Hashita faced me, teeth glittering. “We try again,” he said, and picked up the gun.
I saw his arm coming up. I gritted my teeth and lunged. This time I caught him by the wrist. I was surprised to find how easy it was to pivot. My shoulder came up under his armpit. I jerked down.
Then unexpected things happened. I knew, of course, that Hashita had given a little leap as I pulled, but the effect was spectacular. He came up over my head. I saw his feet fly up and his legs silhouette against the blazing brilliance of the lights. He twisted suddenly in the air like a cat, wrenched his arm free, and came down on his feet. The gun was lying on the canvas. I was certain he’d dropped it purposely. But that didn’t detract from the effect on the audience.
Bertha Cool said, “I’ll be damned! The little shrimp!”
Ashbury glanced swiftly at Bertha Cool, then stared at me, startled respect in his eyes.
“Very good,” Hashita said. “Very, very good.”
I heard Bertha Cool say casually to Ashbury, “He’s working for me. I run a detective agency. The little runt is always getting beaten up. He’s too light to make a good boxer, but I thought the Jap could teach him jujitsu.”
Ashbury turned to take a good look at her.
He saw only Bertha Cool’s profile. She was watching me with hard, glittering eyes.
There was nothing soft about Bertha. She was big and well-fleshed, but it was hard flesh. She had a big neck, big shoulders, a big bosom, big arms, and a good appetite. Her face had that placid look of meaty contentment which comes to women who have quit worrying about their figures and feel free to eat what they want as often as they want it.