Some do, some don’t. Sam just ain’t got it. Right, Sam?”

Happily, Billy looked beyond Hugh Stewart, Sam and Gloria Dickens. He smiled pleasantly at Reverend Andrews. “How’re you doing, Reverend? All right? Saying your prayers and all? I’ll bet you’re sending up prayers like they shoot up ack-ack, like I seen in news reels. I’ll bet that’s how heaven looks right now, all black with those prayers exploding up there. I’ll bet, if you keep it up, you’re going to ack-ack heaven right out of the sky.” Billy laughed delightedly.

Reverend Andrews said, “Heaven help you.”

“Don’t count on it, Reverend,” Billy said. Then he called back to the kitchen, “Farouk! The doc’s had a tough time setting this arm. He’s hungry! How about the breakfast!”

There was almost a magical quality in the way Bob Saywell, normally slow and lumbering, could instantly appear on Billy Quirter’s command. He did so, carrying a plate of eggs and bacon, almost running along behind the counter.

“That’s right,” Billy said. “That’s the old stuff, Roly. Now give him some coffee, huh? I need some myself. Give everyone some coffee. Eat, Doc. You ain’t going any place. You might as well relax and enjoy yourself. You want something more to eat, Gloria?”

Gloria lit a cigarette, blew the smoke upward, her old self again. She was not looking at Sam Dickens any more. Sam Dickens looked tense, but glum, at the same time. “Thanks a heap, but no,” she said.

“You tell me when you need anything, Gloria,” Billy said pleasantly. “I’ll fix you up.”

“Fine,” Gloria said. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

Billy laughed. “Sam, you’re smart, all right. What a broad!”

Sam Dickens brought his head up. “I think I’ve had about enough from you.”

Billy blinked. “Is that right?”

“That’s right. I’ll thank you to quit the comics with my wife.”

“Quit the comics, huh?”

“That’s right,” Sam Sickens said, straightening a little more. “That’s exactly right.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Sam, I just told you you were smart. Now you’re going dumb again.”

“What are you after anyway? Why don’t you get it done, whatever it is, and get out of here?”

“Look, Mr. Dickens,” Hugh Stewart said quietly, “don’t push him. Just don’t do that. I don’t think he’ll hesitate to use that gun.”

“See?” Billy said, smiling tightly. “You hear that, Sam? Now Doc don’t get confused. He knows what’s what. Now you’ve got brains, Sam. How come you don’t use them?”

“I mean it,” Sam Dickens said, gripping his hands into fists. “If you’ve got something to do here, do it! Otherwise, get out!”

Bob Saywell had paused in his pouring of coffee for Reverend Andrews and Lottie. The room was deathly silent. Billy shook his head very slightly, a shiver of a muscle twitching beside his mouth. “You stupid son of a bitch! You’re ordering me?”

Billy’s lips went thinner, then suddenly his gun swept through the air. Sam Dickens ducked just as the barrel swung by his right cheek. He was not hit. But Sam Dickens’s face went white. He froze, half bent, hands clutching the counter, eyes shut, waiting for the next blow.

It didn’t come.

Billy Quirter spoke across the counter to Bob Saywell, “Relax, butterball. Sam here is relieving you on the coffee. Sam here’s feeling frisky. He wants to pour again. You hear that, Sam? Go get the coffeepot and start pouring. Butterball, you come over here and sit down. Move, Dickens!”

There was only a second’s wait before Sam Dickens stood up and walked slowly over and took the coffeepot out of Bob Saywell’s quivering hand. Quietly, Sam Dickens filled up Lottie’s cup, while Bob Saywell edged to the counter and sat down on a stool, eyes bulging in petrified fear.

Gloria now looked at the lengthening ash of her cigarette, then ground the cigarette out. She said quietly, so that her voice did not reach back to Sam Dickens, “I wonder how you’d look without that gun in your hand, tough boy?”

“Don’t bother your brain about it, Gloria,” Billy said. “You ain’t going to see it that way for a while.”

Gloria started to retort, then did not. She sat there, still unnecessarily grinding the cigarette in an ash tray.

“What’s the matter?” Billy asked her, his smile finally reappearing. “You surprised to find out old Sam there’s weak in the belly? I thought you knew that.”

“Shut up,” Gloria said.

“Now, Gloria—”

“I said shut up or you’ll have to pistol-whip me next!”

“Okay,” Billy said quickly and engagingly. “You know I’d hate to do that, Gloria. I honestly would!”

Gloria said nothing more, nobody said anything more. Stiffly, Sam Dickens continued his chore of pouring coffee.

Billy nodded and smiled. “Now then. We’re all relaxed.”