A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(9)

Archer wasn’t sure what to make of her move on him, but he let the lady stay right where she was, even as her soft hip bumped his. He could figure that out later, if need be.

“It took guts what you did back there, betting all those chips.”

“Doesn’t seem anything like that.”

“I suppose you’d feel that way, I mean, after fighting in a war.”

“I guess so,” he said.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“You sure?” she asked, glancing at him.

“Yes.”

“How come? It might make you feel better.”

“I don’t need to feel better. And the guys who didn’t come back can’t talk about it, so what gives me the right? The lucky stiffs shouldn’t write the histories or tell the stories.”

“Okay, okay, Archer. Don’t bite my head off for caring.”

They took a few more steps when Archer said, “What was that?”

“Sounds like a fight or something,” said Callahan, looking startled. “But they have lots of those around here. No business of ours.” She tightened the grip on his arm.

Next they heard a man calling out in fear: “Please, don’t!”

Archer said, “That sounds like . . .”

“What?”

“Let me just see something.” He pulled free from her and hustled down the street.

“Archer!”

She hurried after him, holding on to her hat as she did so. “Dammit, I don’t like to run with heels on!”

Archer reached an alley and turned down it. He ran toward the noise and eventually saw three burly men surrounding another man, far frailer and older, like hyenas circling prey.

Robert Howells was just picking himself up off the ground; his lip was split and his cheek was bruised, and his crumpled hat was lying off to the side. His concave chest was heaving as he held up his hands futilely in a defensive measure as the younger and larger men bore down on him. The blood leached down his face and made a spot on his shirt like a crimson teardrop.

“You boys having fun at an old man’s expense?” said Archer as his hand slipped into his pocket and wrapped around something he was probably going to need.

The three men turned around. They were all bigger and beefier than Archer, and not one of them carried a friendly expression.

Archer advanced on them and pointed at Howells. “You feel good about that? Something to write home to Mom about, if you got one.”

The biggest and meanest looking of the trio took a few steps toward Archer. “This ain’t your business, buddy, so shut your trap, just turn around, and keep moving, if you know what’s good for you. You get one warning and that’s it.”

“Bobby H, come on over here,” said Archer.

The other two men put out their thick arms to bar the old man from moving.

“Look here, I don’t want to do this the hard way,” said the big man. He held up a fist as large as a bowling ball. “You beat it now or this is the last thing you’ll see until you wake up.”

“All you have to do is let him go,” said Archer. “Then you don’t get hurt.”

The men just gazed stupidly back at him, as though wondering whether Archer was simple-minded or thought way too much of himself.

“Do you got a death wish, bub?” For added emphasis and to let Archer see things as clear as possible, the man took out a blackjack and slapped it against an open palm. One of the other thugs drew out a switchblade and made a slashing motion with it. He grinned and made another slash. Archer didn’t bother to watch the performance. His immediate focus was on the blackjack.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” said Archer, still marching toward the big man.

“So just turn around and get out of here. Last warn—”

Archer pushed off the balls of his feet, which separated him from the pavement. With his wingtips rising about six inches off the surface, he moved in a graceful arc. As he leaped he rotated his arm back, his elbow making a V pointing in the opposite direction from which he was heading. As Archer made his descent, his hand, now a mean fist, came forward. Archer leaned his weight into it, thereby accelerating the blow about to be delivered. His fist struck the man so hard on the chin on a downward slope that the man’s upper jaw jammed into his lower; two of his teeth were ejected by this collision and landed on the ground along with a stream of blood. A split second later, their owner joined them, facedown and lights out.

Archer came to rest on the ground, his knuckles cracked and bleeding and the stinger flowing all the way to his rotator. You couldn’t hurt another man in that way without hurting yourself, he knew. But he would take the pain he was feeling over the one the big man would endure when he awoke.

The knife man lunged at Archer, making attacking motions with his blade. Archer waited for a few seconds as he sized him up until the man drew close enough. Then he lashed out, gripped the man’s wrist holding the knife, and used his foot to hook his opponent’s ankle while at the same time he pushed his foe backward. The man fell, but he did so without the blade, since Archer had twisted it free with a violent downward tug on the man’s wrist.

Archer closed the blade and threw it behind him. He didn’t like knife fights for the most part and would rather finish this skirmish with his fists. The man regained his balance and flew at Archer, only to collapse backward from a shot directly to his nose that had painfully moved it about an inch closer to his face. He had less room to breathe now, but air was the least of his concerns at present. Like his friend, he collapsed on the pavement for an involuntary nap after Archer’s haymaker.