Double Identity

Grant Dermitt's stories showed remarkable creative ability. His hero, Fleetwood Cassidy, was the greatest fictional character—alive!...
He demonstrated again that rangey reach of his and slammed a fistful of hard knuckles into the putty face in front of him. Mario went down on the thick carpet, his fat nose spurting blood like a drinking fountain for vampires. He was just another one of those larded slobs and, true to the type, he began to blubber. The blonde in the corner froze in place like a lead statue in a snow storm.
Wait! Mario whined. Wait a minute, Cassidy. I'm not stalling. I just want to make a deal, that's all.
You've made a deal, Fleetwood snapped. How do you like it, fat boy? Now where's the stuff?
Mario lolled his head to one side, holding his hand to his nose. Fleetwood raised his foot, and he came around fast.
Don't! he said. Over there on the mantle, in the ivory box.
Fleetwood kept them both covered and crossed to the mantle. He picked up the box and flipped back the lid. Expensive fire, the cold kind of fire that comes from stones, flashed out at him. He closed it again and dropped it into his pocket.
Look, Cassidy, Mario said, still sitting on the floor, look, I took the rocks, I admit that, but I didn't rod Blanchard. Somebody else cooled him before I ever got to the dump....
Sure, Mario, sure, Fleetwood nodded, you're the neat type. You just ran over in your dust cap to tidy up the death room. My client will be tickled to pieces to find out what a nice orderly vulture you turned out to be. He swiveled around toward the blonde. And you'd better get yourself a new playmate, lamb-chop. This one won't even be able to keep you in rompers from now on. He gave Mario one last glance, to warn him to stay down, and legged it for the door. This was the kind of place and the kind of people he loved to leave behind.
She must have pole-vaulted across the room to have made it so fast; he was just reaching for the knob when her perfume pressed in on him from behind. He turned around, left his hand resting on the knob.