“You know damn well-” Johnny began again, still trying, and turned curiously as Stitt's eyes again raked the front of the restaurant. “Oh-oh,” Johnny said softly. Detective Ted Cuneo sat upon a counter stool halfway to the door.
Stitt's eyes were upon Johnny immediately. “You know him? I thought he was paying too much attention to this booth.”
“A detective. He doesn't like-”
“I'll teach you to bag me, Killain!” Max Stitt's furious right hand swept upward in a blurred arc and crashed against Johnny's cheekbone. Still going backward from the force of the blow, Johnny hit Stitt in the chest with the sundae. Dripping fruit, nuts, syrup and ice cream, Max Stitt roared out of the booth. Johnny boiled out of his side, and they met in the aisle, head-on. Max Stitt's lightning fast hands nailed Johnny twice on his way in before Johnny could grab him, and then they went to the floor in a thrashing tangle.
Stitt fought with hands, feet, elbows, knees, head and teeth. Hooked fingers clawed at Johnny's face as they banged under a booth. A table leg smashed with a crackling of wood, and a capsized booth table pursued them as they rolled back out into the aisle, hammering at each other. Grimly, Johnny sought for a handhold on the eel-like Stitt, trading roundhouse clubbing lefts as he groped for a throat-hold with his right hand.
Surging up from beneath, Johnny tried to use his weight to pin the dervish spitting at him. Ignoring the lefts to his face, he grunted with satisfaction as his right hand slipped solidly home. Hitching his shoulders together for additional leverage, from the very corner of his eye he caught sight of a shadow standing behind him with uplifted hand. Instinctively Johnny dived and rolled, carrying Stitt up on top of him as a shield. Ted Cuneo's descending night stick caught the plunging Stitt squarely behind the ear, and he went limp on Johnny's body.
Johnny slung him aside like a sack of sugar and scrambled to his knees. “Take a sucker shot at me, will you, you sonofabitch!” he growled at Ted Cuneo, and started up.
“No, no, Johnny!” His high-pitched voice like a steam calliope in Johnny's ear, Danny Giardino, the tough little night manager, jumped from the thin circle of wide-eyed late-hour onlookers. Clamping a headlock on Johnny, he tried with his weight to prevent him from rising. “You can't swing at a cop, Johnny!”
“The hell I can't!” Johnny came up anyway, plucking at Danny hanging from his head. Peeling Giardino off himself like wet paper from a wall, Johnny threw him at Cuneo. The pair of them crashed backward into a booth, which splintered and collapsed beneath them. Johnny charged the shambles of the booth.
“No, no, no, Johnny!” Danny begged from the floor. He spread his arms wide over Cuneo beneath him, the tough face pleading. “Don't take a fall over this, Johnny!”
Some part of the rugged little Italian's sincere plea reached Johnny's bubbling ferment. He knew Danny was his friend. Reluctantly his hands came down, then up again as he reached down and picked Giardino up and set him on his feet. “Sorry, Danny,” he said, and turned to look for a place to sit.
The crowd parted instinctively to let him through. Johnny sat down in the nearest upright booth and looked around, trying to control his heavy breathing. That end of the restaurant was a mess. Johnny's uniform was in shreds, both forearms gone completely, as well as the entire right leg from mid-thigh. Rough, red streaks, from floor burns, abraded his forearms and his visible leg.
Ted Cuneo raised himself slowly from the wreckage of the booth, his face like ashes. No one had lifted a hand to help him. He glared around wildly until he saw Johnny, then started for him, his hand slapping at a side pocket. He stopped, slapped again automatically, turned and started pawing through booth fragments.
“Your bat slid up under the rope,” Giardino growled at him from the side. “What'cha need it for now?”
Cuneo straightened and turned to look at him, then glanced fleetingly at the rim of spectators. He scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets, his sallow features darkening with angry blood.
On the floor Max Stitt sat up slowly, a hand gingerly at the back of his head. A wet gob of fruit and syrup stains was still visible on what remained of his suit. One knee was split out completely through a trouser leg. Danny Giardino gave him a hand to his feet. Stitt flexed a wrist and fingers, and touched his throat experimentally. Looking at Danny, he reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet. “Owner?” he asked. His voice was a croak.
“Owner, hell,” Danny snorted. “Manager.”
“No trouble,” Stitt said, and swallowed visibly. He started to remove bills from the wallet, looked around at the debris and handed the wallet to Giardino. “Want no trouble,” he said, and swallowed again, hard. “Take out for-”
“What is this?” Ted Cuneo demanded in a hard tone, coming to life. He walked over and planted himself in front of Stitt aggressively. “You're making charges against this man.” A jerk of his head indicated Johnny in the booth.
“No charges.” Stitt's Adam's apple worked painfully. “No charges,” he repeated. He looked at Danny. “Enough? Write you a check if-”
“Plenty, man,” Danny said cheerfully. He separated and removed a thin sheaf of bills, showed Stitt what was left and handed him back his wallet with a flourish. “I like a guy what don't hold no grudge after a little difference of opinion.” He looked at Cuneo. “Well?”
“I'll make my own charges.” Cuneo stabbed a finger at an onlooker. “You saw him-” another jerk of the head in Johnny's direction-“try to assault me.” The onlooker stared back woodenly. Cuneo flushed and whirled to another.
“I'll swear he didn't lay a finger on you,” Danny Giardino said mildly before the detective could speak. He chuckled. “An' by God, he didn't.” He looked pleased with himself.
Detective Ted Cuneo stared at the array of faces ranging from impassive to hostile, cursed under his breath and stamped from the restaurant, the tips of his ears scarlet “Good riddance,” Danny Giardino pronounced when the door swung to behind him. The squat man beamed at the group. “Coffee's on the house, boys. Come an' get it.”
CHAPTER XI
The offices of the Spandau Watch Company presented a deserted appearance to Johnny's inspection. He had knocked at the outer door, opened it after an interval of silence, but had found no redhead at her desk. When he had walked beyond it and tried the door to the inner office, he'd found no Jules Tremaine, either. Retracting his steps, he was debating leaving a note when he heard high heels in the corridor outside.
“Mornin', little sister,” he greeted Gloria Philips as she entered.
“Oh,” she said listlessly. “It's you.” She appeared neither surprised nor pleased to see him, Johnny thought. Dark circles ringed the area under her blue-gray eyes.
“It's me,” he agreed. “Where's Tremaine?”
“He called and said he wouldn't be in this morning. He's not feeling well.”
“Somethin' he ate?”
“I didn't inquire,” Gloria said with more snap to her tone. “Why don't you ask him if you'd like to know?”
“I'm plannin' to. How was your sleep last night?”
“Oh, about the sa-” She pulled herself up. “I don't know who I think I'm kidding. It was terrible. That was an awful thing that happened last night.”
“How'd you hear about the awful thing?”
“Not with anybody's help!” she said swiftly, again with more spirit in her voice. “After that detective called and left me dangling without a word of explanation, I had to know what had happened. I called Jules, and couldn't get him. I called you, and couldn't get you. I called the police, and got bucked around from extension to extension by people who knew nothing, or weren't talking. I finally called Harry. He said he'd had much the same experience, but having more brains than I have he'd started calling hospitals. The third one he found her.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It must have been-well, awful's the only word I can seem to think of this morning.” “It covers it.” He wouldn't have expected to find her this shaken, Johnny thought. “What did Harry do?”