I sat like a stone man, my hands on the table, looking up at them. I could hear Stevens breathing painfully at my side: the breath snored through his nostrils as if he were going to have a stroke.
The Wop with the dirty cuffs grinned evilly at me.
“Make a move, you son-of-a-bitch, and I’ll drop your guts on the floor,” he said.
Both of them were careful to keep out of the line of fire of the Thompsons.
The Wop reached out and grabbed Stevens by his arm.
“Come on, you. You’re going for a little ride.”
“Leave him alone,” I said through tight lips.
The Wop smacked me across the face with the gun barrel. Not too hard, but hard enough to hurt.
“Shut your yap!” he said.
The other Wop had rammed his gun into Stevens’ side and was dragging him out of his chair.