“I am Monk Thurman,” said the tall man quietly.
A sudden silence fell over the crowd. The gangsters were too amazed to murmur their anger. The bartender remained motionless, his eyes wide open as he stared at the man.
“I am Monk Thurman,” repeated the man with the masklike face, “and I think your beer is punk. But it’s good enough for this mob of would-be gorillas.”
THE two men nearest Monk leaped forward. Then they stopped, their hands above their heads, as they stared into the muzzles of two automatics. The New Yorker had drawn his guns with an almost imperceptible motion.
“Back up, all of you!” he commanded. “Stick them up — all of you!”
Every gangster in the place moved to the wall. All held their hands above their heads, and listened sullenly to the words that followed.
“So the boys are looking for me, are they?” questioned Thurman, in a sarcastic voice. “What boys do you mean? Those two cripples that tried to hold up Marmosa’s gambling joint? They haven’t found me yet, so I’ll help them out.”
He pocketed one automatic, and brought out a card from his pocket. He tossed the piece of pasteboard to the bartender.
“I’ve got a little apartment,” he said, “and there’s the address. Send them around when they want to see me. I get in about three in the morning. They can find me after that.”
He suddenly pressed the trigger of his automatic. One of the gangsters had tried to draw a rod. The bullet from Thurman’s gun grazed the man’s knuckles.