folded it neatly, and set it onto the hall table. Then he removed his cufflinks and slipped them into his pants pocket. Slowly he began to roll up his sleeves.
“You won’t kill him,” I said.
“Not as long as my aunt recovers.”
I nodded. I understood—even if Joe didn’t. Family came first with Mr. Smith.
“One more thing you should know,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“As long as you’re keeping it in the family…Joe is going to be your uncle. Your aunt is in love with him.”
Then I turned and walked out. Mr. Smith’s chauffeur had been waiting for me; he held the door open, and I slid into the back seat to wait.
* * * *
About five minutes later, the two goons came out, looking unhappy. They got into their car and drove away. A few minutes later, Mr. Smith came out. He had put his coat back on. And he didn’t look happy.
He got in next to me, then motioned for the driver to proceed. We pulled out of the driveway and headed back for the turnpike. He opened the little compartment with the martini glass on it and poured himself a glass of generic ginger ale.
“Want some, Pit?”
“No.”
He took a long drink. “You must be wondering,” he finally said, “what happened inside.”
“I assume you gave him a wedding present,” I said, “and welcomed him to the family.”
Smith hadn’t carried the money out. I would have noticed something that bulky.
“We also set a wedding date,” Mr. Smith said, frowning. “He has a month to get his affairs in order. And he knows what will happen if he ever steps out of line again.”
I leaned back with a half smile. “There’s still the matter of my fee. For twelve hours’ work, you owe me fifty bucks. I’ll take it in chips next time I visit your casino.”
“I think,” said Mr. Smith slowly, studying me, “that you might be the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, Pit.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. Then I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep.
My legs hurt less that way.
WHAT IS COURAGE? by Mack Reynolds
The bartender was drawing a beer as I came in. The head foamed over the top of the glass and he cut it off with his spatula. He looked up and said, “Hello, Jeff.”
“Hello, George,” I said and went down to the end of the bar where I could see who entered the door.
George slid the beer over to his customer, rang up the ten cents and walked down to me.
“What’ll you have, Jeff?” he asked.
“Rye.”
As he poured the drink, I looked down the bar. Except for one stranger, the usual afternoon crowd was there. The stranger stood alone, reading a tabloid he had spread out on the bar.
“You want water with that, Jeff?” George asked.
“Yeah.”
“How’s business going?”
“Slow.”
He saw I didn’t feel like talking and went up to the other end of the bar to listen in on an argument about Louis and Conn.
I was trying to remember how long it had been since we had had a decent case when this kid came in the door. No one else saw him until he said, “This is a stick-up.”
You could see he was scared stiff. It must have been his first caper. His face was kind of pale and the .38 he held was shaking a little.
“You guys all put up your hands,” he commanded.
George and I got our hands up fast. Kids on their first job are bad. The last thing an old-timer wants to do is hurt anybody, but an amateur is too nervous to do the job right.
“Okay,” said George. “Take it easy.”
The kid tried to sneer, but he still looked scared and it spoiled the effect.
Everybody had their hands up by this time except the stranger with the newspaper. He hadn’t even looked up from his reading when the kid first spoke. He either hadn’t heard him or must have bought it was a gag. When he noticed the rest of us, he looked a little surprised and turned around to take a look.
The kid walked over toward him and tried to look tough.
“That goes for you too,” he said. “Stick ’em up.”
The guy didn’t even move. He just looked at he kid without saying a word. For a minute I thought he was going to turn his back and go on reading his paper.
The kid got paler and I considered going for my shoulder holster. Not that I cared if the nut was killed, but I was afraid that if the kid started shooting, he might hit some of the rest of us.
“Stick up your hands, wise guy,” he said again, “or I’ll let you have it.”
He was jittery and his gun hand was trembling, but he was too near to miss.
The stranger let his eyes go down slowly to the kid’s gun and then right up to his eyes. He didn’t say a word and didn’t move a muscle. I never saw such gall in my life. I expected to see the punk start blazing any second.
They stood there like that.
George started to lower his hands. He had probably decided to go for the old service .45 he kept under the bar. A woman gave a short hysterical laugh.
The kid looked more scared than ever and then suddenly turned and made a dash for the door. I could have shot him in the back if I had felt like it.
Nobody said anything for a minute. Then George looked down the bar at me, and I thought there was a question in his eyes.
“If you want him, chase him yourself or call a cop,” I said. “It isn’t my kind of work.”
“I don’t want to chase him,” George said. “I could’ve shot when he was running out the door.”
He went over to the stranger and said, “What’ll it be, buddy? It’s on the house.”
Everybody started talking at once. Most of them thought we ought to send for a cop. One guy looked out the door to see if the kid was still in sight.
The stranger waited a minute and then asked for whiskey.
George poured him the drink. “I’d think you’d need it,” he said and then walked over to the pay phone to report to the police. He left the bottle on the
