a muscle. He stood balanced evenly, smiling, waiting, and then he struck suddenly.
He grabbed Gravel’s left arm at the elbow bend, cupping it with his right hand. Without hesitation, he snapped Gravel’s left arm upward and forced his left hand into Gravel’s armpit. His hand was opened flat, but the fingers were not spread. They lay close together, the thumb tucked under them, out of the way. Willis wheeled to the right, swinging Gravel’s arm over his left shoulder and forcing it downward by pressing on the elbow grip.
He bent forward suddenly, and Gravel’s feet left the ground, and then Willis gave a sharp jerk and Gravel found himself spinning upward in a shoulder overthrow, the concrete coming up to meet him.
Considerately, and because he didn’t want to break Gravel’s arm, Willis released his grip on the elbow before Gravel smashed into the concrete. Gravel shook his head, dazed. He tried to get up, and then he sat down again, still shaking his head. Across the circle, Hook Nose’s hand snaked toward the opening of his jacket.
“Hold it right there!” a voice said.
Willis turned. Randolph was holding a .45 in his fist, covering the others. “Thanks,” Willis said.
“Scoop up that eight hundred,” Randolph answered. “I don’t like crooked games.”
“Hey, that’s my dough!” Turtleneck shouted.
“It used to be ours,” Randolph replied.
Willis picked up the money and put it in his pocket.
“Come on,” Randolph said.
They started for the side door, Randolph backing away from the circle, still holding the .45. The skinny man who’d passed Willis in looked confused, but he didn’t say anything. Most men don’t when a .45 is in the picture. Willis and Randolph ran down the street.
Randolph pocketed the gun and hailed a cab on the corner. “You like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” Willis said.
Randolph extended his hand. “My name’s Skippy Randolph.”
Willis took it. “Mine’s Willy Harris.”
“Where’d you learn judo?” Randolph asked.
“In the Marines,” Willis said.
“It figured. I was in the corps, too.”
“No kidding?” Willis said, feigning surprise.
“Sixth Division,” Randolph said proudly.
“I was in the Third,” Willis said.
“Iwo?”
“Yes,” Willis said.
“I was in Iwo and Okinawa both. My company was attached with the Fifth when we hit Iwo.”
“That was a goddamn mess,” Willis said.
“You said it. Still, I had some good times with the corps. Caught a slug at Okinawa, though.”
“I was lucky,” Willis said. He looked around for wood to knock and then rapped his knuckles on his head.
“You think we’re far enough away from those creeps?” Randolph asked.
“I think so.”
“Any place here,” Randolph told the cabbie. The driver pulled up to the curb, and Randolph tipped him. They stood on the sidewalk, and Randolph looked up the street. “There’s a coffeepot,” he said, pointing.
Willis took the $800 from his pocket. “Half of this is yours,” he said. He handed Randolph the bills.
“I figured them dice were a little too peppy,” Randolph said, taking the money.
“Yeah,” Willis said dryly. They opened the door to the coffeepot and walked to a table in the corner. They ordered coffee and French crullers. When the order came, they sat quietly for a while.
“Good coffee,” Randolph said.
“Yeah,” Willis agreed.
“You a native in this burg?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Chicago, originally,” Randolph said. “I drifted here when I was discharged. Stuck around for four years.”
“When were you discharged?”
“‘45,” Randolph said. “Went back to Chicago in ‘50.”
“What happened to ‘49?”
“I did some time,” Randolph said, watching Willis warily.
“Haven’t we all?” Willis said evenly. “What’d they get you on?”
“I mugged an old duffer.”
“What brings you back here?” Willis asked.
“What’d they get you for?” Randolph asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Willis said.
“No, come on.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m curious,” Randolph said.
“Rape,” Willis said quickly.
“Hey,” Randolph said, raising his brows.
“It ain’t like what it sounds. I was going with this dame, and she was the biggest tease alive. So one night—”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Do you?” Willis said levelly.
“Sure. You think I wanted to mug that old crumb? I just needed dough, that’s all.”
“What’re you doing for cash now?” Willis asked.
“I been makin’ out.”
“Doing what?”
Randolph hesitated. “I’m a truck driver.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Well, I ain’t workin’ at it right now.”
“What are you working at?”
“I got something going, brings in a little steady cash.” He paused. “You looking for something?”
“I might be.”
“Two guys could really make out.”
“Doing what?”
“You figure it,” Randolph said.
“I don’t like playing ‘What’s My Line?,’” Willis answered. “If you’ve got something for me, let me hear it.”
“Mugging,” Randolph said.
“Old guys?”
“Old guys, young guys, what’s the diff?”
“There ain’t much dough in mugging.”
“In the right neighborhoods, there is.”
“I don’t know,” Willis said. “I don’t like