10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE MORGUE IS FULL OF HEROES—-—————_9 me up. I let him come abreast of me, on his way to the phone booth, and then pushed myself out from the bar, slamming into him. He started around, fast, his left hand moving down to- ward his shoulder holster. That was a mistake, that move. The guy was off balance. I caught his left with my right and pulled it up and out, hard, and the thirty-eight slid out of the holster and went spinning across the room. I said: “Pullin’ a gun on me. The nerve of the guy, pullin’ a gun on me.” Ricconi didn’t say anything. He stood there on springs, ready to leap, but he didn’t say anything. “A guy can’t have a drink at the bar without some louse pullin’ a gun on him,” I yelled. I was laying it on thick, for the benefit of the Hedge- wick table. “What the hell’s the idea?” COULD feel the guy’s eyes burning into me, His thin, dry face was black with rage, the skin stretched in tight lines across the bones, but he wasn’t talking. And he wasn’t falling for my stall. He was watching me, waiting to see what my move was. He was like a cat, poised to jump me, but trying to find out first how deep the water was. I said: ‘“You’re leaving, buddy. Right now, you’re leaving. Nobody pulls a gat on me and gets away with ie. The crowd closed in, waiting for it. Waiting to see how he’d play it. They didn’t have long to wait. He started forward and I caught him with my left and sent him back against the table. He came forward again, swinging, but he was playing the wrong game, boxing. I sent him back with a one-two. When he came up this time, he had a knife in his right hand. I let him get halfway across the room to me before I covered him. “T wouldn’t,” I said softly. “Not if I was you, I wouldn’t.” He froze. “Tf I was you,” I told him slowly, “I think I’d get the hell out of here. I think it would be a lot safer for you to get the hell out of here.” He just stood there, hating me with his eyes, and I moved forward. “I never start a game,” I told him, “‘with- out finishing it. And I don’t much care how this one plays out.” t kept going toward him and he stood there, holding the knife in his right hand and staring at me with his bright eyes, not moving. “So you want more,” I said evenly. “You like it, maybe.” I stepped in close and brought the barrel of my gun down on his right wrist, hard. He stood there, looking at me, his eyes suddenly cold. His fingers opened slowly and the knife dropped oui, clattering to the floor. He let his eyes follow it for a half-second, watching the bright blade spinning on the floor. Then he turned on his heel and walked down the line of tables toward the door. , The hat-check girl held his coat out and he let her stand there, holding it, while he knitted his white muffler around his throat. He slipped into his coat carefully, his back to the room, then adjusted the muffler again. He reached into his pocket and gave the girl a coin and picked his hat and stick up off the shelf. Then he turned around, and I could feel his eyes burning at me across the room. He stared at me for a moment, not moving, and then he turned and went out into the night. He hadn’t said a word from the time I first slammed into him. The headwaiter, Donato, pushed through the crowd and got the orches- tra blaring away again, then moved down toward me and started apol- ogizing, the way you would to a reg- ular guest. Madden had taught him his lines, all right. “Forget it,” I said gruffly, “couldn’t be helped. The guy must’ve been a hophead or something. I don’t know why the hell he went for me, though.” Tony, behind the bar, threw in a COMmiICLOoolks (C@