Stan faced him, his feet a few inches apart, his knees slightly bent. He folded his arms without interlacing them.
"Look, Vernay," he said. "I'm not looking for any fight, but if you force one, I'll break you all to pieces. I didn't mean to bust your head the first time, but I can do it on purpose if I have to. Why don't we just forget it?"
Vernay looked dazed for an instant, then recovered and laughed derisively.
"You trying to crawl out and still look good? No, no. You made your brags. Now we'll have a little dance." He took a step forward.
"Come on, baby, just stay there. I'm going to unscrew your head."
He came closer, then reached out, his hand open.
Stan looked at the hand incredulously. No one could be that careless. For an instant, he almost spun away from a suspected trap. Then he decided the man was in no position for a counter. A try for a simple hand hold couldn't do a bit of harm.
His right hand darted up, gripping the outstretched hand before him. He jerked down, clamped the hand with his left, then pressed up and took a quick step forward.
With a startled cry of pain, Vernay spun around and bent toward the ground. Stan carried the motion through with a sudden surge that forced the big man's face almost to the stones. Abruptly, Vernay twisted and kicked, trying to tear away. There was a ripping noise and he screamed thinly, then slumped to the pavement.
Stan looked down at him in bewilderment. It had been too easy, he thought. Something had to be wrong. The imprisoned hand twitched and was flaccid. He let it go and stepped back.