Лесли Чартерис - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 3, March, 1953

And then he was in the air, flipping over my shoulder, with his gun still tight in my closed fist. My other hand was cupped under his elbow. He started coming down bottoms up, and the gun blasted again, ripping up six inches of good floor. He started to swear and the swear erupted into an “Argh!” as he felt the bone in his arm splinter. I could have released my grip when I had him in the air. I could have just let him drop to the floor like an empty sack. Instead, I kept one hand on his wrist and the other under his elbow, and his weight pushed down against his stiffened arm.

The bone made a tiny snap, like someone clicking a pair of castanets. He dropped the gun and hit the floor with a solid thump that rattled some glasses on the bar. His hand went instantly to his arm, and his face turned grey when he saw the crooked dangle of it.

The greyness turned to a heavy flush that mingled with raw pain. He dove headlong on the floor, reaching for the gun with his good arm. I did two things, and I did them fast.

I stepped on his hand first. I stepped on it so hard that I thought I heard some more bones crush. And then, while he was pulling his hand back in pain, I brought my foot back and let it loose in a sharp swing that brought my toe up against his jaw. His teeth banged together and he came up off the floor as if a grenade had exploded under him, collapsing against the wood flat on his face a second later.

“Get your broom,” I said to the bartender. I walked back to Kit and helped her on with her coat.

“Matt, you shouldn’t have,” she mumbled. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

She huddled close against me in the street. A sharp wind had come up, and it drove the newspapers along the gutter like furious sailboats in a hurricane. I kept my arm around her, and it felt good to hold a woman once more. Subconsciously my hand tightened and then started to drop. She reached up with one hand and pulled my fingers away, staring up into my face.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I sometimes forget.”

A sort of pity came into her eyes. “Where are you living now, Matt?” she asked.

“A charming little spot called the Monterey. It’s in the Bowery. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there.”

“No. I... I...”

“Who was the joker?”

“What joker?”

“The one who’s picking up his arm.”

“He’s one of them. They’ve been... we’ve been paying them, Matt. All the storekeepers. My father with his grocery, and Charlie, everybody. That’s why he was killed. Charlie, I mean. And now my father. Matt, he’s refused to pay them any more. He told them they could... Matt, I’m frightened. That’s why I want your help.” It all came out in a rush, as if she were unloading a terrible burden.

“Honey,” I said, “I have no license. I told you before. I’m not a real eye any more. I’m more a... a glass eye. Do you understand?”

She turned her face toward mine. “You won’t help?”

“What could I do?”

“You could... scare them. You could make them afraid to take any more money.”

“Me?” I laughed out loud. “Who’d be afraid of me? Honest, Kit, I’m just a...”

“What do you want, Matt?” she asked. “I haven’t any money, but I’ll give you... whatever else you want.”

“What?”

“They’ll kill my father, Matt. As sure as we’re standing here, they’ll kill him. I’ll do anything.” She paused. “Anything you say.”

I grinned, only a little bit. “Do I look that way, Kit? Do I really look that way?”

She lifted her face, and her eyes were puzzled for a moment. I shook my head and left her standing there on the corner, with the wind whipping her coat around her long, curving legs.

I walked for a long while, past the public school, past the Latticini, past the bars, and the coal joint, and the butcher, and all the places I’d known since I was old enough to crawl. I saw kids with glazed eyes and the heroin smell about them, and I saw young girls with full breasts in tight brassieres. I saw old women shuffling along the streets with their heads bent against the wind, and old men puffing pipes in dingy doorways. This was the beginning. Matt Cordell had started here. It had been a long way up, out of the muck. There had been four men working for my agency. I had gone a long way from First Avenue. And here I was back again, back in the muck, only the muck was thicker, and it was contaminated with a bunch of punks who thought a .38 was a ticket to the gravy train. And guys like Charlie Dagerra got their throats slit for not liking the scheme of things.

Well, that was tough, but that wasn’t my problem. I had enough troubles of my own. Charlie Dagerra was dead, and the dead don’t dream. The living do. They dream a lot. And their dreams are full of blond beauties with laughing eyes and mocking lips. And all the blondes are called Trina.

She startled me. She was almost like the dream come to life. I almost slammed into her, and I started to walk around her when she took a step to one side, blocking my path.

She had long blond hair, and blue eyes that surveyed me speculatively now. Her mouth was twisted in a small grin, her lips swollen under their heavy lipstick. She wore a leather jacket, the collar turned up, and her hands were rammed into her pockets. The jacket curved away from her throat in full-breasted defiance.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice rose on the last syllable, and she kept staring at me. It was getting dark now, and the wind was brisk on the back of my neck. I looked at her and at the way her blond hair slapped at her face.

“What do you want, sister?” I asked.

“It’s what you want that counts,” she said.

I looked her over again, starting with the slender, curving legs in the high heels, up the full rounded thighs that pressed against her skirt.

When my eyes met hers again, she looked at me frankly and honestly. “You like?”

“I like.”

“It’s cheap, mister. Real cheap.”

“How cheap?”

She hooked her arm through mine, pressing her breasts against my arm, tightening her hand there. “We’ll talk price later,” she said. “Come on.”

We began walking, and the wind started in earnest now, threatening to tear the grey structures from the sky.

“This way,” she said. We turned down 119th Street, and we walked halfway up the street toward Second Avenue. “This house,” she said. I didn’t answer. She went ahead of me, and I watched her hips swinging under her skirt, and I thought again of Trina, and the blood ran hotly in my veins.

She stepped into the dark vestibule of the house, and I walked in after her. She walked toward the end of the hall on the ground floor, and I realized too late that there were no apartments on that floor except at the front of the building. She swung around suddenly, thrusting a nickle-plated .22 at me, shoving me back against the garbage cans that were lined up underneath the stairway.

“What is this?” I asked. “Rape?”

“It’s rape, mister,” she answered. She flicked her head, lashing the blond hair back over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed and then she lifted the .22 and brought it down in a slashing arc that sent blood springing from my cheek.

“This is for Lew,” she said. She brought the small gun back and down again, and this time I could feel the teeth rattling in my mouth. “And this is for Lew’s broken arm!”

The gun went back, slashing down in a glinting arc. I reached up and grabbed her wrist, pulling the gun all the way over to one side. With my other hand, I slapped her across the face, hard. I tightened my grip on her wrist until she let the gun clatter onto the garbage cans, a small scream coming out of her mouth. I slapped her again, back-handed, and she flew up against the wall, her mouth open in surprise and terror.