Johnny came to his feet still gasping and sputtering. “By God,” he chattered huskily, “it takes you to cool off the toughies, Donk.”
“He wasn’t so tough,” Donk disclaimed modestly. “When I give ’em the ol’ one-two they mostly stay down.”
Johnny picked up his blackjack and shoved it in his pocket. “We’ll leave him lay there,” he decided. “When he comes up for air he’ll be all outta the notion of seein’ the boss.”
The two men strolled off leaving Shayne quiescent, face downward in the soft sand.
For a long time Shayne lay still. Presently he stirred to get his face out of the sand. His breathing became stertorous, mingling with the swishing sound of waves flowing gently on the shore. He made two efforts to sit erect before achieving results, then linked his arms around his knees and shuddered with nausea.
His upper lip was cut, and there was the taste of blood in his mouth, gritty sand between his teeth. Nausea convulsed his body, and he retched on the sand. The spasm passed, and his head cleared.
With an effort he lifted himself to a standing position, then made his way unsteadily to the edge of the lapping waves. Bogging in the wet sand, he scooped up handfuls of water and dashed it over his face, poured another handful into his mouth to rinse out the sand.
Stumbling back to the walk, he stepped across it into the sand and passed behind the rows of cars to reach his convertible. Reaching through the window, he secured the bottle of cognac with trembling fingers and collapsed. For a few minutes he sat with his head lolling on his chestbone, then lifted the bottle and drank deeply. A warming glow began in his midribs and spread strengtheningly through his body. He emptied the bottle and stood up.
He still hadn’t seen Arch Bugler.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, he walked at a shambling gait toward the entrance to the Bugle Inn. The doorman watched his approach with narrowed, speculative eyes.