Eight
They were still standing there in the same positions, although the little guy wasn’t reaching for his g*n again, when I turned to enter the back door of The Tippler. I stopped in the door and looked back at the sick bulldog. The blood was still dripping down his face.
“Think how much worse it would have been if I hadn’t come along,” I told him. “If I were you, I’d stay away from this neighborhood for a while—starting about ten minutes ago. And be careful not to lose your balance anymore.”
He nodded dumbly and started to walk toward the street, pulling out his handkerchief and beginning to mop at his face.
The little guy looked at me. “Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re right, but I was so damned mad I couldn’t think of anything else to do. That lousy fink!”
“I know how you feel,”
