“This is getting kind of steep, ain’t it?” Hook Nose asked.
“If it’s too steep for you, go home to bed,” Randolph answered.
“Who’s taking the two hundred?” Turtleneck asked.
“I’ll take fifty of it,” Hook Nose said, sighing.
“That leaves a C and a half,” Turtleneck said. “Am I covered?”
“Here’s a century,” Willis said. He dropped a bill onto the blanket.
“I’ll take the last fifty,” Randolph said, throwing his money down with Willis’s. “Roll, hotshot.”
“These are big-timers,” a round-faced man standing on Willis’s right said. “Big gamblers.”
Turtleneck rolled. The cubes bounced across the blanket. One die stopped, showing a deuce. The second die clicked against it and abruptly stopped with a five face up.
“Seven,” Turtleneck said, smiling.
“He’s hot,” Round Face said.
“Too damn hot,” Hook Nose mumbled.
“Bet,” Gravel put in.
“Bet the four hundred.”
“Come on,” Hook Nose said. “You trying to drive us home?”
Willis looked across the circle. Hook Nose was carrying a gun, its outline plainly etched against his jacket. And, if he was not mistaken, both Turtleneck and Gravel were heeled, too.
“I’ll take two bills of it,” Willis said.
“Anybody covering the other two?” Turtleneck asked.
“You got to cool off sometime,” Randolph said. “You got a bet.” He dropped two hundred onto the blanket.
“Roll’em,” Willis said. “Shake ‘em first.”
“Papa’s shoes got holes, dice,” Turtleneck said, and he rolled an eleven.
“Man, I’m hot tonight. Bet it all,” he said. “Am I covered?”
“Slow down a little, cousin,” Willis said suddenly.
“I’m betting the eight,” Turtleneck answered.
“Let’s see the ivories,” Willis said.
“What!”
“I said let me see the cubes. They act talented.”
“The talent’s in the fist, friend,” Turtleneck said. “You covering me or not?”
“Not until I see the dice.”
“Then you ain’t covering me,” Turtleneck answered dryly. “Who’s betting?”
“Show him the dice,” Randolph said. Willis watched him. The ex-Marine had lost two bills on that last roll. Willis had intimated that the dice were crooked, and now Randolph wanted to see for himself.
“These dice are straight,” Turtleneck said.
Gravel stared at Willis peculiarly. “They’re Honest Johns, stranger,” he put in. “We run a square game.”
“They act drunk,” Willis said. “Prove it to me.”
“You don’t like the game, you can cut out,” Hook Nose said.
“I’ve dropped half a G since I walked in,” Willis snapped. “I practically own those dice. Do I get a look or don’t I?”
“You bring this guy in, Fats?” Gravel asked.
“Yeah,” Donner said. He was beginning to sweat.
“Where’d you dig him up?”
“We met in a bar,” Willis said, automatically clearing Donner. “I told him I was looking for action. I didn’t expect educated dice.”
“We told you the dice are square,” Gravel said.
“Then give me a look.”
“You can study them when they’re passed to you,” Turtleneck said. “It’s still my roll.”
“Nobody rolls till I see them dice,” Willis snapped.
“For a small man, you talk a big game,” Gravel said.
“Try me,” Willis said softly.
Gravel looked him over, apparently trying to determine whether or not Willis was heeled. Deciding that he wasn’t, he said, “Get out of here, you scrawny punk. I’d snap you in two.”
“Try me, you big tub!” Willis shouted.
Gravel stared hotly at Willis for an instant and then made the same mistake countless men before him had made. There was, you see, no way of telling from Willis’s appearance what his training had been. There was no way of knowing that he was expert in the ways of judo or that he could practically break your back by snapping his fingers. Gravel simply assumed he was a scrawny punk, and he rushed across the circle, ready to squash Willis like a bug.
He was, to indulge in complete understatement, somewhat surprised by what happened to him next.
Willis didn’t watch Gravel’s face or Gravel’s hands. He watched his feet, timing himself to rush forward when Gravel’s right foot was in a forward position. He did that suddenly and then dropped to his right knee and grabbed Gravel’s left ankle.
“Hey, what the hell—” Gravel started, but that was all he ever said. Willis pulled the ankle toward him and upward off the ground. In the same instant, he shoved out at Gravel’s gut with the heel of his right hand. Gravel, seeing his opponent drop to his knees, feeling the fingers tight around his ankles, feeling the sharp thrust at his mid-section, didn’t know he was experiencing an ankle throw. He only knew that he was suddenly falling backward, and then he felt the wind rush out of him as his back collided with the concrete floor. He shook his head, bellowed, and jumped to his feet.
Willis was standing opposite him, grinning.
“Okay, smart guy,” Gravel said. “Okay, you smart little bastard,” and he rushed forward again.
Willis didn’t move 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.”